Zagloba and Volodyovski were standing on the rampart next morning among
the soldiers, looking carefully toward the tabor, from the side of
which masses of peasants were approaching. Pan Yan was in counsel with
the prince; but they, taking advantage of the moment of quiet, were
talking about the preceding day and the present movement in the enemy's
tabor.
"That forebodes no good for us," said Zagloba, pointing at the dark
masses moving like an enormous cloud. "They are surely coming to an
assault again, and here our hands will not move in their joints."
"Why should there be an assault in the clear day? They will do nothing
more this time," said the little knight, "than occupy our rampart of
yesterday, dig into our new one, and fire from morning till evening."
"We might stir them up nicely with our cannon."
Volodyovski lowered his voice. "We haven't much powder. With our
present use it will not last six days probably; but by that time the
king will come surely."
"Let him do what he likes. If only our Pan Longin, poor man, has got
through in safety! I could not sleep the whole night. I was thinking
only of him, and whenever I dozed I saw him in trouble; and such sorrow
seized me that sweat stood out on my body. He is the best man to be
found in the Commonwealth, looking with a lantern for three years and
six weeks."
"And why did you always jeer at him?"
"Because my lip is worse than my heart. But don't make it bleed, Pan
Michael, with remembrances, for as matters are I reproach myself; and
God forbid that anything should happen to Pan Longin! I should have no
peace till my death."
"Don't grieve so much. He never had any ill feeling against you, and I
have heard him say himself, 'An evil mouth, but a golden heart.'"
"God give him health, the worthy friend! He never knew how to talk in
human fashion, but he made up for a hundred such deficiencies by great
virtue. What do you think, Pan Michael, did he pass through?"
"The night was dark, and the peasants after the defeat were terribly
tired. We had not a good watch; what must it have been with them?"
"Praise God for that! I told Pan Longin to inquire carefully whether
our poor princess had been seen anywhere, for I think Jendzian must
have taken her to the king's headquarters. Pan Longin will be sure not
to rest; he will not come back without the king. In that case we shall
have news again soon."
"I have faith in the wit of that lad Jendzian, and think that he saved
her somehow. I should know no peace if harm met her. I did not know her
intimately, and I believe if I had a sister she would not have been
dearer to me."
"She was a sister to you, but to me a daughter. From these troubles my
beard will grow white altogether, and my heart break from sorrow. When
you love some one,--one, two, three, and that one is gone; then you
sit, console yourself, worry, grieve, meditate,--having besides an
empty stomach, and holes in your cap through which the water is falling
on your bald head like rain through a broken thatch. Dogs have at
present a pleasanter life in the Commonwealth than the nobles, and we
four are the worst off of all. It is time to go to a better world, Pan
Michael, what do you think?"
"I have thought more than once whether it would not be better to tell
Skshetuski all; but this restrains me, that he himself never speaks of
her, and when any one utters a word he just quivers as if something
pierced his heart."
"Tell him, open the wounds dried up in the fire of this war, while now
some Tartar maybe is leading her by the hair through Perekop! Flaming
fires stand in my eyes when I think of such a thing. It is time to die,
it cannot be otherwise; for there is torture alone in this world,
nothing more. If only Pan Longin gets through!"
"He must have more favor in heaven than others, for he is virtuous. But
look! what are the rabble doing?"
"There is such a glitter from the sun to-day that I cannot see."
"They are cutting up our rampart of yesterday."
"I said there would be an assault. Let us go, Pan Michael; we have
stood here long enough."
"They are not digging to make an assault; they must have an open road
to return, and besides they will surely bring machines to shoot from.
Just see how the shovels are working; they have levelled the ground
about forty yards already."
"I see now; but there is a terrible glare to-day." Zagloba covered his
eyes with his hand, and looked.
At that moment through the cut made in the rampart rushed a stream of
people who scattered in the twinkle of an eye along the space between
the ramparts. Some fell to firing; others, digging the ground with
spades, began to raise a new mound and trenches to enclose the Polish
camp with a third ring.
"Oh, ho!" cried Volodyovski, "the word is scarcely out of my mouth, and
they are rolling in the machines."
"Well, there will be an assault soon. Let us leave this place," said
Zagloba.
"No; this is another kind of tower," said the little knight.
Really, the machines which appeared in the cut were built differently
from the ordinary moving-tower. The walls were composed of ladders
fastened together with hasps, covered with cloth and skins, from behind
which the best marksmen, sitting from half the height of the machine to
the top, struck the enemy.
"Come away! Let the dogs gnaw on where they are!"
"Wait!" answered Volodyovski. They began to count the machines, as new
ones appeared in the cut.
"One, two, three--it is evident they have no small supply--four, five,
six--they are coming yet--seven, eight--they can kill a dog on our
square, for there must be splendid marksmen there--nine, ten--evident
as on your hand, for the sun shines on it--eleven--" All at once Pan
Michael stopped counting. "What is that?" he asked, in a voice of
amazement.
"Where?"
"There on the highest one--a man is hanging!"
Zagloba strained his glance. Indeed, on the highest machine the sun was
shining on the naked body of a man, swaying on a rope with the movement
of the machine, like a great pendulum.
