That day Pan Michael went out with squadrons to assist Pan
Vasilkovski, who had hastened on toward Hrynchuk, for news came
that the Tartars had made an attack there, binding people, taking
cattle, but not burning villages, so as not to rouse attention.
Pan Vasilkovski soon scattered them, rescued the captives, and
took prisoners. Pan Michael led these prisoners to Jvanyets,
commissioning Pan Makovetski to torture them, and write down in
order their confessions, so as to forward them to the hetman and
the king. The Tartars confessed that, at command of the perkulab,
they had crossed the boundary with Captain Styngan and Wallachians;
but though burnt, they could not tell how far away the Sultan was
at that time with all his forces, for, advancing in irregular
bands, they did not maintain connection with the main army.
All, however, were at one in the statement that the Sultan had
moved in force, that he was marching to the Commonwealth, and
would be at Kamenyets soon. For the future defenders of Kamenyets
there was nothing new in these confessions; but since in the
king’s palace they did not believe that there would be war, the
chamberlain determined to send these prisoners, together with their
statements, to Warsaw.
The scouting parties returned in good spirits from their first
expedition. In the evening came the secretary of Habareskul, Pan
Michael’s Tartar brother, and the senior perkulab of Hotin. He
brought no letters, for the perkulab was afraid to write; but he
gave command to tell his brother Volodyovski, “the sight of his eye
and the love of his heart,” to be on his guard, and if Kamenyets
had not troops enough for defence, to leave the town under some
pretext, for the Sultan had been expected for two days with his
whole force in Hotin.
Pan Michael sent his thanks to the perkulab, and rewarding the
secretary, sent him home; he informed the commandants immediately
of the approaching danger. Activity on works in the town was
redoubled; Pan Hieronim Lantskoronski moved without a moment’s
delay to his Jvanyets, to have an eye on Hotin.
Some time passed in waiting; at last, on the second day of August,
the Sultan halted at Hotin. His regiments spread out like a sea
without shores; and at sight of the last town lying within the
Padishah’s dominions, Allah! Allah! was wrested from hundreds of
thousands of throats. On the other side of the Dniester lay the
defenceless Commonwealth, which those countless armies were to
cover like a deluge, or devour like a flame. Throngs of warriors,
unable to find places in the town, disposed themselves on the
fields,--on those same fields, where some tens of years earlier,
Polish sabres had scattered an equally numerous army of the
Prophet. It seemed now that the hour of revenge had come; and no
one in those wild legions, from the Sultan to the camp servant, had
a feeling that for the Crescent those fields would be ill-omened a
second time. Hope, nay, even certainty of victory rejoiced every
heart. Janissaries and spahis, crowds of general militia from the
Balkans, from the mountains of Rhodope, from Rumelia, from Pelion
and Ossa, from Carmel and Lebanon, from the deserts of Arabia,
from the banks of the Tigris, from the plains of the Nile, and the
burning sands of Africa, giving out wild shouts, prayed to be led
at once to the “infidel bank.” But muezzins began to call from the
minarets of Hotin to prayer; therefore all were silent. A sea of
heads in turbans, caps, fezes, burnooses, kefis, and steel helmets
inclined toward the earth; and through the fields went the deep
murmur of prayer, like the sound of countless swarms of bees, and
borne by the wind, it flew forward over the Dniester toward the
Commonwealth.
Then drums, trumpets, and pipes were heard, giving notice of rest.
Though the armies had marched slowly and comfortably, the Padishah
wished to give them, after the long journey from Adrianople, a
rest at the river. He performed ablutions himself in a clear
spring flowing not far from the town, and rode thence to the konak
of Hotin; but on the fields they began to pitch tents which soon
covered, as with snow, the immeasurable extent of the country about.
