Henryk Sienkiewicz

Ogniem i mieczem

With Fire and Sword

Książka w dwóch wersjach językowych: polskiej i angielskiej
A dual Polish-English language edition

From English into Polish translated by Jeremiah Curtin

Armoryka

Sandomierz

Projekt okładki: Juliusz Susak 

Na okładce: Józef Brandt (1841-1915), Obóz Zaporożców - Zaporizhian Camp (circa 1880),

(licencja public domain), źródło: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Brandt_Zaporizhian_Camp.jpg
(This file has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights). 

Copyright © 2014 by Wydawnictwo „Armoryka”

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ISBN 978-83-7950-180-9

Ogniem i mieczem

Tom I

Rozdział I

Rok 1647 był to dziwny rok, w którym rozmaite znaki na niebie i ziemi zwiastowały jakoweś klęski i nadzwyczajne zdarzenia.

Współcześni kronikarze wspominają, iż z wiosny szarańcza w niesłychanej ilości wyroiła się z Dzikich Pól i zniszczyła zasiewy i trawy, co było przepowiednią napadów tatarskich. Latem zdarzyło się wielkie zaćmienie słońca, a wkrótce potem kometa pojawiła się na niebie. W Warszawie widywano też nad miastem mogiłę i krzyż ognisty w obłokach; odprawiano więc posty i dawano jałmużny, gdyż niektórzy twierdzili, że zaraza spadnie na kraj i wygubi rodzaj ludzki. Nareszcie zima nastała tak lekka, że najstarsi ludzie nie pamiętali podobnej. W południowych województwach lody nie popętały wcale wód, które podsycane topniejącym każdego ranka śniegiem wystąpiły z łożysk i pozalewały brzegi. Padały częste deszcze. Step rozmókł i zmienił się w wielką kałużę, słońce zaś w południe dogrzewało tak mocno, że — dziw nad dziwy! — w województwie bracławskim i na Dzikich Polach zielona ruń okryła stepy i rozłogi już w połowie grudnia. Roje po pasiekach poczęły się burzyć i huczeć, bydło ryczało po zagrodach. Gdy więc tak porządek przyrodzenia zdawał się być wcale odwróconym, wszyscy na Rusi, oczekując niezwykłych zdarzeń, zwracali niespokojny umysł i oczy szczególniej ku Dzikim Polom, od których łatwiej niźli skądinąd mogło się ukazać niebezpieczeństwo.

Tymczasem na Polach nie działo się nic nadzwyczajnego i nie było innych walk i potyczek jak te, które się odprawiały tam zwykle, a o których wiedziały tylko orły, jastrzębie, kruki i zwierz polny.

Bo takie to już były te Pola. Ostatnie ślady osiadłego życia kończyły się, idąc ku południowi, niedaleko za Czehrynem od Dniepru, a od Dniestru — niedaleko za Humaniem, a potem już hen, ku limanom i morzu, step i step, w dwie rzeki jakby w ramę ujęty. Na łuku Dnieprowym, na Niżu, wrzało jeszcze kozacze życie za porohami, ale w samych Polach nikt nie mieszkał i chyba po brzegach tkwiły gdzieniegdzie „polanki” jakoby wyspy wśród morza. Ziemia była de nomine Rzeczypospolitej, ale pustynna, na której pastwisk Rzeczpospolita Tatarom pozwalała, wszakże gdy Kozacy często bronili, więc to pastwisko było i pobojowiskiem zarazem.

Ile tam walk stoczono, ilu ludzi legło, nikt nie zliczył, nikt nie spamiętał. Orły, jastrzębie i kruki jedne wiedziały, a kto z daleka dosłyszał szum skrzydeł i krakanie, kto ujrzał wiry ptasie nad jednym kołujące miejscem, to wiedział, że tam trupy lub kości niepogrzebione leżą… Polowano w trawach na ludzi jakby na wilki lub suhaki. Polował, kto chciał. Człek prawem ścigany chronił się w dzikie stepy, orężny pasterz trzód strzegł, rycerz przygód tam szukał, łotrzyk łupu. Kozak Tatara, Tatar Kozaka. Bywało, że i całe watahy broniły trzód przed tłumami napastników. Step to był pusty i pełny zarazem, cichy i groźny, spokojny i pełen zasadzek, dziki od Dzikich Pól, ale i od dzikich dusz.

Czasem też napełniała go wielka wojna. Wówczas płynęły po nim jak fale czambuły tatarskie, pułki kozackie, to chorągwie polskie lub wołoskie; nocami rżenie koni wtórowało wyciom wilków, głos kotłów i trąb mosiężnych leciał aż do Owidowego jeziora i ku morzu, a na Czarnym Szlaku, na Kuczmańskim — rzekłbyś: powódź ludzka.Granic Rzeczypospolitej strzegły od Kamieńca aż do Dniepru stanice, „polanki” i — gdy szlaki miały się zaroić, poznawano właśnie po niezliczonych stadach ptactwa, które, płoszone przez czambuły, leciały na północ. Ale Tatar, byle wychylił się z Czarnego Lasu lub Dniestr przebył od strony wołoskiej, to stepem równo z ptakami stawał w południowych województwach.

Wszelako zimy owej ptactwo nie ciągnęło z wrzaskiem ku Rzeczypospolitej. Na stepie było ciszej niż zwykle. W chwili gdy rozpoczyna się powieść nasza, słońce zachodziło właśnie, a czerwonawe jego promienie rozświecały okolicę pustą zupełnie. Na północnym krańcu Dzikich Pól, nad Omelniczkiem, aż do jego ujścia, najbystrzejszy wzrok nie mógłby odkryć jednej żywej duszy ani nawet żadnego ruchu w ciemnych, zeschniętych i zwiędłych burzanach. Słońce połową tylko tarczy wyglądało jeszcze zza widnokręgu. Niebo było już ciemne, a potem i step z wolna mroczył się coraz bardziej. Na lewym brzegu, na niewielkiej wyniosłości podobniejszej do mogiły niż do wzgórza, świeciły tylko resztki murowanej stanicy, którą niegdyś jeszcze Teodoryk Buczacki wystawił, a którą potem napady starły. Od ruiny owej padał długi cień. Opodal świeciły wody szeroko rozlanego Omelniczka, który w tym miejscu skręca się ku Dnieprowi. Ale blaski gasły coraz bardziej na niebie i na ziemi. Z nieba dochodziły tylko klangory żurawi ciągnących ku morzu; zresztą ciszy nie przerywał żaden głos.

Noc zapadła nad pustynią, a z nią nastała godzina duchów. Czuwający w stanicach rycerze opowiadali sobie w owych czasach, że nocami wstają na Dzikich Polach cienie poległych, którzy zeszli tam nagłą śmiercią w grzechu, i odprawują swoje korowody, w czym im żaden krzyż ani kościół nie przeszkadza. Toteż gdy sznury wskazujące północ poczynały się dopalać, odmawiano po stanicach modlitwy za umarłych. Mówiono także, że one cienie jeźdźców, snując się po pustyni, zastępują drogę podróżnym, jęcząc i prosząc o znak krzyża świętego. Między nimi trafiały się upiory, które goniły za ludźmi, wyjąc. Wprawne ucho z daleka już rozeznawało wycie upiorów od wilczego. Widywano również całe wojska cieniów, które czasem przybliżały się tak do stanic, że straże grały larum. Zapowiadało to zwykle wielką wojnę. Spotkanie pojedynczych cieniów nie znaczyło również nic dobrego, ale nie zawsze należało sobie źle wróżyć, bo i człek żywy zjawiał się nieraz i niknął jak cień przed podróżnymi, dlatego często i snadnie za ducha mógł być poczytanym.

Skoro więc noc zapadła nad Omelniczkiem, nie było w tym nic dziwnego, że zaraz koło opustoszałej stanicy pojawił się duch czy człowiek. Miesiąc wychynął właśnie zza Dniepru i obielił pustkę, głowy bodiaków i dal stepową. Wtem niżej na stepie ukazały się inne jakieś nocne istoty. Przelatujące chmurki przesłaniały co chwila blask księżyca, więc owe postacie to wybłyskiwały z cienia, to znowu gasły. Chwilami nikły zupełnie i zdawały się topnieć w cieniu. Posuwając się ku wyniosłości, na której stał pierwszy jeździec, skradały się cicho, ostrożnie, z wolna, zatrzymując się co chwila.

W ruchach ich było coś przerażającego, jak i w całym tym stepie, tak spokojnym na pozór. Wiatr chwilami podmuchiwał od Dniepru sprawując żałosny szelest w zeschłych bodiakach, które pochylały się i trzęsły, jakby przerażone. Na koniec postacie znikły, schroniły się w cień ruiny. W bladym świetle nocy widać było tylko jednego jeźdźca stojącego na wyniosłości.

Wreszcie szelest ów zwrócił jego uwagę. Zbliżywszy się do skraju wzgórza począł wpatrywać się w step uważnie. W tej chwili wiatr przestał wiać, szelest ustał i zrobiła się cisza zupełna.

Nagle dał się słyszeć przeraźliwy świst. Zmieszane głosy poczęły wrzeszczeć przeraźliwie: „Hałła! Hałła! Jezu Chryste! ratuj! bij!” Rozległ się huk samopałów, czerwone światła rozdarły ciemności. Tętent koni zmieszał się ze szczękiem żelaza. Nowi jacyś jeźdźce wyrośli jakby spod ziemi na stepie. Rzekłbyś: burza zawrzała nagle w tej cichej, złowrogiej pustyni. Potem jęki ludzkie zawtórowały wrzaskom strasznym, wreszcie ucichło wszystko: walka była skończona.

Widocznie rozegrywała się jedna ze zwykłych scen na Dzikich Polach.

Jeźdźcy zgrupowali się na wyniosłości, niektórzy pozsiadali z koni, przypatrując się czemuś pilnie.

Wtem w ciemnościach ozwał się silny i rozkazujący głos:

— Hej tam! skrzesać ognia i zapalić!

Po chwili posypały się naprzód iskry, a potem buchnął płomień suchych oczeretów i łuczywa, które podróżujący przez Dzikie Pola wozili zawsze ze sobą.

Wnet wbito w ziemię drąg od kaganka i jaskrawe, padające z góry światło oświeciło wyraźnie kilkunastu ludzi pochylonych nad jakąś postacią leżącą bez ruchu na ziemi.

Byli to żołnierze ubrani w barwę czerwoną, dworską, i w wilcze kapuzy. Z tych jeden, siedzący na dzielnym koniu, zdawał się reszcie przewodzić. Zsiadłszy z konia zbliżył się do owej leżącej postaci i spytał:

— A co, wachmistrzu? żyje czy nie żyje?

— Żyje, panie namiestniku, ale charcze; arkan go zdławił.

— Co zacz jest?

— Nie Tatar, znaczny ktoś.

— To i Bogu dziękować.

Tu namiestnik popatrzył uważnie na leżącego męża.

— Coś jakby hetman — rzekł.

— I koń pod nim tatar zacny, jak lepszego u chana nie znaleźć— odpowiedział wachmistrz. — A ot, tam go trzymają.

Porucznik spojrzał i twarz mu się rozjaśniła. Obok dwóch szeregowych trzymało rzeczywiście dzielnego rumaka, który tuląc uszy i rozdymając chrapy wyciągał głowę i poglądał przerażonymi oczyma na swego pana.

— Ale koń, panie namiestniku, będzie nasz? — wtrącił tonem pytania wachmistrz.

— A ty, psiawiaro, chciałbyś chrześcijanowi konia w stepie odjąć?

— Bo zdobyczny…

Dalszą rozmowę przerwało silniejsze chrapanie zduszonego męża.

— Wlać mu gorzałki w gębę — rzekł pan namiestnik — pas odpiąć.

— Czy zostaniemy tu na nocleg?

— Tak jest, konie rozkulbaczyć, stos zapalić.

Żołnierze skoczyli co żywo. Jedni poczęli cucić i rozcierać leżącego, drudzy ruszyli po oczerety, inni rozesłali na ziemi skóry wielbłądzie i niedźwiedzie na nocleg.

Pan namiestnik, nie troszcząc się więcej o zduszonego męża, odpiął pas i rozciągnął się na burce przy ognisku. Był to młody jeszcze bardzo człowiek, suchy, czarniawy, wielce przystojny, ze szczupłą twarzą i wydatnym orlim nosem. W oczach jego malowała się okrutna fantazja i zadzierżystość, ale w obliczu miał wyraz uczciwy. Wąs dość obfity i niegolona widocznie od dawna broda dodawały mu nad wiek powagi.