"True," said Zagloba.
Then Volodyovski grew pale as a sheet, and cried with a terrified
voice: "Almighty God! it is Podbipienta!"
A murmur rose on the ramparts like wind through the leaves of trees,
Zagloba bent his head, covered his eyes with his hands, and whispered
with blue lips, groaning: "Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!"
The murmur changed into a noise of confused words, and then into a roar
as of a stormy sea. The men on the ramparts saw that by that infamous
cord was hanging the comrade of their sufferings, a knight without
reproach. All knew that that was Pan Longin Podbipienta, and terrible
anger began to raise the hair on the heads of the soldiers.
Zagloba at last took his hands from his eyes. He was a terror to look
at. On his mouth was foam, his face was blue, his eyes bursting from
his head. "Blood! blood!" roared he, with such a voice that a quiver
passed through those standing near him.
He sprang into the ditch. After him rushed everything that had life on
the ramparts. No power--not even the commands of the prince--could have
restrained that outburst of rage. They climbed out of the ditch, one
over the shoulders of the other; they seized the bank of the ditch with
their hands and with their teeth, and when one sprang out he ran
without looking, not turning to see whether others were following. The
machines were smoking like tar-factories, and trembled from the roar of
musketry, but nothing availed. Zagloba rushed on in advance, his sabre
above his head, raging like a mad bull. The Cossacks sprang forward too
with scythes and flails on the assailants. Two walls, as it were,
struck with a crash. But fat dogs cannot defend themselves long against
hungry and raging wolves. Pushed from their place, cut with sabres,
torn with teeth, beaten, crushed, the Cossacks could not withstand the
fury; they were soon confused, and then fled to the cut. Zagloba,
raging, rushed into the thickest crowd, like a lioness whose cubs are
gone. An opening was made before him; and at his side went, like
another devouring flame, Volodyovski, wild as a wounded leopard. The
marksmen in the machines were cut to pieces; the rest pursued to the
cut in the ramparts. Then the soldiers mounted the machine and freed
Pan Longin, letting him down carefully to the ground.
Zagloba fell on his body. Volodyovski's heart was rent in like degree,
and he was covered with tears at the sight of his dead friend. It was
easy to see how Pan Longin had perished, for his whole body was covered
with spots from the wounds inflicted by arrows. But the arrows had not
injured his face, except one, which had left a long line on his temple.
The few drops of blood had grown dry on his cheek; his eyes were
closed, and on his pale face was a quiet smile, and had it not been for
the azure paleness of the visage, the chill of death in the features,
it might have seemed that Pan Longin was sleeping calmly. His comrades
took him at last and bore him on their shoulders to the rampart, and
then to the chapel of the castle.
Before evening a coffin was made, and the funeral celebrated by night
at the Zbaraj cemetery. All the clergy were present except the priest
Jabkovski, who, shot in the back during the last assault, was near
death. Having given the command to Sobieski, the prince had come; also
Konyetspolski, Pshiyemski, Skshetuski, Volodyovski, Zagloba, and the
officers of the squadron in which the dead man had served. The coffin
was placed at the newly dug grave, and the ceremony began.
It was a starry night. The torches burned with an even flame, gleaming
on the yellow planks of the freshly made coffin, on the figure of the
priest, and the stern faces of the knights standing in a circle. The
smoke from the censer rose slowly, spreading the odor of myrrh and
juniper. The silence was broken only by the stifled sobs of Zagloba,
the deep sighs of the strong breasts around, and the distant roar of
discharges on the ramparts. But the priest Mukhovetski raised his hand
in sign that he was about to speak. The knights therefore held their
breaths. He was silent a little longer; then fixing his eyes on the
starry heights, he began at length as follows:--
"'What knocking do I hear at night on the door of heaven?' asks the
hoary warden of Christ, springing up from sweet slumber. 'Open, holy
Peter, open! I am Podbipienta.' But what deeds, what offices, what
services embolden you, O Podbipienta, to trouble so important a
doorkeeper? By what right do you wish to enter where neither birth,
though as honorable as your own, nor senatorial dignity, nor offices of
the Crown, nor the majesty even of the purple, of themselves alone give
free entrance, since men cannot drive there by the broad highway in a
carriage and six, with haiduks, but must climb by the steep and thorny
path of virtue? Ah, open, holy Peter, open quickly, for by just such a
steep and thorny path did our fellow-soldier and dear comrade
Podbipienta pass, till he came to your presence like a dove wearied
after long flight; came naked, like Lazarus; came like Saint Stephen,
torn with Pagan arrows; like poor Job; like the virgin who has never
known a husband,--pure, obedient as a lamb, patient and quiet, without
a spot of sin, with a sacrifice of blood joyfully shed for his earthly
fatherland. Admit him, holy Peter; for if you do not admit him, whom
will you admit in these days of corruption and ungodliness? Admit him,
holy warden! admit this lamb; let him pasture in the heavenly meadow;
let him nip its grass, for he came hungry from Zbaraj."
