“God send down victory!” cried a number of voices.
The priest raised his hands to heaven, and silence followed in the hall. “I bless you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
“Amen!” said the king.
“Amen!” repeated all the voices.
Peace was spread over the face of Yan Kazimir after his previous suffering; but his eyes shot forth unusual gleams. Among all assembled rose the buzz of conversation about the impending campaign, for it was much doubted yet whether the king could move at once. He took his sword, however, from the table, and nodded to Tyzenhauz to gird him.
“When does your Majesty think of marching?” asked the chancellor.
“God has granted a pleasant night,” said the king; “the horses will not be heated. Commander of the camp,” he added, turning to the dignitaries, “order the march to be sounded!”
The commander of the camp left the room at once. Ossolinski, the chancellor, said with quiet dignity that all were not ready; that they could not move the wagons before day. But the king answered immediately: “Let that man remain to whom the wagons are dearer than the country.”
The hall grew empty. Each man hastened to his standard, put everything in order, and prepared for the march. Only the king, the chancellor, the priest, with Skshetuski and Tyzenhauz, remained in the room.
“Gentlemen,” said the priest, “you have learned already from this officer what you had to learn. He should now get rest, for he is barely able to stand on his feet. Allow me, your Majesty, to take him to my quarters for the night!”
“All right, father,” replied the king. “Your demand is just. Let Tyzenhauz and some one else conduct him, for surely he cannot walk alone. Go, go, dear friend,” said he; “no one has earned his rest better than you. And remember that I am your debtor; henceforth I shall forget myself rather than you.”
Tyzenhauz caught Skshetuski under the arm and they passed into the antechamber. They met Sapieha, who supported the tottering knight on the other side. The priest went in advance, before him a boy with a lantern; but the boy carried it to no purpose, for the night was clear, calm, and warm. The great golden moon sailed over Toporoff like a boat. From the square of the camp came the bustle of men, the creaking of wagons, the noise of trumpets sounding the tattoo. At some distance, in front of the church lighted by the gleams of the moon, were already visible crowds of soldiers, infantry and cavalry. Horses were neighing in the village. To the creaking of wagons was joined the clatter of chains and the dull thump of cannon. The uproar increased every moment.
“They are moving already!” said the priest.
“On Zbaraj—to the rescue—” whispered Pan Yan. And whether from joy or from the toils he had endured, or from both together, he grew so weak that Tyzenhauz and the starosta were obliged almost to drag him along.
When they were turning to the priests’ house they went among the soldiers standing in front of the building. These were the cavalry of Sapieha and the infantry of Artsishevski. Not in rank yet for the march, they stood without order, crowded in places and hindering the passage.
“Out of the road, out of the road!” cried the priest.
“Who wants the road?”
“An officer from Zbaraj—”
“With the forehead to him! with the forehead to him!” cried many voices.
A way was opened at once; but some crowded the more to see the hero. They looked with astonishment on that suffering, on that terrible face, lighted by the gleam of the moon, and they whispered in wonder: “From Zbaraj! from Zbaraj!”
The priest brought Skshetuski to the house with the greatest difficulty. After he had been bathed and washed from the mud and blood, he had him put in the bed of the priest of the place, and went out himself at once to the army, which was moving to the march.
Skshetuski was half conscious. Fever did not let him sleep immediately; he knew not where he was, or what had happened. He heard only the noise,—the tramp, the rumble of wagons, the thundering tread of infantry, the shouts of soldiers, then the blare of trumpets; and all this was mingled in his ears in one enormous sound. “The army is moving,” he muttered. That sound began to retreat, to weaken, to vanish, to melt, till at last silence embraced Toporoff. Then it seemed to Skshetuski that together with the bed he was flying into some bottomless abyss.
CHAPTER LXIII.
Skshetuski slept a number of days, and when he woke he had a violent fever, and suffered long. He talked of Zbaraj, of the prince, of the starosta of Krasnovstav; he talked with Pan Michael, with Zagloba; he cried, “Not this way!” to Pan Longin; of the princess alone he spoke not a word. It was clear that the great power with which he had confined in himself the memory of her did not desert him a moment even in weakness and pain. At that moment, he seemed to see hanging over him the chubby face of Jendzian, precisely as he saw it when the prince after the battle of Konstantinoff sent him with troops to Zaslav to cut down lawless bands, and Jendzian appeared to him unexpectedly at his night quarters. This face brought confusion to his mind; for it seemed to him that time halted in its flight, and that nothing had changed from that period. So he is again at Khomor, is sleeping in the cottage, is marching to Tarnopol to give over his troops; Krívonos, beaten at Konstantinoff, has fled to Hmelnitski; Jendzian has come from Gushchi, and sits with him. Skshetuski wanted to talk,—wanted to order the lad to have the horse saddled,—but could not. And again it comes into his head that he is not at Khomor; that since that time too was the taking of Bar. Here Skshetuski halted in his pain, and his unfortunate head sank in darkness. He knows nothing now, sees nothing; but at times out of that chaos comes the heroism of Zbaraj, the siege. He is not at Khomor then? But still Jendzian is sitting over him, bending toward him. Through an opening in the shutters a narrow bright ray comes into the room, and lights completely the face of the youth, full of care and sympathy.