Tymczasem dwaj pachołkowie zajęli się przyrządzaniem wieczerzy. Położono na ogniu gotowe ćwierci baranie; zdjęto też z koni kilka dropiów upolowanych w czasie dnia, kilka pardew i jednego suhaka, którego pachoł wnet zaczął obłupywać ze skóry. Stos płonął, rzucając na step ogromne, czerwone koło światła. Zduszony człowiek począł z wolna przychodzić do siebie.

Przez czas jakiś wodził nabiegłymi krwią oczyma po obcych, badając ich twarze; następnie usiłował powstać. Żołnierz, który poprzednio rozmawiał z namiestnikiem, dźwignął go w górę pod pachy; drugi włożył mu obuszek w dłoń, na którym nieznajomy wsparł się z całej siły. Twarz jego była jeszcze czerwona, żyły jej nabrzmiałe. Na koniec przyduszonym głosem wykrztusił pierwszy wyraz:

— Wody!

Podano mu gorzałki, którą pił i pił, co mu widocznie dobrze zrobiło, bo odjąwszy wreszcie flaszę od ust, czystszym już głosem spytał:

— W czyich jestem ręku?

Namiestnik powstał i zbliżył się ku niemu.

— W ręku tych, co waści salwowali.

— Przeto nie waszmościowie schwycili mnie na arkan?

— Mosanie, nasza rzecz szabla, nie arkan. Krzywdzisz waść dobrych żołnierzów podejrzeniem. Złapali cię jakowiś łotrzykowie udający Tatarów, których jeśliś ciekaw, oglądać możesz, bo oto leżą tam porżnięci jak barany.

To mówiąc wskazał ręką na kilka ciemnych ciał leżących poniżej wyniosłości.

A nieznajomy na to:

— To pozwólcie mi spocząć.

Podłożono mu wojłokową kulbakę, na której siadł i pogrążył się w milczeniu.

Był to mąż w sile wieku, średniego wzrostu, szerokich ramion, prawie olbrzymiej budowy ciała i uderzających rysów. Głowę miał ogromną, cerę zawiędłą, bardzo ogorzałą, oczy czarne i nieco ukośne jak u Tatara, a nad wąskimi ustami zwieszał mu się cienki wąs rozchodzący się dopiero przy końcach w dwie szerokie kiście. Twarz jego potężna zwiastowała odwagę i dumę. Było w niej coś pociągającego i odpychającego zarazem — powaga hetmańska ożeniona z tatarską chytrością, dobrotliwość i dzikość.

Posiedziawszy nieco na kulbace, wstał i nad wszelkie spodziewanie, zamiast dziękować, poszedł oglądać trupy.

— Prostak! — mruknął namiestnik.

Nieznajomy tymczasem przypatrywał się uważnie każdej twarzy kiwając głową jak człowiek, który odgadł wszystko, po czym wracał z wolna do namiestnika, klepiąc się po bokach i szukając mimowolnie pasa, za który widocznie chciał zatknąć rękę.

Nie podobała się młodemu namiestnikowi ta powaga w człeku oderżniętym przed chwilą od powroza, więc rzekł z przekąsem:

— Rzekłby kto, że wasze znajomych szukasz między owymi łotrzykami albo że pacierz za ich duszę odmawiasz.

Nieznajomy odparł z powagą:

— I nie mylisz się waść, i mylisz: nie mylisz się, bom szukał znajomych, a mylisz się, bo to nie łotrzykowie, jeno słudzy pewnego szlachcica, mego sąsiada.

— Tedy widocznie nie z jednej studni pijacie z onym sąsiadem.

Dziwny jakiś uśmiech przeleciał po cienkich wargach nieznajomego.

— I w tym się waść mylisz — mruknął przez zęby.

Po chwili dodał głośniej:

— Ale wybacz waszmość pan, żem mu naprzód powinnej nie złożył dzięki za auxilium i skuteczny ratunek, który mnie od tak nagłej śmierci wybawił. Waści męstwo stanęło za moją nieostrożność, bom się od ludzi swoich odłączył, ale też wdzięczność moja dorównywa waszmościnej ochocie.

To rzekłszy wyciągnął ku namiestnikowi rękę.

Ale butny młodzieńczyk nie ruszył się z miejsca i nie spieszył z podaniem swojej; natomiast rzekł:

— Chciałbym naprzód wiedzieć, jeżeli ze szlachcicem mam sprawę, bo chociaż o tym nie wątpię, jednakże bezimiennych podzięków przyjmować mi się nie godzi.

— Widzę w waszmości prawdziwie kawalerską fantazję — i słusznie mówisz. Powinienem był zacząć od nazwiska mój dyskurs i moją podziękę. Jestem Zenobi Abdank, herbu Abdank z krzyżykiem, szlachcic z województwa kijowskiego, osiadły i pułkownik kozackiej chorągwi księcia Dominika Zasławskiego.

— A ja Jan Skrzetuski, namiestnik chorągwi pancernej J. O. księcia Jeremiego Wiśniowieckiego.

— Pod sławnym wojownikiem waść służysz. Przyjmże teraz moją wdzięczność i rękę.

Namiestnik nie wahał się dłużej. Towarzysze pancerni z góry wprawdzie patrzyli na żołnierzy spod innych chorągwi, ale pan Skrzetuski był na stepie, na Dzikich Polach, gdzie takie rzeczy mniej szły pod uwagę. Zresztą miał do czynienia z pułkownikiem, o czym zaraz naocznie się przekonał, bo gdy jego żołnierze przynieśli panu Abdankowi pas i szablę, i krótki buzdygan, z których go rozpasano dla cucenia, podali mu zarazem i krótką buławę o osadzie z kości, o głowie ze ślinowatego rogu, jakich zażywali zwykle pułkownicy kozaccy. Przy tym ubiór imci Zenobiego Abdanka był dostatni, a mowa kształtna znamionowała umysł bystry i otarcie się w świecie.

Więc pan Skrzetuski zaprosił go do kompanii. Zapach pieczonych mięs jął właśnie rozchodzić się od stosu, łechcąc nozdrza i podniebienie. Pachoł wydobył je z żaru i podał na latercynowej misie. Poczęli jeść, a gdy przyniesiono spory worek mołdawskiego wina uszyty z koźlej skóry, wnet zawiązała się żywa rozmowa.

— Oby nam się szczęśliwie do domu wróciło! — rzekł pan Skrzetuski.

— To waszmość wracasz? skądże, proszę? — spytał Abdank.

— Z daleka, bo z Krymu.

— A cóżeś waszmość tam robił? z wykupnym jeździłeś?

— Nie, mości pułkowniku; jeździłem do samego chana.

Abdank nastawił ciekawie ucha.

— Ano to, proszę, w piękną waść wszedłeś komitywę! I z czymże do chana jeździłeś?

— Z listem J. O. księcia Jeremiego.

— To waść posłował! O cóż jegomość książę do chana pisał?

Namiestnik popatrzył bystro na towarzysza.

— Mości pułkowniku — rzekł — zaglądałeś w oczy łotrzykom, którzy cię na arkan ujęli — to twoja sprawa, ale co książę do chana pisał, to ani twoja, ani moja, jeno ich obydwóch.

— Dziwiłem się przed chwilą — odparł chytrze Abdank — że jegomość książę tak młodego człowieka posłem sobie do chana obrał, ale po waścinej odpowiedzi już się nie dziwię, bo widzę, żeś młody laty, ale stary eksperiencją i rozumem.

Namiestnik połknął gładko pochlebne słówko, pokręcił tylko młodego wąsa i pytał:

— A powiedzże mi waszmość, co porabiasz nad Omelniczkiem i jakeś się tu wziął sam jeden?

— Nie jestem sam jeden, jenom ludzi zostawił po drodze, a jadę do Kudaku, do pana Grodzickiego, któren tam jest przełożonym nad prezydium i do którego jegomość hetman wielki wysłał mnie z listami.

— A czemu waść nie bajdakiem, wodą?

— Taki był ordynans, od którego odstąpić mi się nie godzi.

— To dziw, że jegomość hetman taki wydał ordynans, gdyż właśnie na stepie w tak ciężkie popadłeś terminy, których wodą jadąc, pewno byłbyś uniknął.

— Mosanie, stepy teraz spokojne; znam ja się z nimi nie od dziś, a to, co mnie spotkało, to jest złość ludzka i invidia.

— I któż to na jegomości tak nastaje?

— Długo by gadać. Sąsiad to zły, mości namiestniku, który substancję mi zniszczył, z włości mnie ruguje, syna mi zbił — i ot — widziałeś waść, tu jeszcze na szyję moją nastawał.

— A to waść nie nosisz szabli przy boku?

W potężnej twarzy Abdanka zabłysła nienawiść, oczy zaświeciły mu posępnie i odrzekł z wolna a dobitnie:

— Noszę, i tak mi dopomóż Bóg, jako innych rekursów przeciw wrogom moim szukać już nie będę.

Porucznik chciał coś mówić, gdy nagle na stepie rozległ się tętent koni, a raczej pośpieszne chlupotanie końskich nóg po rozmiękłej trawie. Wnet też i czeladnik namiestnika, trzymający straż, nadbiegł z wieścią, że jakowiś ludzie się zbliżają.

— To pewnie moi — rzekł Abdank — którzy zaraz za Taśminą zostali. Jam też, nie spodziewając się zdrady, tu na nich czekać obiecał.

Jakoż po chwili gromada jeźdźców otoczyła półokręgiem wzgórze. Przy blasku ognia ukazały się głowy końskie z otwartymi chrapami, prychające ze zmęczenia, a nad nimi pochylone twarze jeźdźców, którzy przysłaniając rękoma od blasku oczy patrzyli bystro w światło.

— Hej, ludzie! kto wy? — spytał Abdank.

— Raby boże! — odpowiedziały głosy z ciemności.

— Tak, to moi mołojce — powtórzył Abdank zwracając się do namiestnika. — Bywajcie! bywajcie!

Niektórzy zeszli z koni i zbliżyli się do ognia.

— A my śpieszyli, śpieszyli, bat'ku. Szczo z toboju?

— Zasadzka była. Chwedko, zdrajca, wiedział o miejscu i tu już czekał z innymi. Musiał podążyć dobrze przede mną. Na arkan mnie ujęli!

— Spasi Bih! spasi Bih! A to co za Laszek koło ciebie?

Tak mówiąc spoglądali groźnie na pana Skrzetuskiego i jego towarzyszów.

— To druhy dobre — rzekł Abdank. — Sława Bogu, całym i żyw. Zaraz będziemy ruszać dalej.

— Sława Bogu! my gotowi.

Nowo przybyli poczęli rozgrzewać dłonie nad ogniem, bo noc była zimna, choć pogodna. Było ich do czterdziestu ludzi rosłych i dobrze zbrojnych. Nie wyglądali wcale na Kozaków regestrowych, co nie pomału zdziwiło pana Skrzetuskiego, zwłaszcza że była ich garść tak spora. Wszystko to wydało się namiestnikowi mocno podejrzane. Gdyby hetman wielki wysłał imci Abdanka do Kudaku, dałby mu przecie straże z regestrowych, a po wtóre, z jakiejże by racji kazał mu iść stepem od Czehryna, nie wodą? Konieczność przeprawiania się przez wszystkie rzeki idące Dzikimi Polami do Dniepru mogła tylko pochód opóźnić. Wyglądało to raczej tak, jakby imć pan Abdank chciał właśnie Kudak ominąć.

Ale zarówno i sama osoba pana Abdanka zastanawiała wielce młodego namiestnika. Zauważył wraz, że Kozacy, którzy ze swymi pułkownikami obchodzili się dość poufale, jego otaczali czcią niezwyczajną, jakby prawego hetmana. Musiał to być jakiś rycerz dużej ręki, co tym dziwniejsze było panu Skrzetuskiemu, że znając Ukrainę i z tej, i z tamtej strony Dniepru, o takim przesławnym Abdanku nic nie słyszał. Było przy tym w twarzy tego męża coś szczególnego — jakaś moc utajona, która tak biła z oblicza, jak żar od płomienia, jakaś wola nieugięta, znamionująca, że człek ten przed nikim i niczym się nie cofnie. Taką właśnie wolę w obliczu miał książę Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, ale co w księciu było przyrodzonym natury darem, właściwym wielkiemu urodzeniu i władzy, to mogło zastanowić w mężu nieznanego nazwiska, zabłąkanym w głuchym stepie.

Pan Skrzetuski długo deliberował. Chodziło mu po głowie, że to może jaki potężny banita, który, wyrokiem ścigany, chronił się w Dzikie Pola — to znów, że to watażka watahy zbójeckiej; ale to ostatnie nie było prawdopodobne. I ubiór, i mowa tego człowieka pokazywały co innego. Zgoła więc nie wiedział namiestnik, czego się trzymać, miał się tylko na baczności, a tymczasem Abdank kazał konia sobie podawać.