In this manner the priest Mukhovetski began his discourse; and then he
depicted the whole life of Pan Longin with such eloquence that every
one acknowledged himself wicked in the presence of the silent coffin of
the knight without reproach, who had surpassed the lowliest in modesty
and the loftiest in virtue. All then beat their breasts. Every moment
greater sadness seized them, and they saw more clearly what the country
had suffered and Zbaraj had lost. The priest took a lofty flight, and
when at last he described the passage through the enemy and the martyr
death of Pan Longin, he forgot altogether his rhetoric and quotations;
and while taking leave of the mortal remains in the name of the clergy,
the officers, and the army, he broke into weeping himself, and said,
sobbing like Zagloba: "Give us your blessing, brother; give us your
blessing, comrade! Not to an earthly, but to a heavenly king--to the
surest tribunal--have you carried our groans, our famine, our misery
and sufferings. You will gain for us there a more certain salvation.
But you will never return yourself; therefore do we weep, therefore do
we pour tears upon your coffin,--for we loved you, dearest brother!"
All wept with the worthy priest,--the prince, the commanders, the army,
and most of all the friends of the deceased; but when the priest
intoned for the first time, "Requiem æternam dona ei Domine! (Grant him
eternal rest, Lord!)," there was a universal outburst, though all were
men hardened against death, and long accustomed to it, through their
daily service.
When the coffin was placed on the ropes it was as difficult to tear
Zagloba away as if his father or brother had died. But at last
Skshetuski and Volodyovski drew him aside. The prince approached and
took a handful of earth; the priest began to say, "Anima ejus;" the
ropes rattled; the earth began to fall,--it was thrown in with hands,
with helmets; and soon above the remains of Pan Longin rose a lofty
mound, shone on by the pale sad light of the moon.
Three friends were returning from the town to the square, from which
came an uninterrupted sound of firing. They walked in silence, for
neither wished to speak the first word; but other groups were speaking
of the deceased, giving him unanimous praise.
"It was a splendid funeral," said an officer passing at the side of
Skshetuski; "they did not give a better to Serakovski, the secretary of
the Crown."
"For he deserved it," answered another officer; "who else would have
undertaken to break through to the king?"
"But I heard," added the third, "that among Vishnyevetski's men there
was a number of volunteers; but after such a terrible example the
desire will surely desert them all."
"Besides, the thing is impossible. A snake could not creep through."
"As I live, it would be pure madness."
The officers passed on. A new moment of silence followed. Suddenly
Volodyovski said: "You heard, Yan, what they said?"
"Yes," answered Skshetuski; "it is my turn now."
"Yan," said Volodyovski, seriously, "you know me of old, and you know
that I am not quick to withdraw before peril; but peril is one thing,
and downright suicide is another."
"And you, Michael, say this?"
"Yes, for I am your friend."
"And I am your friend. Give me your word of honor that you will not go
third if I perish."
"Impossible!" cried Volodyovski.
"Ah, you see, Michael! How can you ask that of me which you will not do
yourself? Let the will of God be done."
"Then let me go with you."
"The prince has prohibited that,--not I. You are a soldier, and you
must obey."
Pan Michael was silent, for he was a soldier first of all; then his
mustaches only quivered violently by the light of the moon. At last he
said: "The night is very clear; don't go now."
"I should prefer a darker one, but delay is impossible. The weather is,
as you see, settled for a long time, our powder is almost gone, our
provisions are at an end. The soldiers are digging through the square,
looking for roots; the gums of some of them are rotting from the
rubbish they have eaten. I will go to-night,--at once; I have taken
farewell of the prince already."
"I see that you are simply desperate."
Skshetuski smiled gloomily. "God guard you, Michael! It is certain that
we are not swimming in luxury, but I shall not seek death of my own
will, for that is a sin; besides, it is not a question of perishing,
but of getting through, going to the king, and saving the camp."
Volodyovski was suddenly seized with such a desire to tell Skshetuski
all about the princess that he almost opened his mouth; but he thought
to himself, "His head will be turned by the news, and they will catch
him the more easily," He bit his tongue therefore, was silent, and then
asked: "Which way are you going?"
"I told the prince that I should go through the pond, and then by the
river till I passed far beyond the tabor. He said that this was a
better road than others."
"There is no help, I see," said Volodyovski. "Since death is
predestined to a man, it is better on the field of glory than in bed.
God attend you, God attend you, Yan! If we do not meet in this world we
shall in the other, and I shall surely keep my heart for you."
"As I shall mine for you. God reward you for all the good you have
done! And listen to me, Michael! If I die, they will perhaps not put me
up as they did Pan Longin, for they have received too severe a lesson;
but they will be sure to boast of it in some way, in which case let old
Zatsvilikhovski go to Hmelnitski for my body, for I do not wish that
dogs should drag me through their camp."
"Rest assured!" said Volodyovski.
Zagloba, who from the beginning had listened in semiconsciousness,
understood the conversation at last, but he felt unable to restrain or
dissuade; he only groaned deeply: "Yesterday that one, to-day this one.
My God, my God, my God!"
"Have faith," said Volodyovski.
"Pan Yan--" began Zagloba, and he could go no further. His gray,
suffering head rested on the breast of the knight, and he drew up to
him like a helpless little child.
An hour later Skshetuski sank into the water of the western pond.
