With Fire and Sword

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “And I shall be hetman and marry the princess,—I cannot take a peasant.”

  “You would talk differently with a peasant girl, but you are afraid of her. You should be a Pole.”

  “I am no worse.”

  Bogun now went to the stable to the Cossacks, and Horpyna set about preparing dinner.

  In the evening the horses were ready for the road, but the chief was in no hurry to depart. He sat on a roll of carpets in the chamber, with lute in hand, and looked on his princess, who had risen from the couch, but had thrust herself into the other corner of the room, and was repeating in silence the rosary without paying any heed to the chief, just as if he had not been in the room. He, on the contrary, followed with his eyes every movement of hers, caught with his ears every sigh, and knew not what to do with himself. From time to time he opened his mouth to begin conversation, but the words would not leave his throat. The face pale, silent, and with an expression of decisive sternness in the brows and mouth, deprived him of courage. Bogun had not seen this expression on the princess before, and involuntarily he remembered similar evenings at Rozlogi, which appeared before him as if real,—how they sat, he and the Kurtsevichi around an oaken table, the old princess husking sunflower seeds, the princes throwing dice from a cup, he looking on the beautiful princess just as he was looking now. But in the old time he was happy, for then he told of his expeditions with the Zaporojians, she listened, and at times her dark eyes rested on his face, and her open red lips showed with what interest she listened; now she would not even look. Then when he played on the lute she would listen and look, till the heart melted within him. And, wonder of wonders, he is now master of her,—he has taken her with armed hand; she is his captive, his prisoner; he can command her. But nevertheless in the old time he felt himself nearer, more her equal in rank. The Kurtsevichi were her cousins, she was as a sister; she was not only his cuckoo, falcon, dearest, dark-browed, but also a relative. Now she sits before him a proud lady, gloomy, silent, merciless. Ah, but anger is boiling within him! He would like to show her what it means to slight a Cossack; but he loves this merciless woman, he would shed his blood for her. But how many times had anger seized his breast! when suddenly an unseen hand, as it were, grasps him by the hair, and a voice shouts in his ear, “Stop!” He belches forth something like a flame, beats his forehead on the earth, and stops. The Cossack squirms now, for he feels that he is oppressive to her in that room. Let her but smile and give a kind word, he would fall at her feet and go to the devil, to drown in Polish blood all his grief and anger together with the insult put upon him. But in that room he is like a captive before that princess. If he had not known her of old, if she were a Pole taken from the first noble castle, he would have more daring; but she is Princess Helena, for whom he had asked the Kurtsevichi, and for whom he was willing to give up Rozlogi and all he had. And the more ashamed he is of being a slave before her, the less bold is he.

  An hour passed. From before the cottage came the murmur of the talk of the Cossacks, who were surely in their saddles and waiting for the ataman; but the ataman was in torture. The bright light of the torch falls on his face, on the rich kontush, and on the lute. And she—if she would even look! The ataman felt bitter, angry, sad, and awkward. He would like to bid farewell with tenderness, and he fears the parting,—fears that it will not be such as from his soul he desires,—fears to go away in bitterness, anger, and pain.

  Oh, if she were not that Princess Helena,—the Princess Helena stabbed with a knife, threatening death with her own hand; but dear, dear, and the more cruel and proud, the dearer is she!

  Then a horse neighed near the window. The chief mustered courage.

  “Princess,” said he, “it is already my hour for the road.”

  She was silent.

  “And you will not say to me, ‘With God’?”

  “Go, with God!” said she, with dignity.

  The Cossack’s heart was pressed. She said the words he wanted, but not in the way he wanted.

  “Well I know,” said he, “that you are angry with me, that you hate me; but I tell you that another would have been worse to you than I. I brought you here, for I could not do otherwise; but what harm have I done you? Have not I treated you well, like a queen? Tell me yourself. Am I such an outlaw that you will not give me a kind word? And, moreover, you are in my power.”

  “I am in the power of God,” said she, with the same dignity as before; “but because you restrain yourself in my presence, I thank you for that.”

  “Then I go with even such a word. Maybe you will regret me; maybe you will be sorry.”

  Helena was silent.

  “I am sorry to leave you here alone,” said Bogun, “sorry to go away; but I must. It would be easier for me if you were to smile, if you were to give a crucifix with a sincere heart. What can I do to appease you?”

  “Give me back my freedom, and God will forgive you all, and I will forgive and bless you.”

  “Maybe you will forgive me yet; maybe you will be sorry yet that you have been so harsh to me.”

  Bogun wished to buy a word of farewell, even for half a promise which he did not think of keeping, and got what he wanted, for a light of hope gleamed in Helena’s eyes and the harshness vanished from her face. She crossed her arms on her breast and fixed a clear glance on him.