— Mości namiestniku — rzekł — komu w drogę, temu czas. Pozwólże podziękować sobie raz jeszcze za ratunek. Oby Bóg pozwolił mi odpłacić ci równą usługą!

— Nie wiedziałem, kogo ratuję, przetom i na wdzięczność nie zasłużył.

— Modestia to twoja tak mówi, która jest męstwu równa. Przyjmijże ode mnie ten pierścień.

Namiestnik zmarszczył się i krok w tył odstąpił mierząc oczyma Abdanka, ten zaś mówił dalej z ojcowską niemal powagą w głosie i postawie:

— Spojrzyj jeno. Nie bogactwo tego pierścienia, ale inne cnoty ci zalecam. Za młodych jeszcze lat w bisurmańskiej niewoli będąc dostałem go od pątnika, który z Ziemi Świętej powracał. W tym oczku zamknięty jest proch z grobu Chrystusa. Takiego daru odmawiać się nie godzi, choćby i z osądzonych rąk pochodził. Jesteś waść młodym człowiekiem i żołnierzem, a gdy nawet i starość bliska grobu nie wie, co ją przed ostateczną godziną spotkać może, cóż dopiero adolescencja, która mając przed sobą wiek długi, na większą liczbę przygód trafić musi! Pierścień ten ustrzeże cię od przygody i obroni, gdy dzień sądu nadejdzie, a to ci powiadam, że dzień ten idzie już przez Dzikie Pola.

Nastała chwila ciszy; słychać było tylko syczenie płomienia i parskanie koni.

Z dalekich oczeretów dochodziło żałosne wycie wilków. Nagle Abdank powtórzył raz jeszcze, jakby do siebie:

— Dzień sądu idzie już przez Dzikie Pola, a gdy nadejdzie — zadywytsia wsij swit bożyj…

Namiestnik przyjął pierścień machinalnie, tak był zdumiony słowami tego dziwnego męża.

A ten zapatrzył się w dal stepową, ciemną.

Potem zwrócił się z wolna i siadł na koń. Mołojcy jego czekali już u stóp wzgórza.

— W drogę! w drogę!… Bywaj zdrów, druhu żołnierzu! — rzekł do namiestnika. — Czasy teraz takie, że brat bratu nie ufa, przeto i nie wiesz, kogoś ocalił, bom ci nazwiska swego nie powiedział.

— Więc waść nie Abdank?

— To klejnot mój…

— A nazwisko?

— Bohdan Zenobi Chmielnicki.

To rzekłszy zjechał ze wzgórza, a za nim ruszyli mołojcy. Wkrótce okryły ich tuman i noc. Dopiero gdy odjechali już z pół stajania, wiatr przyniósł od nich słowa kozackiej pieśni:

Oj wyzwoły, Boże, nas wsich, bidnych newilnykiw,

Z tiażkoj newoli,

Z wiry bisurmanskoj —

Na jasni zori,

Na tychi wody,

U kraj wesełyj,

U mir chreszczennyj —

Wysłuchaj, Boże, u prośbach naszych,

U neszczasnych mołytwach,

Nas bidnych newilnykiw.

Głosy cichły z wolna, potem stopiły się z powiewem szumiącym po oczeretach.

Ogniem i mieczem

Tom II

Rozdział I

Pewnej pogodnej nocy na prawym brzegu Waładynki posuwał się w kierunku Dniestru orszak jeźdźców złożony z kilkunastu ludzi.

Szli bardzo wolno, prawie noga za nogą. Na samym przedzie, o kilkadziesiąt kroków przed innymi, jechało dwóch jakoby w przedniej straży, ale widocznie nie mieli żadnego do strażowania i czujności powodu, bo przez cały czas rozmawiali ze sobą, zamiast dawać baczenie na okolicę — i zatrzymując co chwila konie, oglądali się na resztę orszaku, a wówczas jeden z nich wołał:

— Pomału tam! pomału!

I orszak zwalniał jeszcze kroku, zaledwie posuwając się naprzód.

Na koniec wysunąwszy się zza wzgórza, które osłaniało go swym cieniem, orszak ów wszedł na przestwór oblany światłem księżyca i wtedy to można było zrozumieć ostrożność pochodu: oto w środku karawany idące obok siebie dwa konie dźwigały przywiązaną do siodełek kołyskę, w kołysce zaś leżała jakaś postać.

Srebrne promienie oświecały bladą jej twarz i zamknięte oczy.

Za kołyską jechało dziesięciu zbrojnych. Po spisach bez proporców można w nich było poznać Kozaków. Niektórzy prowadzili konie juczne, inni jechali luzem, ale o ile dwaj jadący na przedzie zdawali się nie zwracać najmniejszej uwagi na okolicę, o tyle ci oglądali się niespokojnie i trwożliwie na wszystkie strony.

A jednak okolica zdawała się być zupełną pustynią.

Ciszę przerywały tylko uderzenia kopyt końskich i wołanie jednego z dwóch jadących na przedzie jeźdźców, który od czasu do czasu powtarzał swą przestrogę:

— Pomału! Ostrożnie!

Na koniec zwrócił się do swego towarzysza.

— Horpyna, daleko jeszcze? — spytał.

Towarzysz, którego zwano Horpyną, a który w istocie był przebraną po kozacku olbrzymią dziewką, popatrzył w gwieździste niebo i odrzekł:

— Niedaleko. Będziemy przed północą. Miniemy Wraże Uroczyszcze, miniemy Tatarski Rozłóg, a tam już zaraz Czortowy Jar. Oj! źle by tam przejeżdżać po północku, nim kur zapieje. Mnie można, ale wam źle by było, źle! — Pierwszy jeździec wzruszył ramionami.

— Wiem ja — rzekł — że tobie czort bratem, ale na czorta są sposoby.

— Czort nie czort, a sposobu nie ma — odparła Horpyna. — Żeby ty, sokole, na całym świecie schowania dla swojej kniaziówny szukał, to by ty lepszego nie znalazł. Już i tędy nikt po północku nie przejdzie, chyba ze mną, a w jarze jeszcze żywy człowiek nogi nie postawił. Chce kto wróżby, to przed jarem stoi i czeka, póki nie wyjdę. Nie bój ty się. Nie przyjdą tam ani Lachy, ani Tatary, ani nikt, nikt. Czortowy Jar straszny, sam zobaczysz.

— Niech sobie będzie straszny, a ja mówię, że przyjdę, ile razy zechcę.

— Byłeś w dzień przychodził.

— Kiedy zechcę. A stanie czort w poprzek, to za rogi wezmę.

— Eh, Bohun! Bohun!

— Ej, Dońcówna, Dońcówna! ty się o mnie nie troszcz. Weźmie mnie czort czy nie weźmie, to nie twoja sprawa, ale to ci powiadam: radź ty sobie ze swoimi czortami, jak chcesz, byle na kniaziównę bieda nie przyszła, bo jeśli jej się co stanie, to ciebie z moich rąk ni czorty, ni upiory nie wydrą.

— Raz mnie już topili, jeszcze jak my nad Donem z bratem mieszkali, drugi raz już mi w Jampolu mistrz głowę golił, a dlatego mi nic. Ale to inna rzecz. Ja z przyjaźni dla ciebie będę jej strzegła, by jej i włos na głowie od duchów nie spadł, a przed ludźmi u mnie bezpieczna. Już ci się ona nie wymknie.

— A ty, sowo! jeśli tak mówisz, to czemu ty mnie wróżyła na biedę, czemu ty mi hukała nad uchem: „Lach przy niej! Lach przy niej!”?

— To nie ja mówiła, to duchy. Ale się może zmieniło. Jutro ci powróżę na wodzie w kole młyńskim. Na wodzie wszystko dobrze widać, jeno trzeba długo patrzyć. Sam zobaczysz. Ale ty wściekły pies: powiedzieć ci prawdę, to się sierdzisz i za obuch łapiesz…

Rozmowa urwała się, słychać było tylko uderzenia kopyt o kamienie i jakieś głosy dochodzące od strony rzeki, podobne do sykania koników polnych.

Bohun nie zwrócił najmniejszej uwagi na owe głosy, które jednak wśród nocy mogły dziwić — podniósł twarz ku księżycowi i zamyślił się głęboko.

— Horpyna — rzekł po chwili.

— Czego?

— Ty czarownica, ty musisz wiedzieć: czy prawda, że jest takie ziele, że jak się go kto napije, to musi pokochać? Lubystka czy jak?

— Lubystka. Ale na twoją biedę nic i lubystka nie poradzi. Jeśliby kniaziówna innego nie kochała, to tylko dać jej się napić, ale jeśli kocha, to wiesz, co się stanie?

— Co?

— To jeszcze bardziej tego innego pokocha.

— Przepadnijże ty ze swoją lubystką! Umiesz ty źle wróżyć, a poradzić nie umiesz.

— To słuchaj: znam ja inne ziele, co w ziemi rośnie. Kto się go napije, dwa dni i dwie noce jak pień leży, o świecie nie wie. Tego ja jej ziela dam — a potem…

Kozak zatrząsł się na siodle i utkwił w czarownicy swe świecące w ciemności oczy.

— Co ty kraczesz? — spytał.

— Taj hodi! — zawołała wiedźma i wybuchnęła ogromnym, podobnym do rżenia klaczy, śmiechem.

Śmiech ów rozległ się złowrogim echem w rozpadlinach jarów.

— Suko! — rzekł watażka.

Po czym oczy jego gasły stopniowo, popadał znów w zamyślenie, na koniec począł mówić, jakby sam do siebie:

— Nie, nie! Kiedy my Bar brali, ja pierwszy wpadł do klasztoru, by jej przed pijanicami bronić i łeb strzaskać każdemu, kto by się jej dotknął, a ona się nożem pchnęła — i teraz o bożym świecie nie wie. Dotknę jej ręką, to się znów pchnie albo do rzeki skoczy, nie upilnujesz, nieszczęsny!

— Ty w duszy Lach, nie Kozak, kiedy po kozacku nie chcesz dziewczyny zniewolić…

— Żeby ja był Lach! — Zawołał Bohun. — Żeby ja był Lach!

I za czapkę obu rękoma się chwycił, bo jego samego ból chwycił.

— Musiała cię urzec ta Laszka — mruknęła Horpyna.

— Ej, chyba urzekła! — odrzekł żałośnie. — Niechby mnie pierwsza kula nie minęła, niechbym na palu sobacze życie skończył… Jednej ja chcę na świecie i ta jedna mnie nie chce!

— Durny! — zawołała z gniewem Horpyna — toć ty ją masz!

— Stulże ty pysk! — zawołał z wściekłością Kozak. — A jak się ona zabije, to co? Ciebie rozerwę, siebie rozerwę, łeb o kamień rozbiję, ludzi będę gryzł jak pies! Ja by duszę za nią oddał, sławę kozacką oddał, uciekłby za Jahorlik hen! od pułków za świat, aby z nią, z nią żyć, przy niej zdychać… Ot, co! A ona się nożem pchnęła. I przez kogo? Przeze mnie! Nożem się pchnęła! Słyszysz?

— Nic jej nie będzie. Nie umrze.

— Jakby umarła, to ja by ciebie ćwiekami do drzwi przybił.

— Mocy ty żadnej nad nią nie masz.

— Nie mam, nie mam. Ja by wolał, żeby ona mnie nożem pchnęła; niechby i zabiła, byłoby lepiej.

— Głupia Laszka. Ot by po dobrej woli przyhołubiła się do ciebie. Gdzie lepszego znajdzie?

— Spraw ty to, a ja ci garnek dukatów nasypię, a pereł drugi. My w Barze wzięli łupu niemało i przedtem brali.

— Ty bogaty jak kniaź Jarema — i sławny. Ciebie, mówią, sam Krzywonos się boi.

Kozak ręką machnął.

— Co mnie z tego, koły serdcie bołyt…

I znowu zapadło milczenie. Brzeg rzeki stawał się coraz dzikszy, pustszy. Białe światło księżyca nadawało fantastyczne kształty drzewom i skałom. Na koniec Horpyna rzekła:

— Tu Wraże Uroczyszcze. Trzeba razem jechać.

— Czemu?

— Tu niedobrze.

Zatrzymali konie i po chwili orszak idący z tyłu złączył się z nimi.

Bohun wspiął się na strzemionach i zajrzał w kołyskę.

— Spyt? — spytał.

— Spyt — odpowiedział stary Kozak — sładko jak detyna.

— Ja jej na sen dała — odrzekła wiedźma.

— Pomału, ostorożno — mówił Bohun wlepiając oczy w uśpioną — szczoby wy jej nie rozbudyły. Misiac jej prosto w łyczko zahladaje, serdeńku mojemu.

— Tycho śwityt, ne rozbudyt — szepnął jeden z mołojców.