The night was very clear, and the middle of the pond looked like a
silver shield; but Skshetuski vanished straightway from the eye. The
shore was thickly overgrown with rushes and reeds; farther on, where
the reeds were thinner, was a rich growth of pond-weed and plants. That
mixture of wide and narrow leaves, slippery stalks, snaky stems winding
around the legs and body to the waist hindered his advance greatly, but
at least concealed him from the patrol. To swim across the clear centre
of the pond was out of the question, for any dark object would have
been seen easily. Skshetuski determined therefore to pass along the
shore of the pond to the swamp at the other side, through which the
river entered the pond. Patrols of Cossacks or Tartars were likely to
be there; but the place was overgrown with a whole forest of reeds,
only the edge had been cut down to make cabins for the mob. The swamp
once attained, it would be possible to push on through the reeds, even
in the daytime, unless the quagmire should be too deep. But that road
also was a terrible one. Under the sleeping water, not farther than a
yard from the shore, the mud was an ell or more in depth. After every
step Skshetuski took there rose to the surface of the water bubbles,
the gurgling of which could be heard distinctly in the stillness.
Besides, in spite of the slowness of his movements, ripples were formed
which ran every moment farther from their source to the open water, in
which the light of the moon was reflected. In time of rain Skshetuski
would have swum straight across the pond, and in half an hour, at most,
would have come to the swamp; but there was not a cloud in the sky.
Whole torrents of greenish light fell upon the pond, changing the
leaves of the lily into silver shields, and the tufts on the reeds to
brushes of silver. No breeze was blowing. Happily the gurgling of
the bubbles was lost in the noise of the guns, noticing which,
Skshetuski moved only when the discharges on the ramparts and trenches
became more lively. But that calm, pleasant night caused another
difficulty,--legions of mosquitoes rose from the reeds and swarmed over
the head of the knight, fastening on his face and eyes, biting him,
buzzing and singing above his ears their mournful vespers.
Pan Yan in selecting this road did not deceive himself as to its
difficulties, but he did not foresee everything. He did not foresee,
for instance, its terrors. Every depth of water, even the best known,
has in it something mysterious and terrifying, and involuntarily urges
the question, What is down at the bottom? And this pond of Zbaraj was
simply awful. The water in it seemed to be thicker than common water,
and exuded the odor of corpses, for hundreds of Cossacks and Tartars
had decayed there. Both sides had drawn out corpses, but how many of
them might be hidden among the reeds, the plants, and the thick growth!
The cold of a wave embraced Pan Yan, and sweat stood on his forehead.
What if some slippery arm should seize him suddenly, or if greenish
eyes should look at him from under the leaves? The long stems of the
water-lily wound around his knees, and the hair stood on his head,
because that may be the spirit of a drowned man to keep him from going
farther. "Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary!" whispered he unceasingly, pushing
ahead. At times he raised his eyes, and at the sight of the moon, the
stars, and the silence of the sky he found a certain rest. "There God
is," repeated he, in an undertone, so that he might hear himself. Then
he would look on the shore, and it seemed to him that he was looking
on the ordinary world of God from some condemned world beyond the
earth,--a world of swamps, black depths, pale moonlight, ghosts,
corpses, and night. Yearning took such hold of him that he wanted
immediately to rush forth from that net of reeds.
But he pushed along the shore unceasingly, and he had already gone so
far from the camp that on that God's world (outside) he saw at some
paces distant from the shore a Tartar on horseback; he stopped then and
looked at the figure, which, nodding with uniform motion toward the
neck of the horse, seemed to be sleeping.
It was a strange sight. The Tartar nodded continually, as if bowing in
silence to Skshetuski, and the latter did not take his eye from him.
There was something terrible in this; but Skshetuski breathed with
satisfaction, for in presence of that definite fear fancies a hundred
times more difficult to be borne disappeared. The world of ghosts fled
somewhere, his coolness returned at once; and only questions like these
began to crowd into his head: "Does he sleep, or not? Must I go on, or
wait?"
At length he went on, moving still more quietly, still more cautiously
than at the beginning of his journey. He already half-way to the swamp
and the river when the first breath of a light wind rose. The reeds
moved therefore, and gave forth a strong sound by striking one another;
and Skshetuski was rejoiced, for in spite of all his care, in spite of
the fact that sometimes he lost several minutes in taking a step, an
involuntary movement, a stumble, a splash might betray him. Now he
advanced more boldly, covered by the loud noise of the reeds with which
the whole pond was filled; and everything grew vocal about him, the
water on the bank began to plash with its rocking wave.
But this movement evidently roused not the plants along the shore
alone, for at that time some dark object appeared before Pan Yan and
began to move toward him as if preparing for a spring. He almost
screamed at first; but fear and aversion restrained the voice in his
bosom, and at the same time a terrible odor came to him. But after a
while, when the first idea that this might be a drowned person barring
his road on purpose disappeared, and there remained only aversion, the
knight passed on. The talk of the reeds continued and increased every
moment. Through, their moving tufts Skshetuski saw a second and a third
Tartar patrol. He passed these, passed a fourth also. "I must have gone
around half the pond," thought he; and he raised himself a little to
look through the reeds and see where he was. Something pushed his legs;
he looked around and saw there at his knees a human face. "This is the
second," thought he.