The day was beautiful, and ended serenely. After the last evening
prayers, the camp went to rest. Thousands and hundreds of thousands
of fires were gleaming. From the small castle opposite, in
Jvanyets, men looked on the light of these fires with alarm, for
they were so wide-spread that the soldiers who went to reconnoitre
said in their account, “It seemed to us that all Moldavia was under
the fires.” But as the bright moon rose higher in the starry sky,
all died out save the watch-fires, the camp became quiet, and amid
the silence of the night were heard only the neighing of horses and
the bellowing of buffaloes, feeding on the meadows of Taraban.
But next morning, at daybreak, the Sultan commanded the janissaries
and Tartars to cross the Dniester, and occupy Jvanyets, the town
as well as the castle. The manful Pan Hieronim Lantskoronski did
not wait behind the walls for them, but having at his side forty
Tartars, eighty men of Kieff, and one squadron of his own, struck
on the janissaries at the crossing; and in spite of a rattling
fire from their muskets, he broke that splendid infantry, and they
began to withdraw toward the river in disorder. But meanwhile,
the chambul, reinforced by Lithuanian Tartars, who had crossed at
the flank, broke into the town. Smoke and cries warned the brave
chamberlain that the place was in the hands of the enemy. He gave
command, therefore, to withdraw from the crossing, and succor the
hapless inhabitants. The janissaries, being infantry, could not
pursue, and he went at full speed to the rescue. He was just coming
up, when, on a sudden, his own Tartars threw down their flag, and
went over to the enemy. A moment of great peril followed. The
chambul, aided by the traitors, and thinking that treason would
bring confusion, struck hand-to-hand, with great force, on the
chamberlain. Fortunately, the men of Kieff, roused by the example
of their leader, gave violent resistance. The squadron broke the
enemy, who were not in condition to meet regular Polish cavalry.
The ground before the bridge was soon covered with corpses,
especially of Lithuanian Tartars, who, more enduring than ordinary
men of the horde, kept the field. Many of them were cut down in
the streets later on. Lantskoronski, seeing that the janissaries
were approaching from the water, sent to Kamenyets for succor, and
withdrew behind the walls.
The Sultan had not thought of taking the castle of Jvanyets that
day, thinking justly that he could crush it in the twinkle of an
eye, at the general crossing of the armies. He wished only to
occupy that point; and supposing the detachments which he sent to
be amply sufficient, he sent no more, either of the janissaries or
the horde. Those who were on the other bank of the river occupied
the place a second time after the squadron had withdrawn behind the
walls. They did not burn the town, so that it might serve in future
as a refuge for their own, or for other detachments, and began to
work in it with sabres and daggers. The janissaries seized young
women in soldier fashion; the husbands and children they cut down
with axes; the Tartars were occupied in taking plunder.
At that time the Poles saw from the bastion of the castle that
cavalry was approaching from the direction of Kamenyets. Hearing
this, Lantskoronski went out on the bastion himself, with a
field-glass, and looked long and carefully. At last he said,--
“That is light cavalry from the Hreptyoff garrison; the same
cavalry with which Vasilkovski went to Hrynchuk. Clearly they have
sent him out this time. I see volunteers. It must be Humyetski!
“Praise be to God!” cried he, after a while. “Volodyovski himself
is there, for I see dragoons. Gracious gentlemen, let us rush out
again from behind the walls, and with God’s help, we will drive the
enemy, not only from the town, but from this side of the river.”
Then he ran down with what breath he had, to draw up his men of
Kieff and the squadron. Meanwhile the Tartars first in the town
saw the approaching squadron, and shouting shrilly, “Allah!” began
to gather in a chambul. Drums and whistles were heard in all the
streets. The janissaries stood in order with that quickness in
which few infantry on earth could compare with them.
The chambul flew out of the place as if blown by a whirlwind, and
struck the light squadron. The chambul itself, not counting the
Lithuanian Tartars, whom Lantskoronski had injured considerably,
was three times more numerous than the garrison of Jvanyets and
the approaching squadrons of reinforcement, hence it did not
hesitate to spring on Pan Vasilkovski; but Pan Vasilkovski, a
young, irrepressible man, who hurled himself against every danger
with as much eagerness as blindness, commanded his soldiers to
go at the highest speed, and flew on like a column of wind, not
even observing the number of the enemy. Such daring troubled the
Tartars, who had no liking whatever for hand-to-hand combat.