  “If you would only—”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said the Cossack, in a low voice, for shame and pity seized him at the same time by the throat. “I cannot now, I cannot. The Tartars are in the Wilderness, their parties are going everywhere. The Dobrudja Tartars are moving from Rashkoff. I cannot, for it is terrible; but when I come back—I am a child in your presence, you can do what you like with me—I don’t know, I don’t know—”

  “May God inspire you! May the Holy Most Pure inspire you! God go with you!” And she stretched out her hand to him.

  Bogun sprang forward and fastened his lips on it. Suddenly he raised his head, met her look of dignity, and dropped her hand. Then retreating toward the door, he bowed to his girdle in Cossack fashion, bowed again at the door, and disappeared behind the curtain.

  Soon there came through the window animated conversation, a clatter of arms, and later the words of a song in several voices:—

  “Glorious fame will rise

  Among the Cossacks,

  Among the heroes,

  For many a year,

  Till the end of time.”

  The voices and clatter retreated, and grew fainter each moment.

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  “The Lord has wrought an evident miracle in her favor already,” said Zagloba to Volodyovski and Podbipienta, while sitting in Skshetuski’s quarters,—"an evident miracle, I say, in permitting me to wrest her from the grasp of those dogs and to guard her the whole way. Let us hope that he will be merciful to her and to us once more. If she is only living! Something whispers to me that Bogun has carried her away; for just think, the informants tell us that after Pulyan he has become the second in command,—may the devils command him!—therefore he must have been present at the taking of Bar.”

  “He might not have found her in that crowd of unfortunates, for twelve thousand people were cut to pieces there,” said Volodyovski.

  “Oh, you don’t know him! I would swear that he knew she was in Bar. It cannot be but he has saved her from slaughter and taken her somewhere.”

  “You do not give us much consolation; for in Skshetuski’s place, I should rather have her perish than fall into his scoundrelly hands.”

  “The other is no consolation; for if she has perished, she was disgraced.”

  “Desperation!” exclaimed Volodyovski.

  “Desperation!” repeated Pan Longin.

  Zagloba pulled his beard; at last he burst out: “May the mange devour the whole race of curs! May the Pagans twist bow-strings out of their entrail
s! God created all nations, but the devil created these sons of Sodom. May barrenness strike the trash!”

  “I did not know that sweet lady,” said Volodyovski, gloomily, “but I would that misfortune met me rather than her.”

  “Once in my life I saw her,” said Pan Longin; “but when I think of her, life is a burden of regret.”

  “You describe your own feelings,” said Zagloba; “but what do you think of me, who loved her like a father, and rescued her from that misery,—what do you think of me?”

  “And what do you think of Pan Yan?” asked Volodyovski.

  The knights were in despair and sank into silence. Zagloba came to himself first.

  “Is there no help?” he asked.

  “If there is no help, it is our duty to take vengeance,” said Volodyovski.

  “Oh, if God would only give a general battle!” sighed Pan Longin. “It is said that the Tartars have already crossed the river, and formed a camp in the steppe.”

  “We cannot leave her,” said Zagloba, “the poor thing, without undertaking something for her rescue. I have battered my old bones around the world enough already; it would be better for me now to lie somewhere in a baker’s shop quietly, for warmth’s sake! But for her I would go again even to Stamboul; I would put on a peasant’s coat again and take a lute, on which I cannot look without disgust.”

  “You are fertile in stratagems; think of something,” said Podbipienta.

  “A great many plans have gone through my head already. If Prince Dominik had half as many, Hmelnitski would be disembowelled and hanging by the legs on a gibbet. I have already spoken of this to Skshetuski, but you can say nothing to him at present. Sorrow has seared him, and drags him down more than sickness. You see to it that his reason is not disturbed. It often happens that from great grief the mind, like wine, changes until it is completely soured.”

  “Yes, yes!” answered Pan Longin.

  Volodyovski started up impatiently, and asked: “What are your plans then?”

  “My plans? Well, first we must find out whether she—poor dear, may the angels guard her from every evil!—is alive yet; and this we can do in two ways,—either we shall find among the Prince’s Cossacks trusty and sure men, who will undertake to escape to the Cossacks, mingle among Bogun’s men, and find out something from them—”

  “I have Russian dragoons,” interrupted Volodyovski, “I will find such men.”

  “Wait a moment!—or catch an informant from those scoundrels who took Bar; maybe they know something. They all look at Bogun as at a rainbow, because his devilish daring pleases them; they sing songs about him,—may their throats rot!—and one talks to another about what he did and what he didn’t do. If he has carried off our unfortunate lady, then it is not hidden from them.”

  “Well, we can send men to inquire, and to catch an informant also,” remarked Podbipienta.