I orszak ruszył dalej. Wkrótce przybyli nad Wraże Uroczyszcze. Było to wzgórze leżące tuż przy rzece, niskie i obłe, jak leżąca na ziemi okrągła tarcza. Księżyc zalewał je zupełnie światłem, rozświecając białe, porozrzucane po całej jego przestrzeni kamienie. Gdzieniegdzie leżały one pojedynczo, gdzieniegdzie tworzyły kupy, jakoby szczątki jakichś budowli, zburzonych zamków i kościołów. Miejscami sterczały płyty kamienne pozasadzane końcem w ziemi na kształt nagrobków na cmentarzyskach. Całe wzgórze podobne było do jednego wielkiego rumowiska. I może niegdyś, dawno, za czasów Jagiełłowych, krzewiło się tu życie ludzkie; dziś wzgórze owo i cała okolica, aż po Raszków, była głuchą pustynią, w której gnieździł się tylko dziki zwierz, a nocami duchy przeklęte odprawiały swoje korowody.

Jakoż zaledwie orszak wspiął się do połowy wysokości wzgórza, trwający dotychczas lekki powiew zmienił się w prawdziwy wicher, który począł oblatywać wzgórze z jakimś posępnym, złowróżbnym świstem, i wówczas mołojcom wydało się, że między owymi rumowiskami odzywają się jakieś ciężkie westchnienia, jakby wychodzące z ugniecionych piersi, jakieś żałosne jęki, jakieś śmiechy, płacze i kwilenia dzieci. Całe wzgórze poczęło się ożywiać, wołać różnymi głosami. Zza kamieni zdawały się wyglądać wysokie, ciemne postacie; cienie dziwacznych kształtów prześlizgiwały się cicho między głazami; w dali, w pomroce błyskały jakieś światełka podobne do oczu wilczych; na koniec z drugiego końca wzgórza, spomiędzy najgęstszych kup i zawalisk, ozwało się niskie, gardłowe wycie, któremu zawtórowały zaraz inne.

— Siromachy? — szepnął młody Kozak zwracając się do starego esauła.

— Nie, to upiory — odpowiedział esauł jeszcze ciszej.

— O! Hospody pomyłuj! — zawołali z przerażeniem inni zdejmując czapki i żegnając się pobożnie.

Konie poczęły tulić uszy i chrapać. Horpyna jadąca na czele orszaku mruczała półgłosem niezrozumiałe słowa, jak gdyby pacierz diabelski. Dopiero gdy przybyli na drugi kraniec wzgórza, odwróciła się i rzekła:

— No, już. Tu już dobrze. Trzymać ja je musiała zaklęciem, bo bardzo głodne.

Westchnienie ulgi wyrwało się ze wszystkich piersi. Bohun z Horpyną wysunęli się znów naprzód, a mołojcy, którzy przed chwilą tłumili oddech, poczęli szeptać do siebie i rozmawiać. Każdy przypomniał sobie, co mu się kiedy z duchami lub upiorami przytrafiło.

— Żeby nie Horpyna, to my by nie przeszli — mówił jeden.

— Mocna wid'ma.

— A nasz ataman i did'ka ne boitsia. Nie patrzył, nie słuchał, jeno się na swoją mołodycię oglądał.

— Żeby jemu się to zdarzyło, co mnie, to by nie był taki bezpieczny — rzekł stary esauł.

— A co się wam zdarzyło, ojcze Owsiwuju?

— Jechał ja raz z Reimentarówki do Hulajpola, a jechał nocą koło mogił. Wtem baczu, hyc coś z tyłu z mogiły na kulbakę. Obejrzę się: dziecko — sineńkie, bladeńkie!… Widno Tatary z matką w jasyr prowadzili i umarło bez chrztu. Oczki mu goreją jak świeczki i kwili, kwili! Skoczyło mi z kulbaki na kark, aż tu czuję: kąsa za uchem. O Hospody! upiór. Alem to na Wołoszy długo sługiwał, gdzie upiorów więcej niż ludzi i tam są na nie sposoby. Zeskoczyłem z konia i gindżałem w ziemię. „Zgiń! przepadnij!”, a ono jęknęło, chwyciło się za głownię od gindżała i po ostrzu spłynęło pod murawę. Przeciąłem ziemię na krzyż i pojechałem.

— To na Wołoszy tyle upiorów, ojcze?

— Co drugi Wołoch, to po śmierci będzie upiór — i wołoskie najgorsze ze wszystkich. Tam ich nazywają brukołaki.

— A kto mocniejszy, ojcze: did'ko czy upiór?

— Did'ko mocniejszy, ale upiór zawziętszy. Did'ka jak potrafisz zażyć, to ci będzie służył, a upiory do niczego, tylko za krwią wietrzą. Ale zawsze did'ko nad nimi ataman.

— A Horpyna nad did'kami reimentaruje.

— Pewnie, że tak. Póki jej życia, poty reimentarstwa. No, żeby ona nie miała nad nimi władzy, to by jej ataman swojej zazuli nie oddał, bo brukołaki na dziewczyńską krew najłakomsze.

— A ja słyszał, że ony do duszy niewinnej nie mają przystępu.

— Do duszy nie mają, ale do ciała mają.

— Oj! szkoda by krasawicy! Krew to z mlekiem! Wiedział nasz bat'ko, co w Barze brać.

Owsiwuj językiem klasnął.

— Nie ma co mówić. Zołotaja Laszka…

— A mnie jej, ojcze, żal — mówił młody Kozak. — Jak my ją w kołyskę kładli, to rączki białe składała, a tak prosyła i prosyła: Ubij, każe, ne huby, każe, neszczastływoj!

— Nie będzie jej źle.

Dalszą rozmowę przerwało zbliżenie się Horpyny.

— Hej, mołojcy — rzekła wiedźma — to Tatarski Rozłóg, ale nie bójcie się, tu tylko jedna noc w roku straszna, a Czortowy Jar i mój chutor już zaraz.

Jakoż wkrótce dały się słyszeć szczekania psów. Orszak wszedł w gardło jaru biegnącego prostopadle od rzeki, a tak wąskiego, że ledwie czterech konnych mogło w nim obok siebie postępować. Na dnie owej rozpadliny płynęła krynica, mieniąc się w świetle księżycowym jak wąż i biegąc wartko do rzeki. Ale w miarę jak orszak posuwał się naprzód, strome i urwiste ściany rozszerzały się coraz bardziej, tworząc dość obszerny rozłóg wznoszący się lekko w górę i zamknięty z boków skałami. Grunt gdzieniegdzie pokryty był wysokimi drzewami. Wiatr tu nie wiał. Długie, czarne cienie kładły się od drzew na ziemię, a na przestrzeniach oblanych światłem księżyca świeciły mocno jakieś białe, okrągłe lub wydłużone przedmioty, w których mołojcy ze strachem poznali czaszki i piszczele ludzkie. Oglądali się też z nieufnością naokół, znacząc od czasu do czasu krzyżami piersi i czoła. Wtem w dali błysło spomiędzy drzew światełko, a jednocześnie nadbiegły dwa psy, straszne, ogromne, czarne, ze świecącymi oczyma, szczekając i wyjąc na widok ludzi i koni. Na głos Horpyny uciszyły się wreszcie i poczęły obiegać wokoło jeźdźców, chrapiąc przy tym i charcząc ze zdyszenia.

— Niesamowite — szeptali mołojcy.

— To nie psy — mruknął stary Owsiwuj głosem zdradzającym głębokie przekonanie.

Tymczasem zza drzew ukazała się chata, za nią stajnia, dalej zaś i wyżej jeszcze jedna ciemna budowla. Chata na pozór była porządna i duża, w oknach jej błyszczało światło.

— To moja sadyba — rzekła do Bohuna Horpyna — a tamto młyn, co zboża nie miele, jeno nasze, ale ja worożycha, z wody na kole wróżę. Powróżę i tobie. Mołodycia w świetlicy będzie mieszkać, ale kiedy chcesz ściany przybrać, to ją trzeba na drugą stronę tymczasem przenieść. Stójcie i z koni!

Orszak zatrzymał się, Horpyna zaś poczęła wołać:

— Czeremis! huku! huku! Czeremis!

Jakaś postać z pękiem zapalonego łuczywa w ręku wyszła przed chatę i wzniósłszy ogień w górę poczęła w milczeniu przypatrywać się obecnym.

Był to stary człek, potwornie szpetny, mały, prawie karzeł, z płaską, kwadratową twarzą i skośnymi, podobnymi do szczelin oczyma.

— Co ty za czort? — spytał go Bohun.

— Ty jego nie pytaj — rzekła olbrzymka — on ma język obcięty.

— Pójdź tu bliżej.

— Słuchaj — mówiła dalej dziewka — a może by mołodycię do młyna zanieść? Tu mołojcy będą przybierać świetlicę i ćwieki wbijać, to się rozbudzi.

Kozacy, zsiadłszy z koni, poczęli odwiązywać ostrożnie kołyskę. Sam Bohun czuwał nad wszystkim z największą troskliwością i sam dźwignął w głowach kołyskę, gdy przenoszono ją do młyna. Karzeł, idąc naprzód, świecił łuczywem. Kniaziówna, napojona przez Horpynę odwarem ziół usypiających, nie rozbudziła się wcale, tylko powieki drgały jej cokolwiek od światła łuczywa. Twarz jej nabierała życia od tych czerwonych blasków. Może też kołysały dziewczynę sny cudne, bo się uśmiechała słodko w czasie tego pochodu podobnego do pogrzebu. Bohun patrzył na nią i zdawało mu się, że serce chyba mu rozsadzi żebra w piersiach. — Myłeńka moja, zazula moja! — szeptał cicho i groźne, choć piękne lica watażki złagodniały i płonęły wielkim ogniem miłości, która go ogarnęła i ogarniała coraz bardziej, tak jak zapomniany przez wędrowca płomień ogarnia dzikie stepy.

Idąca obok Horpyna mówiła:

— Gdy się z tego snu rozbudzi, zdrowa będzie. Rana się jej goi, zdrowa będzie…

— Sława Bohu! Sława Bohu! — odpowiadał watażka.

Tymczasem mołojcy poczęli przed chatą zdejmować ogromne juki z sześciu koni i wyładowywać zdobycz wziętą w makatach, kobiercach i innych kosztownościach w Barze. Rozpalono w świetlicy obfity ogień i gdy jedni znosili coraz to nowe opony, inni przystosowywali je do drewnianych ścian izby. Bohun nie tylko pomyślał o klatce bezpiecznej dla swego ptaka, ale postanowił ją przybrać, by ptakowi niewola nie zdawała się zbyt nieznośną. Wkrótce też nadszedł ze młyna i sam pilnował roboty. Noc upływała i księżyc zdjął już swoje białe światło z wierzchołków skał, a w świetlicy słychać jeszcze było przytłumione stukanie młotów. Prosta izba stawała się coraz podobniejsza do komnaty. Na koniec, gdy już ściany były obwieszone, a tok wymoszczony, przyniesiono na powrót senną kniaziównę i złożono ją na miękkich wezgłowiach.

Potem uciszyło się wszystko. Tylko w stajni jeszcze przez jakiś czas rozlegały się wśród ciszy wybuchy śmiechu podobne do końskiego rżenia: to młoda wiedźma, baraszkując na sianie z mołojcami, rozdawała im kułaki i całusy.

With Fire and Sword

Introduction

The history of the origin and career of the two Slav States, Poland and Russia, is interesting not merely because it contains a vast number of surprising scenes and marvellous pictures of life, not merely because it gives us a kaleidoscope as it were of the acts of men, but because these acts in all their variety fall into groups which may be referred each to its proper source and origin, and each group contains facts that concern the most serious problems of history and political development.

The history of these two States should be studied as one, or rather as two parts of one history, if we are to discover and grasp the meaning of either part fully. When studied as a whole, this history gives us the life story of the greater portion of the Slav race placed between two hostile forces,–the Germans on the west, the Mongols and Tartars on the east.

The advance of the Germans on the Slav tribes and later on Poland presents, perhaps, the best example in history of the methods of European civilization. The entire Baltic coast from Lubeck eastward was converted to Christianity by the Germans at the point of the sword. The duty of rescuing these people from the errors of paganism formed the moral pretext for conquering them and taking their lands. The warrior was accompanied by the missionary, followed by the political colonist. The people of the country deprived of their lands were reduced to slavery; and if any escaped this lot, they were men from the higher classes who joined the conqueror in the capacity of assistant oppressors. The work was long and doubtful. The Germans made many failures, for their management was often very bad. The Slavs west of the Oder were stubborn, and under good leadership might have been invincible; but the leadership did not come, and to the Germans at last came the Hohenzollerns.

For the serious student there is no richer field of labor than the history of Poland and the Slavs of the Baltic, which is inseparable from the history of Mark Brandenburg and the two military orders, the Teutonic Knights and the Knights of the Sword.