Notwithstanding the shouting of murzas riding in the rear, the
shrill whistle of pipes, and the roaring sound of drums calling to
“kesim,”--that is, to hewing heads from unbelievers,--they began
to rein in, and hold back their horses. Evidently the hearts grew
faint in them every moment, as did also their eagerness. Finally,
at the distance of a bow-shot from the squadron, they opened on two
sides, and sent a shower of arrows at the onrushing cavalry.
Pan Vasilkovski, knowing nothing of the janissaries, who had formed
beyond the houses toward the river, rushed with undiminished
speed behind the Tartars, or rather behind one half the chambul.
He came up, closed, and fell to slashing down those who, having
inferior horses, could not flee quickly. The second half of the
chambul turned then, wishing to surround him; but at that moment
the volunteers rushed up, and the chamberlain came with his men of
Kieff. The Tartars, pressed on so many sides, scattered like sand,
and then began a rushing about,--that is, the pursuit of a group
by a group, of a man by a man,--in which many of the horde fell,
especially by the hand of Pan Vasilkovski, who struck blindly at
whole crowds, just as a lark-falcon strikes sparrows or bunting.
But Pan Michael, a cool and keen soldier, did not let the dragoons
out of his hand. Like a hunter who holds trained, eager dogs
in strong leashes, not letting them go at a common beast, but
only when he sees the flashing eyes and white teeth of a savage
old boar, so the little knight, despising the fickle horde, was
watching to see if spahis, janissaries, or some other chosen
cavalry were not behind them.
Pan Lantskoronski rushed to him with his men of Kieff.
“My benefactor,” cried he, “the janissaries are moving toward the
river; let us press them!”
Pan Michael drew his rapier and commanded, “Forward!”
Each dragoon drew in his reins, so as to have his horse in hand;
then the rank bent a little, and moved forward as regularly as if
on parade. They went first at a trot, then at a gallop, but did not
let their horses go yet at highest speed. Only when they had passed
the houses built toward the water, east of the castle, did they see
the white felt caps of the janissaries, and know that they had to
do not with volunteer, but with regular janissaries.
“Strike!” cried Volodyovski.
The horses stretched themselves, almost rubbing the ground with
their bellies, and hurled back lumps of hard earth with their hoofs.
The janissaries, not knowing what power was approaching to the
succor of Jvanyets, were really withdrawing toward the river. One
detachment, numbering two hundred and some tens of men, was already
at the bank, and its first ranks were stepping onto scows; another
detachment of equal force was going quickly, but in perfect order.
When they saw the approaching cavalry they halted, and in one
instant turned their faces to the enemy. Their muskets were lowered
in a line, and a salvo thundered as at a review. What is more,
these hardened warriors, considering that their comrades at the
shore would support them with musketry, not only did not retreat
after the volley, but shouted, and following their own smoke,
struck in fury with their sabres on the cavalry. That was daring of
which the janissaries alone were capable, but for which they paid
dearly, because the riders, unable to restrain the horses, even had
they the wish, struck them as a hammer strikes, and breaking them
in a moment, scattered destruction and terror. The first rank fell
under the force of the blow, as grain under a whirlwind. It is true
that many fell only from the impetus, and these, springing up, ran
in disorder to the river, from which the second detachment gave
fire repeatedly, aiming high, so as to strike the dragoons over the
heads of their comrades.