This time he was not frightened, for the second body lay on its back,
without signs of life or movement. Skshetuski merely hastened his steps
so as not to become dizzy. The reeds grew thicker, which on the one
hand gave him a safe shelter, but on the other greatly impeded his
advance. Half an hour passed, an hour; he went on unceasingly, but grew
more and more weary. The water in some places was so shallow that it
just reached above his ankles, but in others it came almost to his
waist. He was tortured beyond measure by the slow dragging of his feet
out of the mud. His forehead was streaming with perspiration, and from
time to time a quiver went through him from head to foot.
"What is this?" thought he, with terror in his heart; "is delirium
seizing me? Somehow the swamp does not appear; I don't recognize the
place among the reeds. Shall I miss it?"
It was a terrible danger; for in that way he might circle about the
pond all night, and in the morning find himself at the same point from
which he had started, or fall into the hands of the Cossacks at another
place.
"I have chosen a bad road," thought he, failing in spirits; "it is
impossible to get through the pond. I will return, and in the morning
go as Pan Longin did. I might rest till morning."
But he went on, for he saw that by promising to return and rest he was
tempting himself; it also occurred to him that by going so slowly and
halting every moment he could not have reached the swamp yet. Still the
thought of rest grew on him more and more. At moments he wished to lie
down somewhere in the reeds, just to draw breath. He struggled with his
own thoughts and prayed at the same time. The trembling passed over him
oftener; he drew his legs out of the mud with less force. The sight of
the Tartar patrol sobered him; but he felt that his head as well as his
body was tormenting him, and that a fever was coming upon him.
Again half an hour passed; the swamp was not visible yet. But bodies of
drowned men appeared more frequently. Night, fear, corpses, the noise
of reeds, toil, and sleeplessness benumbed his thoughts. Visions began
to come to him. Now Helena is in Kudák; and he is sailing with Jendzian
in a boat down the Dnieper. The reeds are rustling; he hears the
boatmen sing. The priest Mukhovetski is waiting in his stole; Pan
Grodzitski takes the place of a father. The girl is there looking day
after day on the river, from the walls. Suddenly she sees something,
claps her hands, and cries: "He is coming! he is coming!" "My master,"
says Jendzian, pulling him by the sleeve, "the lady is here--"
Skshetuski wakes. It is the tangled reeds that stop him on the way.
Visions disappear; consciousness returns. Now he does not feel such
weariness, for the fever lends him strength.
"Oh, is not this the swamp yet?" But around him the reeds were still
the same as if he had not stirred from the spot. Near the river there
must be open water; therefore this is not the swamp yet.
He goes on, but his thoughts return with invincible stubbornness to the
pleasant vision. In vain he defends himself; in vain he begins to say,
"Oh, Venerable Lady!" in vain he tries to retain all his consciousness.
Again he is sailing down the Dnieper; he sees the boats, the skiffs,
Kudák, the Saitch; only this time the vision is more disordered, there
is a multitude of persons in it. At the side of Helena are the prince
and Hmelnitski, the koshevoi ataman, Pan Longin, Zagloba, Bogun,
Volodyovski,--all in gala attire for his wedding. But where is the
wedding? They are in some strange place,--neither Lubni nor Rozlogi nor
the Saitch nor Kudák,--in unknown waters among floating corpses.
Skshetuski wakes a second time, or rather he is roused by a loud
rustling coming from the direction in which he is going; he halts
therefore, and listens. The rustling approaches; a kind of grating and
plashing is heard,--it is a boat, visible already through the reeds.
Two Cossacks are sitting in it,--one is pushing with an oar; the other
holds in his hand a long pole gleaming in the distance like silver, and
he pushes the water-plants aside with it.
Skshetuski sank in the water up to his neck, so that only his head was
sticking out above the lilies, and he looked. "Is that an ordinary
picket," thought he, "or are they already on the trail?" But soon he
concluded by the quiet and careless motions of the Cossacks that it
must be an ordinary picket. There must be more than one boat on the
pond, and if the Cossacks were on his trail a number of boats would be
assembled and a crowd of men. Meanwhile they passed by, the noise of
the reeds deafened their words; he caught only the following snatch of
conversation:--
"Devil take them, they have given orders to patrol this filthy water."
The boat pushed on behind bunches of reeds; but the Cossack standing at
the prow struck continually with measured blows of his pole among the
water-plants, as if he wished to frighten the fish.
Skshetuski hurried on. After a time he saw a Tartar picket standing at
the bank. The light of the moon fell straight on the face of the Nogai,
which was like the snout of a dog. But Skshetuski feared these pickets
less than loss of consciousness. He exerted all his will, therefore, to
give himself a clear account of where he was and whither he was going.
But the struggle only increased his weariness, and soon he discovered
that he was seeing double and treble, and at moments the pond seemed to
him the square and the camp, and the bunches of reeds tents. At such
moments he wished to call Volodyovski to go with him, but he had
sufficient consciousness to restrain himself. "Don't call, don't call!"
repeated he to himself; "that would be death."