The conquest of Russia by the Mongols, the subjection of Europeans to Asiatics,–not Asiatics of the south, but warriors from cold regions led by men of genius; for such were Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, and the lieutenants sent to the west,–was an affair of incomparably greater magnitude than the German wars on the Baltic.

The physical grip of the Mongol on Russia was irresistible. There was nothing for the Russian princes to do but submit if they wished to preserve their people from dissolution. They had to bow down to every whim of the conqueror; suffer indignity, insult, death,–that is, death of individuals. The Russians endured for a long time without apparent result. But they were studying their conquerors, mastering their policy; and they mastered it so well that finally the Prince of Moscow made use of the Mongols to complete the union of eastern Russia and reduce all the provincial princes of the country, his own relatives, to the position of ordinary landholders subject to himself.

The difference between the Poles and Russians seems to be this,–that the Russians saw through the policy of their enemies, and then overcame them; while the Poles either did not understand the Germans, or if they did, did not overcome them, though they had the power.

This Slav history is interesting to the man of science, it is interesting also to the practical statesman, because there is no country in the Eastern hemisphere whose future may be considered outside of Russian influence, no country whose weal or woe may not become connected in some way with Russia. At the same time there are no states studied by so few and misunderstood by so many as the former Commonwealth of Poland,–whose people, brave and brilliant but politically unsuccessful, have received more sympathy than any other within the circle of civilization,–and Russia, whose people in strength of character and intellectual gifts are certainly among the first of the Aryan race, though many men have felt free to describe them in terms exceptionally harsh and frequently unjust.

The leading elements of this history on its western side are Poland, the Catholic Church, Germany; on the eastern side they are Russia, Eastern Orthodoxy, Northern Asia.

Now let us see what this western history was. In the middle of the ninth century Slav tribes of various denominations occupied the entire Baltic coast west of the Vistula; a line drawn from Lubeck to the Elbe, ascending the river to Magdeburg, thence to the western ridge of the Bohemian mountains, and passing on in a somewhat irregular course, leaving Carinthia and Styria on the east, gives the boundary between the Germans and the Slavs at that period. Very nearly in the centre of the territory north of Bohemia and the Carpathians lived one of a number of Slav tribes, the Polyane (or men of the plain), who occupied the region afterwards called Great Poland by the Poles, and now called South Prussia by the Germans. In this Great Poland political life among the Northwestern Slavs began in the second half of the ninth century. About the middle of the tenth, Mechislav (Mieczislaw), the ruler, received Christianity, and the modest title of Count of the German Empire. Boleslav the Brave, his son and successor, extended his territory to the upper Elbe, from which region its boundary line passed through or near Berlin, whence it followed the Oder to the sea. Before his death, in 1025, Boleslav wished to be anointed king by the Pope. The ceremony was denied him, therefore he had it performed by bishops at home. About a century later the western boundary was pushed forward by Boleslav Wry-mouth (1132-1139) to a point on the Baltic about half-way between Stettin and Lubeck. This was the greatest extension of Poland to the west. Between this line and the Elbe were Slav tribes; but the region had already become marken (marches) where the intrusive Germans were struggling for the lands and persons of the Slavs.

The eastern boundary of Poland at this period served also as the western boundary of Russia from the head-waters of the western branch of the river San in the Carpathian Mountains at a point west of Premysl (in the Galicia of to-day) to Brest-Litovsk, from which point the Russian boundary continued toward the northeast till it reached the sea, leaving Pskoff considerably and Yurieff (now Dorpat) slightly to the east,–that is, on Russian territory. Between Russia, north of Brest-Litovsk and Poland, was the irregular triangle composing the lands of Lithuanian and Finnish tribes. From the upper San the Russian boundary southward coincided with the Carpathians, including the territory between the Pruth to its mouth and the Carpathians. This boundary between Poland and Russia, established at that period, corresponds as nearly as possible with the line of demarcation between the two peoples at the present day.

During the two centuries following 1139, Poland continued to lose on the west and the north, and that process was fairly begun through which the Germans finally excluded the Poles from the sea, and turned the cradle of Poland into South Prussia, the name which it bears to-day.

At the end of the fourteenth century a step was taken by the Poles through which it was hoped to win in other places far more than had been lost on the west. Poland turned now to the east; but by leaving her historical basis on the Baltic, by deserting her political birthplace, the only ground where she had a genuine mission, Poland entered upon a career which was certain to end in destruction, unless she could win the Russian power by agreement, or bend it by conquest, and then strengthened by this power, turn back and redeem the lost lands of Pomerania and Prussia.

The first step in the new career was an alliance with Yagello (Yahailo) of Lithuania, from which much was hoped. This event begins a new era in Polish history; to this event we must now give attention, for it was the first in a long series which ended in the great outburst described in this book,–the revolt of the Russians against the Commonwealth.

To reach the motives of this famous agreement between the Lithuanian prince and the nobles and clergy of Poland,–for these two estates had become the only power in the land,–we must turn to Russia.

Lithuania of itself was small, and a prince of that country, if it stood alone, would have received scant attention from Poland; but the Lithuanian Grand Prince was ruler over all the lands of western Russia as well as those of his own people.

What was Russia?

The definite appearance of Russia in history dates from 862, when Rurik came to Novgorod, invited by the people to rule over them. Oleg, the successor of this prince, transferred his capital from Novgorod to Kieff on the Dnieper, which remained the chief city and capital for two centuries and a half. Rurik's great-grandson, Vladimir, introduced Christianity into Russia at the end of the tenth century. During his long reign and that of his son Yaroslav the Lawgiver, the boundary was fixed between Russia and Poland through the places described above, and coincided very nearly with the watershed dividing the two river-systems of the Dnieper and the Vistula, and serves to this day as the boundary between the Russian and Polish languages and the Eastern and Catholic churches.

In 1157 Kieff ceased to be the seat of the Grand Prince, the capital of Russia. A new centre of activity and government was founded in the north,–first at Suzdal, and then at Vladimir, to be transferred later to Moscow.

In 1240 the conquest of Russia by the Tartars was complete. Half a million or more of armed Asiatics had swept over the land, destroying everything where they went. A part of this multitude advanced through Poland, and were stopped in Silesia and Moravia only by the combined efforts of central Europe. The Tartar dominion lasted about two hundred and fifty years (1240-1490), and during this period great changes took place. Russia before the Tartar conquest was a large country, whose western boundary was the eastern boundary of Poland; liberated Russia was a comparatively small country, with its capital at Moscow, and having interposed between it and Poland a large state extending from the Baltic to the Black Sea,–a state which was composed of two thirds of that Russia which was ruled before the Tartar conquest by the descendants of Rurik; a state which included Little, Red, Black, and White Russia, more than two thirds of the best lands, and Kieff, with the majority of the historic towns of pre-Tartar Russia.

How was this state founded?

This state was the Lithuanian Russian,–Litva í Rus (Lithuania and Russia), as it is called by the Russians,–and it rose in the following manner. In the irregular triangle on the Baltic, between Russia and Poland of the twelfth century, lived tribes of Finnish and Lithuanian stock, about a dozen in number. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries these were all conquered,–the Prussian Lithuanians from the Niemen to the Vistula, by the Teutonic Knights, aided by crusading adventurers from western Europe; the others, Lithuanian and Finnish, by the Knights of the Sword,–with the exception of two tribes, the Lithuanians proper, on the upper waters of the Niemen and its tributaries, and the Jmuds or Samogitians on the right bank of the same river, lower down and between the Lithuanians and the sea. These two small tribes were destined through their princes–remarkable men in the fullest sense of the word–to play a great part in Russian and Polish history. It is needless to say much of the Lithuanians, who are better known to scholars than any people, perhaps, of similar numbers in Europe. The main interest in them at present is confined to their language, which, though very valuable to the philologist and beautiful in itself, has never been used in government or law, and has but one book considered as belonging to literature,–˝The Four Seasons˝ by Donaleitis.

Though small, the Lithuanian country, ruled by a number of petty princes, was as much given to anarchy as larger aggregations of men. United for a time under Mindog by reason of pressure from outside, the Lithuanians rose first to prominence under Gedimin (1315-1340), who in a quarter of a century was able to substitute himself for the petty princes of western Russia and extend his power to the south of Kieff. Gedimin was followed by Olgerd, who with his uncle Keistut ruled till 1377; during which time the domains of the Lithuanian prince were extended to the Crimea, and included the whole basin of the Dnieper with its tributaries, together with the upper Dvina. Gedimin and Olgerd respected in all places the clergy of the Eastern Church, and thus acquired rule over a great extent of country with comparative ease and rapidity.

Olgerd, who had completed a great state, left it to his sons and his brother Keistut. Yagello (Yahailo), one of these sons, had Keistut put to death; his brothers and cousins fled; Yagello became sole master. At this juncture the nobles and clergy of Poland effected an arrangement by which Yagello, on condition of becoming a Catholic, introducing the Catholic religion into Lithuania, and joining the state to Poland, was to marry the Queen Yadviga (the last survivor of the royal house) and be crowned king of Poland at Cracow. All these conditions were carried out, and with the reign of Yagello Polish history assumes an entirely new character.

With the establishment by Gedimin and Olgerd of the Lithuanian dynasty and its conquests, there were two Russias instead of one,–Western Russia, ruled by the house of Gedimin, and Eastern Russia, ruled by the house of Rurik. It had become the ambition of the Lithuanian princes to unite all Russia; it had long been the fixed purpose of the princes at Moscow to recover their ancient patrimony, the lands of Vladimir and Yaroslav; that is, all western Russia to the Polish frontier; consequently all the lands added by the Lithuanian princes to their little realm on the Niemen and its tributaries. This struggle between the two houses was very bitter, and more than once it seemed as though Moscow's day had come, and Vilna was to be the capital of reconstituted Russia.

When the question was at this stage, Yagello became King of Poland. The union, purely personal at first, became more intimate later on by means of the two elements of Polish influence, the Church and the nobility. Catholicism was made the religion of the Lithuanians at once; and twenty-seven years later, at Horodlo, it was settled that the Lithuanian Catholics of the higher classes should receive the same privileges as the Polish nobility, with whom they were joined by means of heraldry,–a peculiar arrangement, through which a number of Lithuanian families received the arms of some Polish house, and became thus associated, as the original inhabitants of America are associated under the same totem by the process of adoption.

Without giving details, for which there is no space here, we state merely the meaning of all the details. Lithuania struggled persistently against anything more than a personal union, while Poland struggled just as persistently for a complete union; but no matter how the Lithuanians might gain at one time or another, the personal union under a king influenced by Polish ideas joined to the great weight of the clergy and nobility was too much for them, and the end of the whole struggle was that under Sigismond Augustus, the last of the Yagellon kings, a diet was held at Lublin in which a union between Poland and Lithuania was proclaimed against the protest of a large number of the Lithuanians who left the diet. The King, who was hereditary Grand Duke of Lithuania, and childless, made a present to Poland of his rights,–made Poland his heir. The petty nobility of Lithuania were placed on the same legal footing as the princes and men of great historic families. Lithuania was assimilated to Poland in institutions.

The northern part of West Russia was attached to Lithuania, and all southern Russia merged directly in Poland. If the work of this diet had been productive of concord, and therefore of strength, Poland might have established herself firmly by the sea and won the first place in eastern Europe; but the Commonwealth, either from choice or necessity, was more occupied in struggling with Russians than in standing with firm foot on the Baltic. Sound statesmanship would have taught the Poles that for them it was a question of life and death to possess Pomerania and Prussia, and make the Oder at least their western boundary. They had the power to do that; they had the power to expel the two military orders from the coast; but they did not exert it,–a neglect which cost them dear in later times. Moscow would not have escaped the Poles had they been masters of the Baltic, and had they, instead of fighting with Cossacks and Russians, attached them to the Commonwealth by toleration and justice.

The whole internal policy of Poland from the coronation of Yagello to the reign of Vladislav IV. was to assimilate the nobility of Lithuania and Russia to that of Poland in political rights and in religious profession. The success was complete in the political sense, and practically so in the religious. The Polish nobility, who were in fact the state, possessed at the time of Yagello's coronation all the land, and owned the labor of the people; later on they ceased to pay taxes of any kind. It was a great bribe to the nobles of Lithuania and Russia to occupy the same position. The Lithuanians became Catholics at the accession of Yagello, or soon after; but in Russia, where all belonged to the Orthodox Church, the process was slow, even if sure. The princes Ostrorog and Dominik Zaslavski of this book were of Russian families which held their faith for a long time. The parents of Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski were Orthodox, and his mother on her death-bed implored him to be true to the faith of his ancestors.