After a while there was evident hesitation among the janissaries
at the scows, and also uncertainty whether to embark or follow
the example of the other detachment, and engage hand-to-hand with
the cavalry. But they were restrained from the last step by the
sight of fleeing groups, which the cavalry pushed with the breasts
of horses, and slashed so terribly that its fury could only be
compared with its skill. At times such a group, when too much
pressed, turned in desperation and began to bite, as a beast at bay
bites when it sees that there is no escape for it. But just then
those who were standing at the bank could see as on their palms
that it was impossible to meet that cavalry with cold weapons,
so far superior were they in the use of them. The defenders were
cut with such regularity and swiftness that the eye could not
follow the motion of the sabres. As when men of a good household,
shelling peas well dried, strike industriously and quickly on the
threshing-floor, so that the whole barn is thundering with the
noise of the blows and the kernels are jumping toward every side,
so did the whole river-bank thunder with sabre-blows, and the
groups of janissaries, slashed without mercy, sprang hither and
thither in every direction.
Pan Vasilkovski hurled himself forward at the head of this cavalry,
caring nothing for his own life. But as a trained reaper surpasses
a young fellow much stronger than he, but less skilled at the
sickle,--for when the young man is toiling, and streams of sweat
cover him, the other goes forward constantly, cutting down the
grain evenly before him,--so did Pan Michael surpass the wild youth
Vasilkovski. Before striking the janissaries he let the dragoons
go ahead, and remained himself in the rear somewhat, to watch the
whole battle. Standing thus at a distance, he looked carefully, but
every little while he rushed into the conflict, struck, directed,
then again let the battle push away from him; again he looked,
again he struck. As usual in a battle with infantry, so it happened
then, that the cavalry in rushing on passed the fugitives. A number
of these, not having before them a road to the river, returned in
flight to the town, so as to hide in the sunflowers growing in
front of the houses; but Pan Michael saw them. He came up with
the first two, and distributed two light blows between them; they
fell at once, and digging the earth with their heels, sent forth
their souls with their blood through the open wounds. Seeing
this, a third fired at the little knight from a janissary musket,
and missed; but the little knight struck him with his sword-edge
between nose and mouth, and this deprived him of precious life.
Then, without loitering. Pan Michael sprang after the others; and
not so quickly does a village youth gather mushrooms growing in a
bunch, as he gathered those men before they ran to the sunflowers.
Only the last two did soldiers of Jvanyets seize; the little knight
gave command to keep these two alive.
When he had warmed himself a little, and saw that the janissaries
were hotly pressed at the river, he sprang into the thick of the
battle, and coming up with the dragoons, began real labor. Now he
struck in front, now he turned to the right or the left, gave a
thrust with his blade and looked no farther; each time a white cap
fell to the ground. The janissaries began to crowd from before him
with an outcry; he redoubled the swiftness of his blows; and though
he remained calm himself, no eye could follow the movements of his
sabre, and know when he would strike or when he would thrust, for
his sabre described one bright circle around him.
Pan Lantskoronski, who had long heard of him as a master above
masters, but had not seen him hitherto in action, stopped fighting
and looked on with amazement; unable to believe his own eyes, he
could not think that one man, though a master, and famous, could
accomplish so much. He seized his head, therefore, and his comrades
around only heard him repeating continually, “As God lives, they
have told little of him yet!” And others cried, “Look at him, for
you will not see that again in this world!” But Pan Michael worked
on.
The janissaries, pushed to the river, began now to crowd in
disorder to the scows. Since there were scows enough, and fewer
men were returning than had come, they took their places quickly
and easily. Then the heavy oars moved, and between the janissaries
and the bank was formed an interval of water which widened every
instant. But from the scows guns began to thunder, whereupon
the dragoons thundered in answer from their muskets; smoke rose
over the water in cloudlets, then stretched out in long strips.
The scows, and with them the janissaries, receded every moment.
The dragoons, who held the field, raised a fierce shout, and
threatening with their fists, called,--
“Ah, thou dog, off with thee! off with thee!”
Pan Lantskoronski, though the balls were plashing still, seized Pan
Michael by the shoulders right at the bank.
“I did not believe my eyes,” said he, “those, my benefactor, are
wonders which deserve a golden pen!”