“Jendzian!” cried Skshetuski, suddenly.
“Oh, my master! do you know me already?” cried the youth, and fell at the feet of his master. “I thought you would never wake again!”
A moment of silence followed; only the sobbing of the youth could be heard as he continued to press the feet of his master.
“Where am I?” asked Skshetuski.
“In Toporoff. You came from Zbaraj to the king. Praise be to God!”
“And where is the king?”
“He went with the army to rescue the prince.’”
Silence followed. Tears of joy continued to flow along the face of Jendzian, who after a while began to repeat with a voice of emotion: “That I should look on your body again!” Then he opened the shutters and the window.
Fresh morning air came into the room, and with it the bright light of day. With this light came all Skshetuski’s presence of mind. Jendzian sat at the foot of the bed.
“Then I came out of Zbaraj?”
“Yes, my master. No one could do that but you, and on your account the king went to the rescue.”
“Pan Podbipienta tried before me, but he perished—”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Pan Podbipienta,—such a liberal man, so virtuous! My breath leaves me. How could they kill such a strong man?”
“They shot him with arrows.”
“And Pan Volodyovski and Zagloba?”
“They were well when I came out.”
“Praise be to God! They are great friends of yours, my master—But the priest won’t let me talk.”
Jendzian was silent, and for a time was working at something with his head. Thoughtfulness was expressed on his ruddy face. After a while he said: “My master?”
“Well, what is it?”
“What will be done with the fortune of Pan Podbipienta? Very likely he has villages and every kind of property beyond measure—unless he has left it to his friends; for, as I hear, he has no relatives.”
Skshetuski made no answer. Jendzian knew then that he did not like the question, and began as follows:—
“But God be praised that Pan Zagloba and Pan Volodyovski are well. I thought that the Tartars had caught them. We went through a world of trouble together—But the priest won’t let me talk. Oh, my master, I thought that I should never see them again; for the horde so pressed upon us that there was no help.”
“Then you were with Pan Volodyovski and Zagloba? They did not tell me anything about that.”
“For they didn’t know whether I was dead or alive.”
“And where did the horde press on you so?”
“Beyond Ploskiri, on the road to Zbaraj. For, my master, we travelled far beyond Yampol—But the priest Tsetsishovski won’t let me talk.”
A moment of silence.
“May God reward you for all your good wishes and labors,” said Skshetuski; “for I know why you went there. I was there before you to no purpose.”
“Oh, my master, if only that priest— But this is how it is. ‘I must go with the king to Zbaraj, and do you,’ says he, ‘take care of your master; don’t you tell him anything, for the soul will go out of him.’”
Pan Yan had parted long since from every hope to such a degree that even these words of Jendzian did not rouse in him the least spark. He lay for a time motionless, and then inquired: “Where did you come from to Tsetsishovski and the army?”
“The wife of the castellan, Pani Vitovska, sent me from Zamost to inform her husband that she would join him at Toporoff. She is a brave lady, my master, and wishes to be with the army, so as not to be away from her husband. I came to Toporoff the day before you. She will be here soon,—ought to be here now. But what if he has gone away with the king?”
“I don’t understand how you could be in Zamost when you went with Volodyovski and Zagloba beyond Yampol. Why didn’t you come to Zbaraj with them?”
“You see, my master, the horde pressed us sorely. There was no help. So they two alone resisted a whole chambul, and I fled and never drew bridle till I reached Zamost.”
“It was happy they were not killed; but I thought you were a better fellow. Was it manly of you to leave them in such straits?”
“But, my master, if there had been only three of us, I should not have left them, you may be sure; but there were four of us; therefore they threw themselves against the horde, and ordered me to save—if I were sure that joy wouldn’t kill you—for beyond Yampol we found—but since the priest—”
Skshetuski began to look at the youth, and to open and shut his eyes like a man waking from sleep. Suddenly it seemed as though something had broken within him, for he grew pale, sat up in the bed, and cried with a thundering voice: “Who was with you?”
“My master, my master!” called the youth, struck with the change that had come on the face of the knight.
“Who was with you?” cried Skshetuski; and seizing Jendzian by the shoulder, he shook him, began himself to tremble as in a fever, and press the youth in his iron hands.
“I’ll tell anyhow,” shouted Jendzian, “let the priest do what he likes. The princess was with us, and she is now with Pani Vitovska.”
Pan Yan grew rigid; he closed his eyes, and his head fell heavily on the pillow.
“Help!” cried Jendzian. “Surely, my master, you have breathed your last. Help! What have I done? Better I had been silent. Oh, for God’s sake! my master, dearest master, but speak! For God’s sake! the priest was right. My master, my master!”
“Oh, this is nothing!” said Skshetuski at length. “Where is she?”
“Praise be to God that you have revived! Better for me to say nothing. She is with Pani Vitovska; you will soon see them here. Praise be to God, my master! only don’t die; you will see them soon. The priest gave her to Pani Vitovska for safe keeping, because there are libertines in the army. Bogun respected her, but misfortune is easily found. I had a world of trouble; but I told the soldiers, ‘She is a relative of Prince Yeremi,’ and they respected her. I had to give away no small money on the road.”