But the struggle with himself was more and more difficult. He left
Zbaraj tormented with hunger and terrible sleeplessness, from which
soldiers there were dying already. That night-journey, the cold bath,
the odor of corpses in the water, weakened him completely. Added to
this were the excitement of fear, and pain from the biting of
mosquitoes which pierced his face so that it was covered with blood. He
felt therefore that if he did not reach the swamp soon he would either
go out on the shore and let what might meet him meet him quickly, or he
would fall among the reeds and be drowned.
That swamp and the mouth of the river seemed to him a port of
salvation, though in fact new difficulties and dangers began there. He
defended himself feverishly, and went on, taking less care each moment.
In the rustle he heard the voices of men,--conversation; it seemed to
him that the pond was talking about him. Will he reach the swamp or
not? Will he go on shore or not? The mosquitoes sang with their thin
voices more sadly. The water became deeper; soon it reached to his
belt, then to his breast. He thought that if he should have to swim, he
would be entangled in the thick web and drown.
Again an almost irrestrainable, unconquerable desire of calling
Volodyovski seized him. He had already put his hand to his mouth to
cry: "Michael! Michael!" Fortunately some kind reed struck him with its
wet, dripping brush in the face. He came to his mind, and saw in front
but a little to one side a dim light. He looked steadily at the light,
and went straight toward it for a while. He stopped suddenly; he saw a
belt of clear water lying athwart him. He drew breath. It was the
river, and on both sides of it a swamp.
"I will stop going by the shore, and will go into that wedge," thought
he.
On both sides of the wedge extended two strips of reeds. The knight
entered that one to which he had come. After a while he saw he was on a
good road. He looked around. The pond was already behind him. He moved
parallel with the narrow strip of water, which could be nothing but the
river. The water there was cooler also. But after a time terrible
weariness possessed him. His legs trembled, and before his eyes rose as
it were a dark fog.
"It cannot be helped; I will go to the shore and lie down. I will not
go farther; I will rest."
Then he fell on his knees. His hands felt a dry tuft covered with moss;
it was like a little island among the rushes. He sat down and began to
wipe his bloody face with his hands, and then to draw long breaths.
After a while the odor of smoke reached his nostrils. Turning to the
shore, he saw, about a hundred paces from the brink, a fire, and around
it a knot of people. He was directly in front of this fire, and at
moments when the wind bent the reeds he could see everything perfectly.
At the first glance he recognized the Tartar horse-herds, who were
sitting at the fire eating.
Then he felt a fearful hunger. Yesterday morning he had eaten a bit of
horse-flesh which would not have satisfied a wolf-whelp two months old;
since then he had had nothing in his mouth. He began to pluck the round
stems growing about him and suck them greedily. He allayed his thirst
as well as his hunger,--for thirst tormented him too. At the same time
he looked continually at the fire, which grew paler and dimmer. The
people near it began to be hidden by a mist, and seemed to go into the
distance.
"Oh, sleep torments me! I will sleep here on the mound," thought the
knight.
But there was a noise by the fire. The horse-herds rose. Soon there
came to Skshetuski's ears the cries: "Losh! losh!" They were answered
by a short neigh. The fire was deserted and went out. After a time he
heard whistling and the dull thump of hoofs on the moist meadow.
Skshetuski could not understand why the horse-herds had ridden away.
Then he saw the tops of the reeds and the broad leaves of the lilies
were somewhat pale; the water received a different light from that of
the moon; the air was shrouded with a light of joy. He looked around.
The day was breaking. He had spent the whole night in going around the
pond before reaching the river and the swamp. He was barely at the
beginning of the road. Now he must go by the river and pass through the
tabor in the day. The air was filled more and more with the light of
dawn. In the east the sky took on a pale sea-green color.
Skshetuski slipped down again from the tuft into the swamp, and pushing
toward the shore, after a short interval thrust his head out of the
reeds. At the distance of five hundred yards, perhaps, a Tartar picket
was visible; with this exception the meadow was empty,--only the fire
shone with a dying light on a dry place at some little distance.
Skshetuski determined to crawl to it through the high grass
interspersed here and there with tall rushes.
Having crawled to the place, he looked carefully to find some remnants
of food. He found in fact freshly picked mutton bones with bits of
sinew and fat, then some pieces of roasted turnips thrown into the hot
ashes. He began to eat with the greed of a wild beast, and ate till he
saw that the pickets stationed along the road which he had passed were
approaching him through the meadow on their way to the tabor.
Then he began to retreat, and in a few minutes disappeared in the wall
of reeds. Having found his tuft, he put himself on it without a rustle.
The pickets rode by at the same time. Skshetuski began at once on the
bones which he had brought with him, and which he broke in his jaws,
powerful as those of a wolf. He gnawed off the fat and the sinews,
sucked out the marrow, chewed the bone-fat,--allayed his first hunger.
Such a morning feast he had not had for a long time in Zbaraj.
He felt stronger now. The food, as well as the rising day, strengthened
him. It became brighter every moment. The eastern side of the sky from
greenish became rosy and golden. The cool of the morning troubled him
greatly, it is true; but he was comforted by the thought that the sun
would soon warm his wearied body. He examined the place carefully. The
tuft was pretty large, rather short, because round, but wide enough for
two persons to lie side by side with ease. The reeds stood around like
a wall, hiding it completely from the eyes of men.