“Native ability and training,” answered Pan Michael, “that’s the
whole matter! How many wars have I passed through?”
Then returning Lantskoronski’s pressure, he freed himself, and
looking at the bank, cried,--
“Look, your grace; you will see another power.”
The chamberlain turned, and saw an officer drawing a bow on the
bank. It was Pan Mushalski.
Hitherto the famous bowman had been struggling with others
in hand-to-hand conflicts with the enemy; but now, when the
janissaries had withdrawn to such a distance that bullets and
pistol-balls could not reach them, he drew his bow, and standing
on the bank at its highest point he tried the string first with
his finger, when it twanged sharply; he placed on it the feathered
arrow--and aimed.
At that moment Pan Michael and Lantskoronski looked at him. It was
a beautiful picture. The bowman was sitting on his horse; he held
his left hand out straight before him, in it the bow, as if in a
vice. The right hand he drew with increasing force to the nipple
of his breast, till the veins were swelling on his forehead, and
he aimed carefully. In the distance were visible, under a cloud of
smoke, a number of scows moving on the river, which was very high,
from snow melting on the mountains, and was so transparent that the
scows and the janissaries sitting on them were reflected in the
water. Pistols on the bank were silent; eyes were turned on Pan
Mushalski, or looked in the direction in which his murderous arrow
was to go.
Now the string sounded loudly, and the feathered arrow left the
bow. No eye could catch its flight; but all saw perfectly how
a sturdy janissary, standing at an oar, threw out his arms on
a sudden, and turning on the spot, dropped into the river. The
transparent surface spurted up from his weight; and Pan Mushalski
said,--
“For thee, Didyuk.” Then he sought another arrow. “In honor of the
hetman,” said he to his comrades. They held their breath; after a
while the air whistled again, and a second janissary fell on the
scow.
On all the scows the oars began to move more quickly; they struck
the clear river vigorously; but the famous bowman turned with a
smile to the little knight,--“In honor of the worthy wife of your
grace!” A third time the bow was stretched; a third time he sent
out a bitter arrow; and a third time it sank half its shaft’s
length in the body of a man. A shout of triumph thundered on the
bank, a shout of rage from the scows. Then Pan Mushalski withdrew;
and after him followed other victors of the day, and went to the
town.
While returning, they looked with pleasure on the harvest of that
day. Few of the horde had perished, for they had not fought well
even once; and put to flight, they recrossed the river quickly. But
the janissaries lay to the number of some tens of men, like bundles
of firmly bound grain. A few were struggling yet, but all had been
stripped by the servants of the chamberlain. Looking at them, Pan
Michael said,--
“Brave infantry! the men move to the conflict like wild boars; but
they do not know beyond half what the Swedes do.”
“They fired as a man would crack nuts,” said the chamberlain.
“That came of itself, not through training, for they have no
general training. They were of the Sultan’s guard, and they are
disciplined in some fashion; besides these there are irregular
janissaries, considerably inferior.”
“We have given them a keepsake! God is gracious, that we begin the
war with such a noteworthy victory.”
But the experienced Pan Michael had another opinion.
“This is a small victory, insignificant,” said he. “It is good to
raise courage in men without training and in townspeople, but will
have no result.”
“But do you think courage will not break in the Pagans?”
“In the Pagans courage will not break,” said Pan Michael.
Thus conversing, they reached Jvanyets, where the people gave them
the two captured janissaries who had tried to hide from Pan Michael
in the sunflowers.
One was wounded somewhat, the other perfectly well and full of
wild courage. When he reached the castle, the little knight, who
understood Turkish well, though he did not speak it fluently, asked
Pan Makovetski to question the man. Pan Makovetski asked if the
Sultan was in Hotin himself, and if he would come soon to Kamenyets.
The Turk answered clearly, but insolently,--
“The Padishah is present himself. They said in the camp that
to-morrow Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha would cross, taking engineers
with them. To-morrow, or after to-morrow, the hour of destruction
will come on you.”