  “You have struck the point. If we discover that she is alive, that is the chief thing. Now, since you wish sincerely to help Pan Yan, put yourself under my orders, for I have most experience. We will disguise ourselves as peasants, and try to find out where he has concealed her, and once we know that, my head for it, we shall get her. I and Pan Yan risk most, for Bogun knows us, and if he should catch us, our own mothers wouldn’t recognize us afterward, but he hasn’t seen either of you.”

  “He has seen me,” said Podbipienta, “but that is nothing.”

  “Maybe too the Lord will give him into our hands,” said Volodyovski.

  “Well, I don’t want to look at him,” said Zagloba; “may the hangman look at him! We must begin carefully, so as not to spoil the whole undertaking. It cannot be that he alone knows of her concealment, and I assure you, gentlemen, that it is safer to inquire of some one else.”

  “Maybe too the men whom we send out will discover. If the prince only permits, I will select trusty men, and send them even to-morrow.”

  “The prince will permit it; but that they will discover anything, I doubt. Listen, gentlemen! another method occurs to me,—instead of sending out people or seizing informants, to disguise ourselves as peasants and start without delay.”

  “Oh, that is impossible!” cried Volodyovski.

  “Why impossible?”

  “Don’t you know military service? When a body of troops is mustered nemine excepto, it is sacred. Even if his father and mother were dying, a soldier would not ask leave of absence, for before battle this would be the greatest deed of disgrace which a soldier could commit. After a general engagement, when the enemy is defeated it is permissible, but not before. And consider, Skshetuski at first wanted to rush off, fly away, and rescue her, but he did nothing of the kind. He has a reputation, the prince is fond of him; and he made no request, for he knows his duty. Ours is public duty, and this is a private matter. I do not know how it is in some other land, though I think it is the same everywhere; but with the prince our voevoda it is an unheard of thing to ask leave before a battle, especially for officers! Though Skshetuski’s soul were rent, he would not go with such a proposition to the prince.”

  “He is a Roman and a rigorist, I know,” said Zagloba; “but if some one should give the prince a hint, maybe he would grant permission of his own instance, to Skshetuski and to you.”

  “That would not enter his mind. The prince has the whole Commonwealth on his mind. Do you think that now, when there is a rush of the most important affairs, affecting the whole nation, he would take up any private question? And even if he should give a permission unasked, which is unlikely, as God is in heaven, no one of us would leave the camp at present; for we too owe our first service to our unhappy country, not to ourselves.”

  “I am aware of that. I am acquainted with service from of old; therefore I told you that this method passed through my head, but I did not say that it stayed there. Besides, to tell the truth, while the power of the rabble stands untouched we could not do much; but when they are defeated and hunted down,—when their only thought will be to save their own throats,—we can go among them boldly and get information more easily. Oh, if the rest of the army would only come up at once! If it does not, we shall surely die of weariness at this Cholganski Kamen. If our prince had the command, we should be moving now; but Prince Dominik, it is evident, stops often for refreshments, since he is not here yet.”

  “He is expected in three days.”

  “God grant as soon as possible! But Konyetspolski will be here to-day?”

  “Yes.”

  At that moment the door opened, and Skshetuski entered. His features seemed as if chiselled out of stone by pain, such calm and cold came from them. It was strange to look on that young face, as severe and dignified as though a smile had never appeared on it; and it would have been easy to imagine that if death were to strike it there would be little change. Skshetuski’s beard had grown half-way to his breast, in which beard, among hairs black as the raven’s wing, here and there were winding silver threads. His comrades and trusty friends guessed at his suffering, for he did not exhibit it. He was self-possessed, apparently calm, and almost more diligent, in his military service than usual, and entirely occupied with the impending war.

  “We have been speaking of your misfortune, which is at the same time our own,” said Zagloba; “for God is our witness that we can console ourselves with nothing. This, however, would be a barren sentiment if we were to aid you only in shedding tears; therefore we have determined to shed blood also,—to rescue the unfortunate lady, if she still walks upon the earth.”

  “God reward you!” said Skshetuski.

  “We will go with you even to Hmelnitski’s camp,” said Volodyovski.

  “God reward you!” repeated Skshetuski.

  “We know that you have sworn to seek her, living or dead; therefore we are ready, even to-day.”

  Skshetuski, having seated himself on a bench, fixed his eyes on the ground
and made no answer. At last anger got control of Zagloba. “Does he intend to give her up?” thought he. “If he does, God be with him! I see there is neither gratitude nor memory in the world. But men will be found yet to rescue her, or I shall have to yield my last breath.”

  Silence reigned in the room, interrupted only by the sighs of Pan Longin. Meanwhile little Volodyovski approached Skshetuski and shook him by the shoulder.

  “Where are you from now?” asked he.

  “From the prince.”

  “What news?”

  “I am going out on a reconnoissance to-night.”

  “Far?”

  “To Yarmolintsi, if the road is clear.”

  Volodyovski looked at Zagloba, and they understood each other at once.

  “That is toward Bar,” muttered Zagloba.