All had been done that could be done with the nobility; but the great mass of Russian people holding the same faith as the Russians of the East, whose capital was at Moscow, were not considered reliable; therefore a union of churches was effected, mainly through the formal initiative of the King Sigismond III. and a few ecclesiastics, but rejected by a great majority of the Russian clergy and people. This new or united church, which retained the Slav language with Eastern customs and liturgy, but recognized the supremacy of the Pope, was made the state church of Russia.

From this rose all the religious trouble.

The Russians, when Hmelnitski appeared, were in the following condition: Their land was gone; the power of life and death over them resided in lords, either Poles or Polonized Russians, who generally gave this power to agents or tenants, not infrequently Jews. All justice, all administration, all power belonged to the lord or to whomsoever he delegated his authority; there was no appeal. A people with an active communal government of their own in former times were now reduced to complete slavery. Such was the Russian complaint on the material side. On the moral side it was that their masters were filching their faith from them. Having stripped them of everything in this life, they were trying to deprive them of life to come.

The outburst of popular rage against Poland was without example in history for intensity and volume, and this would have made the revolt remarkable whatever its motives or objects. But the Cossack war was of world-wide importance in view of the issues. The triumph of Poland would have brought the utter subjection of the Cossacks and the people, with the extinction of Eastern Orthodoxy not only in Russia but in other lands; for the triumph of Poland would have left no place for Moscow on earth but a place of subjection. The triumph of the Cossacks would have brought a mixed government, with religious toleration and a king having means to curb the all-powerful nobles. This was what Hmelnitski sought; this was the dream of Ossolinski the Chancellor; this, if realized, might possibly have saved the Commonwealth, and made it a constitutional government instead of an association of irresponsible magnates.

It turned out that the Cossacks and the uprisen people were not a match for the Poles, and it was not in the interest of the Tartars to give the Cossacks the fruits of victory. It was the policy of the Tartars to bring the Poles into trouble and then rescue them; they wished the Poles to have the upper hand, but barely have it, and be in continual danger of losing it.

The battle of Berestechko, instead of giving peace to the Commonwealth, opened a new epoch of trouble. Hmelnitski, the ablest man in Europe at that time, could be conquered by nothing but death. Though beaten through the treachery of the Khan at Berestechko and perhaps also by treason in his own camp, he rallied, concluded the treaty of Bélaya Tserkoff, which reduced the Cossack army from forty to twelve thousand men, but left Hmelnitski hetman of the Zaporojians. That was the great mistake of the Poles; every success was for them a failure so long as Hmelnitski had a legal existence.

The Poles, though intellectual, sympathetic, brave, and gifted with high personal qualities that have made them many friends, have been always deficient in collective wisdom; and there is probably no more astonishing antithesis in Europe than the Poles as individuals and the Poles as a people.

After Berestechko the Poles entered the Ukraine as masters. Vishnyevetski went as the ruling spirit. To all appearance the time of his triumph had come; but one day after dinner he fell ill and died suddenly. The verdict of the Russian people was: The Almighty preserved him through every danger, saved him from every enemy, and by reason of the supreme wickedness of ˝Yarema,˝ reserved him for his own holy and punishing hand.

The old order of things was restored in Russia,–landlords, garrisons, Jews; but now came the most striking event in the whole history.

Moldavia, the northern part of the present kingdom of Romania, was at that time a separate principality, owning the suzerainty of the Sultan. Formerly it had been a part of the Russian principality of Galich (Galicia), joined to Poland in the reign of Kazimir the Great, but connected, at the time of our story, with Turkey. The Poles had intimate relations with the country, and sought to bring it back. The Hospodar was Vassily Lupul, a man of fabulous wealth, according to report, and the father of two daughters, whose beauty was the wonder of eastern Europe. Prince Radzivil of Lithuania had married the elder; the younger, Domna (Domina) Rosanda, was sought in marriage by three men from Poland and by Timofei Hmelnitski, the son of Bogdan. The first of the Poles was Dmitry Vishnyevetski; the second was Kalinovski, the aged hetman of the Crown, captured by Hmelnitski at Korsún, but now free and more ambitions than any man in the Commonwealth of half his age, which was then near seventy.

Lupul, who had consented to the marriage of his daughter with young Hmelnitski, preferred Vishnyevetski; whereupon Bogdan exclaimed, ˝We will send a hundred thousand best men with the bridegroom.˝ Thirty-six thousand Cossacks and Tartars set out for Yassy, the residence of Lupul. Kalinovski, the Polish hetman, with twenty thousand men, barred the way to young Hmelnitski at Batog on the boundary. It was supposed that Timofei was attended by a party of only five thousand, and Kalinovski intended to finish a rival and destroy the son of an enemy at a blow. This delusion of the hetman was probably caused, but in every case confirmed, by a letter from Bogdan, in which he stated that his son, with some attendants, was on his way to marry the daughter of the Hospodar; that young men are hot-headed and given to quarrels, blood might be spilled; therefore he asked Kalinovski to withdraw and let the party pass.

This was precisely what Kalinovski would not do; he resolved to stop Timofei by force. The first day, five thousand Cossacks and Tartars, while passing to the west, were attacked by the Poles, who pursued them with cavalry. When a good distance from the camp, a courier rushed to the hetman with news of a general attack on the rear of the Polish army. The Poles returned in haste, pursued in their turn.

Young Hmelnitski had fallen upon a division of the army in the rear of the camp, and almost destroyed it. Darkness brought an end to the struggle. No eye was closed on either side that night. One half of the Polish army resolved to escape in spite of the hetman. At daybreak they were marching. ˝They shall not flee!˝ said Kalinovski ˝Stop them with cavalry; open on the cowards with cannon!˝ One part of the Polish army hurried to stop the other; there was a discharge of artillery; some of the fugitives rushed on, but most of them stopped. Then a second discharge of artillery, and a battle began. The Cossacks gazed on this wonderful scene; when their amazement had passed, they attacked the enemy, and indescribable slaughter began. It was impossible for the Poles to re-form or make effective defence. At this moment the army-servants, many of whom were Russians, set fire to the camp. Outnumbered and panic-stricken, thousands of Poles rushed into the Bug and were drowned. The Cossacks, with Berestechko in mind, showed mercy to no man; and of the whole army of twenty thousand, less than five hundred escaped. The peasants in all the country about killed the fugitives with scythes and clubs. Those who crossed the river were slaughtered on the other bank; among them was Samuel Kalinovski, son of the hetman. Then Kalinovski himself, seeing that all was lost cried, ˝I have no wish to live; I am ashamed to look on the sun of this morning!˝ and rushed to the thick of the fight. He perished; and a Nogai horseman raced over the field, while from his saddle-bow depended the head of the hetman with its white streaming hair. After the battle the body was discovered; on it the portrait of Domna Rosanda and the letter of Bogdan.

Farther on, near the Bug, was a division of five thousand Germans under command of Marek Sobieski, the gifted chief who had fought at Zbaraj. Attacked in front by the Cossacks, they stood with manful persistence till Karach Murza, the Nogai commander, at the head of fourteen thousand men, descended upon them from the hills of Botog like a mighty rain from the clouds or a whirlwind of the desert, as the Ukraine chronicler phrases it. Split in the centre, torn through and through, the weapons dropped from their hands, they were ridden down and sabred by Nogais and Cossacks. Sobieski perished; Pshiyemski, commander of artillery, was killed.

A year later the Poles at Jvanyets were in greater straits than ever before. They were surrounded by Hmelnitski and the Khan so that no escape was possible; but they had more gold to give than had the Cossacks. They satisfied those in power, from the Khan downward, with gifts, and covenanted to let them plunder Russia and seize Russian captives during six weeks. On these conditions the Tartars deserted Hmelnitski, peace was concluded, and the Polish army and king were saved from captivity.

This was the last act of the Cossack-Tartar alliance. Hmelnitski now turned to Moscow; the Zaporojian army took the oath of allegiance to Alexis, father of Peter the Great. Lithuania and western Russia were overrun by the forces of Moscow and the Cossacks. The Swedes occupied Warsaw and Cracow. Karl Gustav, their king, became king of Poland. Yan Kazimir fled to Silesia.

Again the Polish king came back, but soon resigned, and ended his life in France.

The eastern bank of the Dnieper, with Kieff on the west, went to Russia; but it was not till the reign of Katherine II. that western Russia was united to the east, and Prussia and Austria received all the lands of Poland proper.

I feel constrained to ask kindly indulgence from the readers of this sketch. I am greatly afraid that it will seem indefinite and lacking in precision; but the field to be covered is so great that I wrote with two kinds of readers in view,–those who are already well acquainted with Slav history, and those who do not know this history yet, but who may be roused to examine it for themselves. I hope to give a sketch of this history in a future not too remote, with an account of the sources of original information; so that impartial students, as Americans are by position, may have some assistance in beginning a work of such commanding importance as the history of Poland and Russia.

Jeremiah Curtin.

Washington, D. C, April 4, 1890.

With Fire and Sword

Part I

Chapter I.

The year 1647 was that wonderful year in which manifold signs in the heavens and on the earth announced misfortunes of some kind and unusual events. Contemporary chroniclers relate that beginning with spring-time myriads of locusts swarmed from the Wilderness, destroying the grain and the grass; this was a forerunner of Tartar raids. In the summer there was a great eclipse of the sun, and soon after a comet appeared in the sky. In Warsaw a tomb was seen over the city, and a fiery cross in the clouds; fasts were held and alms given, for some men declared that a plague would come on the land and destroy the people. Finally, so mild a winter set in, that the oldest inhabitants could not remember the like of it. In the southern provinces ice did not confine the rivers, which, swollen by the daily melting of snows, left their courses and flooded the banks. Rainfalls were frequent. The steppe was drenched, and became an immense slough. The sun was so warm in the south that, wonder of wonders! in Bratslav and the Wilderness a green fleece covered the steppes and plains in the middle of December. The swarms in the beehives began to buzz and bustle; cattle were bellowing in the fields. Since such an order of things appeared altogether unnatural, all men in Russia who were waiting or looking for unusual events turned their excited minds and eyes especially to the Wilderness, from which rather than anywhere else danger might show itself.

At that time there was nothing unusual in the Wilderness,–no struggles there, nor encounters, beyond those of ordinary occurrence, and known only to the eagles, hawks, ravens, and beasts of the plain. For the Wilderness was of this character at that period. The last traces of settled life ended on the way to the south, at no great distance beyond Chigirin on the side of the Dnieper, and on the side of the Dniester not far from Uman; then forward to the bays and sea there was nothing but steppe after steppe, hemmed in by the two rivers as by a frame. At the bend of the Dnieper in the lower country beyond the Cataracts Cossack life was seething, but in the open plains no man dwelt; only along the shores were nestled here and there little fields, like islands in the sea. The land belonged in name to Poland, but it was an empty land, in which the Commonwealth permitted the Tartars to graze their herds; but since the Cossacks prevented this frequently, the field of pasture was a field of battle too.

How many struggles were fought in that region, how many people had laid down their lives there, no man had counted, no man remembered. Eagles, falcons, and ravens alone saw these; and whoever from a distance heard the sound of wings and the call of ravens, whoever beheld the whirl of birds circling over one place, knew that corpses or unburied bones were lying beneath. Men were hunted in the grass as wolves or wild goats. All who wished, engaged in this hunt. Fugitives from the law defended themselves in the wild steppes. The armed herdsman guarded his flock, the warrior sought adventure, the robber plunder, the Cossack a Tartar, the Tartar a Cossack. It happened that whole bands guarded herds from troops of robbers. The steppe was both empty and filled, quiet and terrible, peaceable and full of ambushes; wild by reason of its wild plains, but wild, too, from the wild spirit of men.

At times a great war filled it. Then there flowed over it like waves Tartar chambuls, Cossack regiments, Polish or Wallachian companies. In the night-time the neighing of horses answered the howling of wolves, the voices of drums and brazen trumpets flew on to the island of Ovid and the sea, and along the black trail of Kutchman there seemed an inundation of men. The boundaries of the Commonwealth were guarded from Kamenyets to the Dnieper by outposts and stanitsas; and when the roads were about to swarm with people, it was known especially by the countless flocks of birds which, frightened by the Tartars, flew onward to the north. But the Tartar, if he slipped out from the Black Forest or crossed the Dniester from the Wallachian side, came by the southern provinces together with the birds.

That winter, however, the birds did not come with their uproar to the Commonwealth. It was stiller on the steppe than usual. At the moment when our narrative begins the sun was just setting, and its reddish rays threw light on a land entirely empty. On the northern rim of the Wilderness, along the Omelnik to its mouth, the sharpest eye could not discover a living soul, nor even a movement in the dark, dry, and withered steppe grass. The sun showed but half its shield from behind the horizon. The heavens became obscured, and then the steppe grew darker and darker by degrees. Near the left bank, on a small height resembling more a grave-mound than a hill, were the mere remnants of a walled stanitsa which once upon a time had been built by Fedor Buchatski and then torn down by raids. A long shadow stretched from this ruin. In the distance gleamed the waters of the widespread Omelnik, which in that place turned toward the Dnieper. But the lights went out each moment in the heavens and on the earth. From the sky were heard the cries of storks in their flight to the sea; with this exception the stillness was unbroken by a sound.