Here the prisoner put his hands on his hips, and, confident in the
terror of the Sultan’s name, continued,--
“Mad Poles! how did you dare at the side of the Sultan to fall on
his people and strike them? Do you think that hard punishment will
miss you? Can that little castle protect you? What will you be in a
few days but captives? What are you this day but dogs springing in
the face of your master?”
Pan Makovetski wrote down everything carefully; but Pan Michael,
wishing to temper the insolence of the prisoner, struck him on the
face at the last words. The Turk was confused, and gained respect
for the little knight straightway, and in general began to express
himself more decently. When the examination was over, and they
brought him to the hall, Pan Michael said,--
“It is necessary to send these prisoners and their confession on a
gallop to Warsaw, for at the king’s court they do not believe yet
that there will be war.”
“And what do you think, gentlemen, did that prisoner tell the
truth, or did he lie altogether?”
“If it please you, gentlemen,” said Volodyovski, “it is possible to
scorch his heels. I have a sergeant who executed Azya, the son of
Tugai Bey, and who in these matters is _exquisitissimus_; but, to
my thinking, the janissary has told the truth in everything. The
crossing will begin soon; we cannot stop it,--no! even if there
were a hundred times as many of us. Therefore nothing is left but
to assemble, and go to Kamenyets with the news.”
“I have done so well at Jvanyets that I would shut myself up in
the castle with pleasure,” said the chamberlain, “were I sure that
you would come from time to time with succor from Kamenyets. After
that, let happen what would!”
“They have two hundred cannon,” said Pan Michael; “and if they
bring over two heavy guns, this castle will not hold out one day.
I too wished to shut myself up in it, but now I know that to be
useless.”
Others agreed with the little knight. Pan Lantskoronski, as if to
show courage, insisted for a time yet on staying in Jvanyets; but
he was too experienced a soldier not to see that Volodyovski was
right. At last he was interrupted by Pan Vasilkovski, who, coming
from the field, rushed in quickly.
“Gracious gentlemen,” said he, “the river is not to be seen; the
whole Dneister is covered with rafts.”
“Are they crossing?” inquired all at once.
“They are, as true as life! The Turks are on the rafts, and the
chambuls in the ford, the men holding the horses’ tails.”
Pan Lantskoronski hesitated no longer; he gave orders at once to
sink the old howitzer, and either to hide the other things, or take
them to Kamenyets. Pan Michael sprang to his horse, and went with
his men to a distant height to look at the crossing.
Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha were crossing indeed. As far as the
eye reached, it saw scows and rafts, pushed forward by oars, with
measured movement, in the clear water. Janissaries and spahis were
moving together in great numbers; vessels for crossing had been
prepared at Hotin a long time. Besides, great masses of troops were
standing on the shore at a distance. Pan Michael supposed that
they would build a bridge; but the Sultan had not moved his main
force yet. Meanwhile Pan Lantskoronski came up with his men, and
they marched toward Kamenyets with the little knight. Pan Pototski
was waiting in the town for them. His quarters were filled with
higher officers; and before his quarters both sexes were assembled,
unquiet, careworn, curious.
“The enemy is crossing, and Jvanyets is occupied!” said the little
knight.
“The works are finished, and we are waiting,” answered Pan Pototski.
The news went to the crowd, who began to roar like a river.
“To the gates! to the gates!” was heard through the town. “The
enemy is in Jvanyets!” Men and women ran to the bastions, expecting
to see the enemy; but the soldiers would not let them go to the
places appointed for service.
“Go to your houses!” cried they to the crowds; “you will hinder the
defence. Soon will your wives see the Turks near at hand.”
Moreover, there was no alarm in the town, for already news had gone
around of the victory of that day, and news naturally exaggerated.
The soldiers told wonders of the meeting.