Skshetuski lay motionless again; but his eyes were open, turned to the ceiling, and his face very serious. It was evident he was praying. When he had finished, he sprang up, sat on the bed, and said: “Give me my clothes, and have the horse saddled.”
“If you knew, my master, what a plenty of everything there is; for the king before going gave much, and others gave. And there are three splendid horses in the stable—if I only had one like them—but you would better lie and rest a little, for you have no strength yet.”
“There is nothing the matter with me. I can sit on a horse. In the name of the living God, make haste!”
“I know that your body is of iron; let it be as you say! But defend me from the priest! Here are your clothes; better cannot be had from the Armenian merchants. You can choose, and I’ll tell them to bring wine, for I told the priest’s servant to heat some.”
Jendzian occupied himself with the food, and Skshetuski began to put on hastily the clothes presented by the king and others. But from time to time he seized the youth by the shoulders and pressed him to his bosom. Jendzian told him everything from the beginning,—how Bogun, stricken down by Volodyovski, but already partly recovered, had met him in Vlodava, and how he had learned of the princess from him, and received the baton; how he had gone subsequently with Volodyovski and Zagloba to Valadinka, and having killed the witch and Cheremís, had taken away the princess; and finally, what peril they were in while fleeing before the forces of Burlai.
“Pan Zagloba killed Burlai,” interrupted Skshetuski, feverishly.
“He is a valiant man,” answered Jendzian. “I have never seen his equal; for one is brave, another eloquent, a third cunning, but all these are sitting together in Zagloba. But the worst of all that happened was in those woods behind Ploskiri, when the horde pursued us. Pan Volodyovski with Zagloba remained behind to attract them and stop the pursuit, I rushed off sidewise toward Konstantinoff, leaving Zbaraj; for I thought this way,—that after they had killed the little man and Zagloba they would pursue us to Zbaraj. Indeed, I don’t know how the Lord in his mercy rescued the little man and Pan Zagloba. I thought they were cut to pieces. Meanwhile I with the princess slipped through between Hmelnitski, who was marching from Konstantinoff, and Zbaraj, to which the Tartars were marching.”
“They did not go there, for Pan Kushel stopped them. But hurry!”
“Yes, if I had known that! But I did not know it; therefore I pressed through with the princess between the Tartars and the Cossacks, as through a defile. Happily the country was empty; nowhere did we meet a living man, neither in the villages nor in the towns, for all had fled, each where he could, before the Tartars. But my soul was sitting on my shoulders from terror, lest that should catch me which I did not escape in the end.”
Skshetuski stopped dressing and asked: “What was that?”
“This, my master. I came upon the division of the Cossack Donyéts, brother of that Horpyna with whom the princess was lodged in the ravine. Fortunately I knew him well, for he saw me with Bogun. I brought him a greeting from his sister, showed him Bogun’s baton, and told him all, how Bogun had sent me for the lady, and how he was waiting for me beyond Vlodava. But being Bogun’s friend, he knew that his sister had been guarding the lady. As a matter of course, I thought he would let me go and give me provisions and money for the road; but, said he: ‘Ahead there the general militia is assembling; you’ll fall into the hands of the Poles. Stay with me. We’ll go to Hmelnitski, to his camp; there the girl will be safest of all, for there Hmelnitski himself will take care of her for Bogun.’ When he told me this I thought I should die, for what could I say to it? I said then: ‘Bogun is waiting for me, and my life depends on bringing her at once.’ But he said: ‘We’ll tell Bogun; but don’t you go, for the Poles are on that side.’ Then I began to dispute, and he disputed, till
at last he said: ‘It is a wonder to me that you are afraid to go among the Cossacks. Ho! ho! are you not a traitor?’ Then I saw there was no other help but to slip away by night, for he had already begun to suspect me. Seven sweats came out on me, my master. I had prepared everything for the road, when Pan Pelka, from the armies of the king, fell upon us that night.”
“Pan Pelka?” asked Pan Yan, holding his breath.
“Yes, my master. A splendid partisan,—Pan Pelka, who was killed the other day. May the Lord light his soul! I don’t know whether there is any one who could lead a detachment better and creep up to the enemy better than he, unless Volodyovski alone. Pan Pelka came then, and cut up the detachment of Donyéts so that not a foot got away. They took Donyéts himself prisoner. They drew him on a stake with oxen a couple of weeks ago,—served him right! But with Pan Pelka I had trouble not a little, for he was a man desperately intent on the virtue of women,—God light his soul! I was afraid that the princess, who had escaped harm from the Cossacks, would be worse treated by her own. But I told Pan Pelka that the lady was a relative of our prince. And I must tell you that he, whenever he mentioned our prince, removed his hat, and was always preparing to enter his service. He respected the princess therefore, and conducted us to Zamost to the king; and there the priest Tsetsishovski—he is a very holy priest, my master—took us in care, and gave the lady to Pani Vitovska, wife of the castellan of Sandomir.”
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