Night came down upon the Wilderness, and with it the hour of ghosts. Cossacks on guard in the stanitsas related in those days that the shades of men who had fallen in sudden death and in sin used to rise up at night and carry on dances in which they were hindered neither by cross nor church. Also, when the wicks which showed the time of midnight began to burn out, prayers for the dead were offered throughout the stanitsas. It was said, too, that the shades of mounted men coursing through the waste barred the road to wayfarers, whining and begging them for a sign of the holy cross. Among these ghosts vampires also were met with, who pursued people with howls. A trained ear might distinguish at a distance the howls of a vampire from those of a wolf. Whole legions of shadows were also seen, which sometimes came so near the stanitsas that the sentries sounded the alarm. This was generally the harbinger of a great war.

The meeting of a single ghost foreboded no good, either; but it was not always necessarily of evil omen, for frequently a living man would appear before travellers and vanish like a shadow, and therefore might easily and often be taken for a ghost.

Night came quickly on the Omelnik, and there was nothing surprising in the fact that a figure, either a man or a ghost, made its appearance at the side of the deserted stanitsa. The moon coming out from behind the Dnieper whitened the waste, the tops of the thistles, and the distance of the steppe. Immediately there appeared lower down on the plain some other beings of the night. The flitting clouds hid the light of the moon from moment to moment; consequently those figures flashed up in the darkness at one instant, and the next they were blurred. At times they disappeared altogether, and seemed to melt in the shadow. Pushing on toward the height on which the first man was standing, they stole up quietly, carefully, slowly, halting at intervals.

There was something awe-exciting in their movements, as there was in all that steppe which was so calm in appearance. The wind at times blew from the Dnieper, causing a mournful rustle among the dried thistles, which bent and trembled as in fear. At last the figures vanished in the shadow of the ruins. In the uncertain light of that hour nothing could be seen save the single horseman on the height.

But the rustle arrested his attention. Approaching the edge of the mound, he began to look carefully into the steppe. At that moment the wind stopped, the rustling ceased; there was perfect rest.

Suddenly a piercing whistle was heard; mingled voices began to shout in terrible confusion, ˝Allah! Allah! Jesus Christ! Save! Kill!˝ The report of muskets re-echoed; red flashes rent the darkness. The tramp of horses was heard with the clash of steel. Some new horsemen rose as it were from beneath the surface of the steppe. You would have said that a storm had sprung up on a sudden in that silent and ominous land. The shrieks of men followed the terrible clash. Then all was silent; the struggle was over.

Apparently one of its usual scenes had been enacted in the Wilderness.

The horsemen gathered in groups on the height; a few of them dismounted, and examined something carefully. Meanwhile a powerful and commanding voice was heard in the darkness.

˝Strike a fire in front!˝

In a moment sparks sprang out, and soon a blaze flashed up from the dry reeds and pitch-pine which wayfarers through the Wilderness always carried with them.

Straightway the staff for a hanging-lamp was driven into the earth. The glare from above illuminated sharply a number of men who were bending over a form stretched motionless on the ground.

These men were soldiers, in red uniforms and wolf-skin caps. Of these, one who sat on a valiant steed appeared to be the leader. Dismounting, he approached the prostrate figure and inquired,–

˝Well, Sergeant, is he alive yet, or is it all over with him?˝

˝He is alive, but there is a rattling in his throat; the lariat stifled him.˝

˝Who is he?˝

˝He is not a Tartar; some man of distinction.˝

˝Then God be thanked!˝

The chief looked attentively at the prostrate man.

˝Well, just like a hetman.˝

˝His horse is of splendid Tartar breed; the Khan has no better,˝ said the sergeant. ˝There he stands.˝

The lieutenant looked at the horse, and his face brightened. Two soldiers held a really splendid steed, who, moving his ears and distending his nostrils, pushed forward his head and looked with frightened eyes at his master.

˝But the horse will be ours, Lieutenant?˝ put in, with an inquiring tone, the sergeant.

˝Dog believer! would you deprive a Christian of his horse in the steppe?˝

˝But it is our booty–˝

Further conversation was interrupted by stronger breathing from the suffocated man.

˝Pour gorailka into his mouth,˝ said the lieutenant, undoing his belt.

˝Are we to spend the night here?˝

˝Yes. Unsaddle the horses and make a good fire.˝

The soldiers hurried around quickly. Some began to rouse and rub the prostrate man; some started off for reeds to burn; others spread camel and bear skins on the ground for couches.

The lieutenant, troubling himself no more about the suffocated stranger, unbound his belt and stretched himself on a burka by the fire. He was a very young man, of spare habit of body, dark complexion, very elegant in manner, with a delicately cut countenance and a prominent aquiline nose. In his eyes were visible desperate daring and endurance, but his face had an honest look. His rather thick mustache and a beard, evidently unshaven for a long time, gave him a seriousness beyond his years.

Meanwhile two attendants were preparing the evening meal. Dressed quarters of mutton were placed on the fire, a number of bustards and partridges were taken from the packs, and one wild goat, which an attendant began to skin without delay. The fire blazed up, casting out upon the steppe an enormous ruddy circle of light. The suffocated man began to revive slowly.

After a time he cast his bloodshot eyes around on the strangers, examining their faces; then he tried to stand up. The soldier who had previously talked with the lieutenant raised him by the armpits; another put in his hand a halbert, upon which the stranger leaned with all his force. His face was still purple, his veins swollen. At last, with a suppressed voice, he coughed out his first word, ˝Water!˝

They gave him gorailka, which he drank repeatedly, and which appeared to do him good, for after he had removed the flask from his lips at last, he inquired in a clear voice, ˝In whose hands am I?˝

The officer rose and approached him. ˝In the hands of those who saved you.˝

˝It was not you, then, who caught me with a lariat?˝

˝No; the sabre is our weapon, not the lariat. You wrong our good soldiers with the suspicion. You were seized by ruffians, pretended Tartars. You can look at them if you are curious, for they are lying out there slaughtered like sheep.˝

Saying this, he pointed with his hand to a number of dark bodies lying below the height.

To this the stranger answered, ˝If you will permit me to rest.˝

They brought him a felt-covered saddle, on which he seated himself in silence.

He was in the prime of life, of medium height, with broad shoulders, almost gigantic build of body, and striking features. He had an enormous head, a complexion dried and sunburnt, black eyes, somewhat aslant, like those of a Tartar; over his thin lips hung a mustache ending at the tips in two broad bunches. His powerful face indicated courage and pride. There was in it something at once attractive and repulsive,–the dignity of a hetman with Tartar cunning, kindness, and ferocity.

After he had sat awhile on the saddle he rose, and beyond all expectation, went to look at the bodies instead of returning thanks.

˝How churlish!˝ muttered the lieutenant.

The stranger examined each face carefully, nodding his head like a man who has seen through everything; then he turned slowly to the lieutenant, slapping himself on the side, and seeking involuntarily his belt, behind which he wished evidently to pass his hand.

This importance in a man just rescued from the halter did not please the young lieutenant, and he said in irony,–

˝One might say that you are looking for acquaintances among those robbers, or that you are saying a litany for their souls.˝

˝You are both right and wrong. You are right, for I was looking for acquaintances; and you are wrong, for they are not robbers, but servants of a petty nobleman, my neighbor.˝

˝Then it is clear that you do not drink out of the same spring with that neighbor.˝

A strange smile passed over the thin lips of the stranger.

˝And in that you are wrong,˝ muttered he through his teeth. In a moment he added audibly: ˝But pardon for not having first given thanks for the aid and effective succor which freed me from such sudden death. Your courage has redeemed my carelessness, for I separated from my men; but my gratitude is equal to your good-will.˝

Having said this, he reached his hand to the lieutenant.

But the haughty young man did not stir from his place, and was in no hurry to give his hand; instead of that he said,–

˝I should like to know first if I have to do with a nobleman; for though I have no doubt you are one, still it does not befit me to accept the thanks of a nameless person.˝

˝I see you have the mettle of a knight, and speak justly, I should have begun my speech and thanks with my name. I am Zenovi Abdank; my escutcheon that of Abdank with a cross; a nobleman from the province of Kieff; a landholder, and a colonel of the Cossack regiment of Prince Dominik Zaslavski.˝

˝And I am Yan Skshetuski, lieutenant of the armored regiment of Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski.˝

˝You serve under a famous warrior. Accept my thanks and hand.˝

The lieutenant hesitated no longer. It is true that armored officers looked down on men of the other regiments; but Pan Yan was in the steppe, in the Wilderness, where such things were less remembered. Besides, he had to do with a colonel. Of this he had ocular proof, for when his soldiers brought Pan Abdank the belt and sabre which were taken from his person in order to revive him, they brought at the same time a short staff with a bone shaft and ivory head, such as Cossack colonels were in the habit of using. Besides, the dress of Zenovi Abdank was rich, and his educated speech indicated a quick mind and social training.

Pan Yan therefore invited him to supper. The odor of roasted meats began to go out from the fire just then, tickling the nostrils and the palate. The attendant brought the meats, and served them on a plate. The two men fell to eating; and when a good-sized goat-skin of Moldavian wine was brought, a lively conversation sprang up without delay.

˝A safe return home to us,˝ said Pan Yan.

˝Then you are returning home? Whence, may I ask?˝ inquired Abdank.

˝From a long journey,–from the Crimea.˝

˝What were you doing there? Did you go with ransom?˝

˝No, Colonel, I went to the Khan himself.˝

Abdank turned an inquisitive ear. ˝Did you, indeed? Were you well received? And what was your errand to the Khan?˝

˝I carried a letter from Prince Yeremi.˝

˝You were an envoy, then! What did the prince write to the Khan about?˝

The lieutenant looked quickly at his companion.

˝Well, Colonel,˝ said he, ˝you have looked into the eyes of ruffians who captured you with a lariat; that is your affair. But what the prince wrote to the Khan is neither your affair nor mine, but theirs.˝

˝I wondered, a little while ago,˝ answered Abdank, cunningly, ˝that his highness the prince should send such a young man to the Khan; but after your answer I am not astonished, for I see that you are young in years, but mature in experience and wit.˝

The lieutenant swallowed the smooth, flattering words, merely twisted his young mustache, and inquired,–

˝Now do you tell me what you are doing on the Omelnik, and how you come to be here alone.˝

˝I am not alone, I left my men on the road; and I am going to Kudák, to Pan Grodzitski, who is transferred to the command there, and to whom the Grand Hetman has sent me with letters.˝

˝And why don't you go by water?˝

˝I am following an order from which I may not depart.˝

˝Strange that the hetman issued such an order, when in the steppe you have fallen into straits which you would have avoided surely had you been going by water.˝

˝Oh, the steppes are quiet at present; my acquaintance with them does not begin with to-day. What has met me is the malice and hatred of man.˝

˝And who attacked you in this fashion?˝

˝It is a long story. An evil neighbor, Lieutenant, who has destroyed my property, is driving me from my land, has killed my son, and besides, as you have seen, has made an attempt on my life where we sit.˝

˝But do you not carry a sabre at your side?˝

On the powerful face of Abdank there was a gleam of hatred, in his eyes a sullen glare. He answered slowly and with emphasis,–

˝I do; and as God is my aid, I shall seek no other weapon against my foes.˝

The lieutenant wished to say something, when suddenly the tramp of horses was heard in the steppe, or rather the hurried slapping of horses' feet on the softened grass. That moment, also, the lieutenant's orderly who was on guard hurried up with news that men of some kind were approaching.

˝Those,˝ said Abdank, ˝are surely my men, whom I left beyond the Tasmina. Not suspecting perfidy, I promised to wait for them here.˝

Soon a crowd of mounted men formed a half-circle in front of the height. By the glitter of the fire appeared heads of horses, with open nostrils, puffing from exertion; and above them the faces of riders, who, bending forward, sheltered their eyes from the glare of the fire and gazed eagerly toward the light.

˝Hei! men, who are you?˝ inquired Abdank.

˝Servants of God,˝ answered voices from the darkness.

˝Just as I thought,–my men,˝ repeated Abdank, turning to the lieutenant. ˝Come this way.˝

Some of them dismounted and drew near the fire.

˝Oh, how we hurried, batko! But what's the matter?˝

˝There was an ambush. Hvedko, the traitor, learned of my coming to this place, and lurked here with others. He must have arrived some time in advance. They caught me with a lariat.˝

˝God save us! What Poles are these about you?˝

Saying this, they looked threateningly on Pan Skshetuski and his companions.