“Pan Volodyovski defeated the janissaries, the Sultan’s own guard,”
repeated all mouths. “It is not for Pagans to measure strength with
Pan Volodyovski. He cut down the pasha himself. The Devil is not so
terrible as he is painted! And they did not withstand our troops.
Good for you, dog brothers! Destruction to you and your Sultan!”
The women showed themselves again at the intrenchments and
bastions, but laden with flasks of gorailka, wine, and mead.
This time they were received willingly; and gladness began among
the soldiers. Pan Pototski did not oppose this; wishing to
sustain courage in the men and cheerfulness, because there was an
inexhaustible abundance of ammunition in the town and the castle,
he permitted them to fire salvos, hoping that these sounds of joy
would confuse the enemy not a little, should they hear them.
Pan Michael remained at the quarters of the starosta till
nightfall, when he mounted his horse and was escaping in secret
with his servant to the cloister, wishing to be with his wife as
soon as possible. But his attempts came to nothing, for he was
recognized, and dense crowds surrounded his horse. Shouts and
vivats began. Mothers raised their children to him. “There he is!
look at him, remember him!” repeated many voices. They admired
him immensely; but people unacquainted with war were astonished
at his diminutive stature. It could not find place in the heads
of the townspeople that a man so small, and with such a pleasant
face, could be the most terrible soldier of the Commonwealth,--a
soldier whom none could resist. But he rode among the crowds, and
smiled from time to time, for he was pleased. When he came to the
cloister, he fell into the open arms of Basia.
She knew already of his deeds done that day and all his masterly
blows; the chamberlain of Podolia had just left the cloister, and,
as an eye-witness, had given her a detailed report. Basia, at
the beginning of the narrative, called the women present in the
cloister hence,--the abbess and the wives of Makovetski, Humyetski,
Ketling, Hotsimirski; and as the chamberlain went on, she began to
plume herself immensely before them. Pan Michael came just after
the women had gone.
When greetings were finished, the wearied knight sat down to
supper. Basia sat at his side, placed food on his plate, and poured
mead into his goblet. He ate and drank willingly, for he had put
almost nothing in his mouth the whole day. In the intervals he
related something too; and Basia, listening with gleaming eyes,
shook her head, according to custom, asking,--
“Ah, ha! Well? and what?”
“There are strong men among them, and very fierce; but it is hard
to find a Turk who’s a swordsman,” said the little knight.
“Then I could meet any of them?”
“You might, only you will not, for I will not take you.”
“Even once in my life! You know, Michael, when you go outside the
walls, I am not even alarmed; I know that no one can reach you.”
“But can’t they shoot me?”
“Be quiet! Isn’t there a Lord God? You will not let them cut you
down,--that is the main thing.”
“I will not let one or two slay me.”
“Nor three, Michael, nor four.”
“Nor four thousand,” said Zagloba, mimicking her. “If you knew,
Michael, what she did when the chamberlain was telling his story.
I thought I should burst from laughter. As God is dear to me! she
snorted just like a goat, and looked into the face of each woman in
turn to see if she was delighted in a fitting manner. In the end
I was afraid that the goat would go to butting,--no very polite
spectacle.”
The little knight stretched himself after eating, for he was
considerably tired; then suddenly he drew Basia to him and said,--
“My quarters in the castle are ready, but I do not wish to return.
I might stay here to-night, I suppose.”
“As you like, Michael,” said she, dropping her eyes.
“Ha!” said Zagloba, “they look on me here as a mushroom, not a man,
for the abbess invites me to live in the nunnery. But I’ll pay her,
my head on that point! Have you seen how Pani Hotsimirski is ogling
me? She is a widow--very well--I won’t tell you any more.”
“I think I shall stay,” said the little knight.
“If you will only rest well,” said Basia.
“Why shouldn’t he rest?” asked Zagloba.
“Because we shall talk, and talk, and talk.”
Zagloba wishing to go to his own room, turned to look for his cap;
at last, when he had found it, he put it on his head and said, “You
will not talk, and talk, and talk.” Then he went out.