"They will not find me here," thought he, "unless they go fishing in
the reeds; and there are no fish, for they have died of infection. Here
will I rest and think what further to do." And he began to think
whether he should go on by the river or not. Finally he determined to
go if the wind should rise and the reeds tremble; if not, the noise and
rustle might betray him,--especially as most likely he would have to
pass near the tabor.
"Thanks to thee, O Lord, that I am alive till now," whispered he
quietly; and he raised his eyes to Heaven. Then his thoughts flew away
to the Polish ramparts. The castle was visible from that tuft,
especially since it was gilded by the first rays of the rising sun.
Maybe some one is looking from the tower to the pond and reeds through
a field-glass. Volodyovski is there surely; and Zagloba will pass the
whole day in looking from the ramparts to see if he can find him
hanging on some moving tower.
"They will not see me," thought the knight, and his breast was full of
the happy feeling of security. "They will not see me, they will not see
me," he repeated several times. "I have passed only a short road, but
it had to be passed. God will help me to go farther."
Here he saw, with the eyes of his imagination, beyond the tabor, in the
forest, behind which stand the armies of the king, the general militia
of the whole country,--hussars, infantry, foreign regiments. The earth
groaned under the weight of men, horses, and cannon, and in the midst
of this swarm of people is the king himself. Then he saw an immense
battle, broken tabors, the prince with all his cavalry flying over
piles of bodies, the greetings of armies. His eyes, aching and swollen,
closed beneath the excess of light, and his head bent under the excess
of thought; a kind of pleasant weakness began to embrace him. At last
he stretched himself at full length and fell asleep.
The reeds rustled. The sun rose high in the sky, warmed with its
burning glance the knight, and dried the clothing on his body. He slept
soundly without motion. Whoever should see him lying thus on the tuft
with bloody face, would think that a corpse thrown up by the water was
lying there. Hours passed; still he slept. The sun reached the zenith,
and began to descend the other side of the sky; he was sleeping yet. He
was roused by the piercing cry of horses feeding on the meadow, and the
loud calls of the herdsmen lashing the stallions with whips.
He rubbed his eyes, remembered where he was, looked in the sky; stars
were twinkling in the red and still unquenched gleams of the sunset. He
had slept the whole day. He felt neither refreshed nor stronger; all
his bones were aching. He thought, however, that new toil would restore
the activity of his body, and putting his feet into the water he moved
on his journey without delay.
He went now through clear water by the reeds, so as not to rouse the
attention of the horse-herds on shore by the rustle. The last gleams
had disappeared and it was quite dark, for the moon had not risen yet
from behind the woods. The water was so deep that Skshetuski lost
bottom in places and had to swim, which was difficult to do, for he was
dressed, and he swam against the current, which, though slow, still
pushed him back toward the pond. But as a recompense the sharpest
Tartar eyes could not see that head advancing along the dark wall of
reeds. He pushed on therefore rather boldly, swimming at times, but for
the greater part wading to his waist and armpits, till at last he
reached the place from which his eyes beheld, on both sides of the
river, thousands upon thousands of lights.
"These are the tabors," thought he; "now God aid me!" And he listened.
The bustle of mingled voices reached his ear. Yes, these were the
tabors. On the left bank of the river stood the Cossack camp with
thousands of wagons and tents; on the right the Tartar camp,--both
noisy, uproarious, full of conversation, wild sounds of drums and
flutes, bellowing of cattle, camels, neighing of horses, shouts. The
river divided them, forming a barrier against disputes and fights; for
the Tartars could not remain in peace at the side of the Cossacks. The
river was widest at this place, and perhaps dug out on purpose. On one
side the wagons, on the other reed huts were near the bank, judging by
the fires, within a few score of yards; but at the water itself there
were surely pickets.
The reeds and rushes became thinner; opposite the camps the banks were
evidently bare. Skshetuski pushed on some yards farther, and halted. A
certain power and terror came out against him from those swarms. At
that moment it seemed to him that all the watchfulness and rage of
those thousands of human beings were turned upon him, and in presence
of them he felt perfectly helpless. He was alone.
"No one can pass them," thought he; but he pushed on still, for a
certain painful, irrestrainable curiosity attracted him. He wished to
look more nearly on that terrible power.
Suddenly he stopped. The forest of reeds ended as if cut with a knife;
perhaps they had been cut to make cabins. Farther on the clear water
was red from the reflection of the fires. Two great and clear flames
were blazing there at the banks. Before one stood a Tartar on
horseback; before the other a Cossack with a long lance in his hand.
Both looked at each other and at the water. In the distance were to be
seen others standing on guard in the same way and looking. The gleam of
the piles threw as it were a fiery bridge across the river. Under the
banks were to be seen rows of small boats used by the guards on the
pond.
"An impossibility!" muttered Skshetuski.
Despair seized him at once. He could neither go backward nor forward.
The time had been passing as he was pushing through the swamps and
reeds breathing the infected air and soaked in water, only to discover
after he had come to those very camps through which he had undertaken
to pass, that it was impossible.
But it was impossible to go back; the knight knew that he might find
sufficient strength to drag himself ahead, but he could not find it to
go back. In his despair there was at the same time a dull rage; for the
first time he wished to emerge from the water, throttle the guard, then
rush on the crowd and perish.
Again the wind began to move along the reeds with a wonderful whisper,
bringing with it the sound of bells from Zbaraj. Skshetuski began to
pray ardently and beat his breast, imploring aid from heaven with the
strength and the desperate faith of a drowning man; he prayed, but the
two camps roared ominously as if in answer to his prayer. Black figures
and figures red from fire pushed around like herds of devils in hell.
The guards stood motionless; the river flowed on with its blood-colored
water.
"The fires will go down when deep night comes," said Pan Yan to
himself, and waited.
One hour passed, and another. The noise decreased; the fires really
began to smoulder, except the two fires of the guards, which blazed up
more brightly. The guards were changed, and it was evident that the
fresh ones would remain till morning. The thought came to Skshetuski
that perhaps he might be able to slip through more easily in the
daytime; but he soon abandoned that idea. In the daytime they took
water, watered the cattle, bathed; the river must be full of people.
Suddenly his glance fell upon the boats. On both banks of the river
there was a number of them in a line, and on the Tartar side the rushes
extended to the first boat.
Skshetuski sank in the water to his neck, and pushed slowly toward the
boats, keeping his eyes fastened on the Tartar guard as on a rainbow.
At the end of half an hour he was at the first boat. His plan was
simple. The sterns of the boats were raised over the water, forming
above it a kind of arch through which the head of a man might pass
easily. If all the boats stood side by side there, the Tartar guard
could not see a head pushing under them. There was more danger from the
Cossack; but he might not see it, for under the boats, notwithstanding
the opposite fire, it was dark. Anyhow there was no other passage.
Skshetuski hesitated no longer, and soon found himself under the sterns
of the boats. He crawled on his hands and feet, or rather dragged
himself, for the water was shallow. He was so near the Tartar standing
on the bank that he heard the breathing of his horse. He stopped a
moment and listened. Fortunately the boats were placed side by side. He
had his eyes then fastened on the Cossack guard, whom he saw as on the
palm of his hand. The Cossack was looking at the Tartar camp.
Skshetuski had passed fifteen boats, when suddenly he heard steps on
shore and Tartar voices. He stopped immediately and listened. In his
journeys to the Crimea he had learned Tartar. Now a shiver ran through
his whole body when he heard the words of command: "Get in and go!"
He grew feverish, though he was in the water. If they should take the
boat under which he was hiding, that moment he was lost; if they should
take the one before him he was lost too, for there remained an open
lighted space. Each second seemed to him an hour. Soon steps sounded on
the planks. The Tartars sat in the fourth or fifth boat behind him,
pushed it out and began to sail in the direction of the pond. But that
movement directed the eyes of the Cossack guard to the boats.
Skshetuski did not stir for something like half an hour. Only when the
guards were changed did he resume his onward movement.
In this way he reached the end of the boats. After the last boat began
the rushes again, and farther on the reeds. When he reached the rushes
the knight, breathless, dripping with perspiration, fell upon his knees
and thanked God with his whole heart.
He hastened on somewhat more boldly, taking advantage of every breeze
which filled the banks with rustling. From time to time he looked
around. The guard-fires began to retreat, to be hidden, to glimmer, to
weaken. The lines of rushes and reeds became darker and thicker, for
the shores were more swampy. The guards could not stand close to one
another; the noise of the camp grew less. A kind of superhuman power
strengthened the limbs of the knight. He pushed through reeds, clumps
of earth, sank in the swamp, went under water, swam, and rose again. He
did not dare yet to go on shore; but he almost felt that he was saved.
He could not render account to himself of how long he advanced, wading
in this way; but when he looked around again the watch-fires seemed
like little points gleaming in the distance. A few hundred yards
farther, and they vanished altogether. The moon went down; around about
was silence. Now a noise was heard louder and more solemn than the
rustle of the reeds. Skshetuski came near screaming with joy,--the
woods were on both sides of the river.
He turned then to the bank and came out of the reeds. The pine-forest
began here, beyond the rushes and reeds. The odor of rosin came to his
nostrils; here and there in the depths shone the fern, like silver. He
fell a second time on his knees, and kissed the earth in prayer. He was
saved!
Then he entered the forest darkness, asking himself where he should go,
where those forests would take him, where the king and the army were.
His journey was not finished; it was not easy, it was not safe; but
when he thought that he had come out of Zbaraj,--that he had stolen
through the guards, swamps, tabors, and almost half a million of
enemies,--then it seemed to him that all dangers were passed, that that
forest was a clear highway which would lead him straight to his Majesty
the King; and that wretched-looking, hungry, shivering man, bespattered
with his own blood, with red filth, and black mud, passed on with joy
in his heart, and hope that he would soon return in different
circumstances and with greater power.
"They will not be left hungry and hopeless," thought he of his friends
in Zbaraj, "for the king will come."
His heart rejoiced at the near rescue of the prince, the commanding
officers, Volodyovski, Zagloba, and all those heroes confined in the
ramparts. The forest depths opened before him and covered him with
their shade.