˝These are kind friends,˝ said Abdank. ˝Glory be to God! I am alive and well. We will push on our way at once.˝

˝Glory be to God for that! We are ready.˝

The newly arrived began to warm their hands over the fire, for the night was cool, though fine. There were about forty of them, sturdy men and well armed. They did not look at all like registered Cossacks, which astonished Pan Skshetuski not a little, especially since their number was so considerable. Everything seemed very suspicious. If the Grand Hetman had sent Abdank to Kudák, he would have given him a guard of registered Cossacks; and in the second place, why should he order him to go by the steppe from Chigirin, and not by water? The necessity of crossing all the rivers flowing through the Wilderness to the Dnieper could only delay the journey. It appeared rather as if Abdank wanted to avoid Kudák.

In like manner, the personality of Abdank astonished the young lieutenant greatly. He noticed at once that the Cossacks, who were rather free in intercourse with their colonels, met him with unusual respect, as if he were a real hetman. He must be a man of a heavy hand, and what was most wonderful to Skshetuski, who knew the Ukraine on both sides of the Dnieper, he had heard nothing of a famous Abdank. Besides, there was in the countenance of the man something peculiar,–a certain secret power which breathed from his face like heat from a flame, a certain unbending will, declaring that this man withdraws before no man and no thing. The same kind of will was in the face of Prince Yeremi Vishnyevetski; but that which in the prince was an inborn gift of nature special to his lofty birth and his position might astonish one when found in a man of unknown name wandering in the wild steppe.

Pan Skshetuski [The author uses Skshetuski, the family name of his hero, oftener than Yan, his Christian name, prefixing Pan = Mr. in both cases. I have taken the liberty of using Yan oftener than Skshetuski because more easily pronounced in English.] deliberated long. It occurred to him that this might be some powerful outlaw who, hunted by justice, had taken refuge in the Wilderness,–or the leader of a robber band; but the latter was not probable. The dress and speech of the man showed something else. The lieutenant was quite at a loss what course to take. He kept simply on his guard. Meanwhile Abdank ordered his horse.

˝Lieutenant, 'tis time for him to go who has the road before him. Let me thank you again for your succor. God grant me to show you a service of equal value!˝

˝I do not know whom I have saved, therefore I deserve no thanks.˝

˝Your modesty, which equals your courage, is speaking now. Accept from me this ring.˝

The lieutenant frowned and took a step backward, measuring with his eyes Abdank, who then spoke on with almost paternal dignity in his voice and posture,–

˝But look, I offer you not the wealth of this ring, but its other virtues. When still in the years of youth, a captive among infidels, I got this from a pilgrim returning from the Holy Land. In the seal of it is dust from the grave of Christ. Such a gift might not be refused, even if it came from condemned hands. You are still a young man and a soldier; and since even old age, which is near the grave, knows not what may strike it before the last hour, youth, which has before it a long life, must meet with many an adventure. This ring will preserve you from misfortune, and protect you when the day of judgment comes; and I tell you that that day is even now on the road through the Wilderness.˝

A moment of silence followed; nothing was heard but the crackling of the fire and the snorting of the horses. From the distant reeds came the dismal howling of wolves. Suddenly Abdank repeated still again, as if to himself,–

˝The day of judgment is already on the road through the Wilderness, and when it comes all God's world will be amazed.˝

The lieutenant took the ring mechanically, so much was he astonished at the words of this strange man. But the man was looking into the dark distance of the steppe. Then he turned slowly and mounted his horse. His Cossacks were waiting at the foot of the height.

˝Forward! forward! Good health to you, my soldier friend!˝ said he to the lieutenant. ˝The times are such at present that brother trusts not brother. This is why you know not whom you have saved, for I have not given you my name.˝

˝You are not Abdank, then?˝

˝That is my escutcheon.˝

˝And your name?˝

˝Bogdan Zenovi Hmelnitski.˝

When he had said this, he rode down from the height, and his Cossacks moved after him. Soon they were hidden in the mist and the night. When they had gone about half a furlong, the wind bore back from them the words of the Cossack song,–

˝O God, lead us forth, poor captives,

From heavy bonds,

From infidel faith,

To the bright dawn,

To quiet waters,

To a gladsome land,

To a Christian world.

Hear, O God, our prayers,–

The prayers of the hapless,

The prayers of poor captives.˝

The voices grew fainter by degrees, and then were melted in the wind sounding through the reeds.

With Fire and Sword

Part II

Chapter XXXIV.

Ok a certain calm night a band of horsemen, about twenty in number, moved along the right bank of the Valadinka in the direction of the Dniester. They went very slowly, the horses almost dragging one foot after the other. A short distance in front of the others rode two, as it were an advance guard; but evidently there was no cause for guarding or being on the watch, since for a whole hour they had been talking together instead of looking at the country about them. Reining in their horses every little while, they looked at the party behind, and one of them called out at this moment: ˝Slowly there! slowly!˝ And the others went still more slowly, scarcely moving.

At last the party, pushing out from behind the eminence which had covered them with its shadow, entered the open country, which was filled with moonlight, and then it was possible to understand the reason of their careful gait. In the centre of the caravan two horses abreast carried a swing tied to their saddles, and in this swing lay the form of some person. The silver rays lighted its pale face and closed eyes.

Behind the swing rode ten armed men. From their lances without bannerets, it was evident that they were Cossacks. Some led pack-horses, others rode by themselves; but while the two riders in front seemed to pay not the least attention to the country about them, those behind glanced around on every side with unquiet and alarm. And still the region seemed to be a perfect desert.

Silence was unbroken save by the noise of the horses' hoofs and the calling of one of the riders in front, who from time to time repeated his warning: ˝Slowly! carefully!˝

At length he turned to his companion. ˝Horpyna, is it far yet?˝ he inquired.

The companion called Horpyna, who in reality was a gigantic young woman disguised as a Cossack, looked at the starry heavens and replied,– 

˝Not far. We shall be there before midnight. We shall pass the Enemy's Mound, the Tartar Valley, and right there is the Devil's Glen. Oh, it would be terrible to pass that place between midnight and cockcrow! It's possible for me, but for you it would be terrible, terrible!˝

The first rider shrugged his shoulders and said: ˝I know the devil is a brother to you, but there are weapons against the devil.˝

˝Devil or not, there are no weapons,˝ answered Horpyna. ˝If you, my falcon, had looked for a hiding-place through the whole world for your princess, you could not have found a better. No one will pass here after midnight unless with me, and in the glen no living man has yet put foot. If any one wants soothsaying, he waits in front of the glen till I come out. Never fear! Neither Pole nor Tartar will get there, nor any one, any one. The Devil's Glen is terrible, you will see for yourself.˝

˝Let it be terrible, but I say that I shall come as often as I like.˝

˝If you come in the daytime.˝

˝Whenever I please. And if the devil stands in my road, I'll seize him by the horns.˝

˝Oh, Bogun, Bogun!˝

˝Oh, Dontsovna, Dontsovna, don't trouble yourself about me! Whether the devil takes me or not is no concern of yours; but I tell you this,–take council with your devils when you please, if only no harm comes to the princess; but if anything happens to her, then neither devils nor vampires will tear you from my grasp.˝

˝Oh, they tried to drown me once when I lived with my brother on the Don, another time the executioner was going to cut my head off in Yampol,–I didn't care for that. But this is another thing. I will guard her out of friendship for you, so that no spirit will make a hair of her head fall, and in my hands she is safe from men. She won't escape you.˝

˝And, you owl, if you talk this way, why do you prophesy evil? Why do you hoot in my ear, 'Pole at her side! Pole at her side!'˝

˝It was not I that spoke, but the spirits. But now perhaps there is a change. I will prophesy for you to-morrow on the water of the mill-wheel. On the water everything is clearly visible, but it is necessary to look a long time, you will see yourself. But you are a furious dog; if the truth is told, you are angry and wish to kill one.˝

Conversation was interrupted, and only the striking of the horses' feet against the stones was heard, and certain sounds from the direction of the river, like the chirping of crickets.

Bogun paid not the least attention to these sounds, though they might astonish one in the night. He raised his face to the moon and fell into deep thought.

˝Horpyna!˝ said he, after a while.

˝What?˝

˝You are a witch; you must know whether or not it is true that there is an herb of some kind that whoever drinks of it must fall in love,–lubystka, is it?˝

˝Yes, lubystka. But unfortunately for you, lubystka will not help. If the princess hadn't fallen in love with some one else, then you might give it to her; but if she is in love, do you know what will happen?˝

˝What?˝

˝She will love the other man still more.˝

˝Oh, perish with your lubystka! You know how to prophesy evil, but you don't know how to help.˝

˝Listen to me! I know other herbs which grow from the earth; whoever drinks them will be like a stump two days and two nights, knowing nothing of the world. I will give her those herbs, and then–˝

The Cossack shuddered in his saddle, and fixed on the witch his eyes gleaming in the darkness. ˝What are you croaking about?˝ he asked.

˝Then you can–˝ said the witch, and burst into loud laughter like the neighing of a mare. This laughter resounded with ill-omened echo through the windings of the glen.

˝Wretch!˝ said Bogun.

Then the light of his eyes went out gradually; he dropped again into meditation, and at length began to speak as if to himself,–

˝No, no! When we captured Bar, I rushed first to the monastery, so as to defend her from the drunken crowd and smash the head of any man who should come near her; but she stabbed herself with a knife, and now has no consciousness of God's world. If I lay a finger on her, she will stab herself again, or jump into the river if you are not careful,–ill-fated that I am!˝

˝You are at heart a Pole, not a Cossack, if you will not constrain the girl in Cossack fashion–˝

˝That I were a Pole, that I were a Pole!˝ cried Bogun, grasping the cap on his head with both hands, for pain had seized him.

˝The Polish woman must have bewitched you,˝ muttered Horpyna.

˝Ai! if she has not,˝ answered he, sadly, ˝may the first bullet not pass me; may I finish my wretched life on the empaling stake! I love one in the world, and that one does not love me!˝

˝Fool!˝ cried Horpyna, with anger; ˝but you have got her!˝

˝Hold your tongue!˝ cried he, with rage. ˝If she lays hands on herself, then what? I'll tear you apart and then myself. I'll break my head against a rock, I'll gnaw people like a dog. I would have given my soul for her, Cossack fame. I would have fled beyond the Yagorlik from the regiments to the end of the earth, to live with her, to die at her side. That's what I would have done. But she stabbed herself with a knife, and through whom? Through me! She stabbed herself with a knife! Do you hear?˝

˝That's nothing. She will not die.˝

˝If she dies, I will nail you to the door.˝

˝You have no power over her.˝

˝I have none, I have none. Would she had stabbed me,–it would have been better had she killed me!˝

˝Silly little Pole! She should have been kind to you. Where will she find your superior?˝

˝Arrange this, and I will give you a pot of ducats and another of pearls. In Bar we took booty not a little, and before that we took booty too.˝

˝You are as rich as Prince Yeremi, and full of fame. They say Krívonos himself is afraid of you.˝

The Cossack waved his hand. ˝What is that to me if my heart is sore–˝

And silence came again. The bank of the river grew wider and more desolate. The pale light of the moon lent fantastic forms to the trees and the rocks. At last Horpyna said,–

˝This is the Enemy's Mound. We must ride together.˝

˝Why?˝

˝It is a bad place.˝

They reined in their horses, and after a while the party coming on behind joined them. Bogun rose in the stirrups and looked into the cradle.

˝Is she asleep?˝ he asked.

˝She is sleeping as sweetly as an infant,˝ answered an old Cossack.

˝I gave her a sleeping dose,˝ said the witch.

˝Slowly, carefully!˝ said Bogun, fixing his eyes on the sleeper; ˝don't wake her! The moon is looking straight into her face, my dear one!˝

˝It shines quietly, it will not wake her,˝ whispered one of the Cossacks.

The party moved on. Soon they arrived at the Enemy's Mound. It was a low hill lying close to the river and sloping like a round shield on the earth. The moon covered the place entirely with its beams, lighting up the white stones scattered over the whole extent of it. In some spots they lay singly; in others they formed heaps, as it were fragments of buildings, ruined castles, and churches. Here and there stone slabs stuck up, planted endwise in the earth like gravestones in a cemetery. The whole mound was like a great ruin, and perhaps in other ages, long before the days of the Yagellons, human life flourished upon it; now not only the mound but the whole neighborhood as far as Rashkoff was an empty waste, in which wild beasts alone found refuge, and in the night evil spirits held their dances.

The party had scarcely reached half the height of the mound, when the light breeze which had been blowing hitherto changed into a regular whirlwind, which began to encircle the mound with a certain gloomy, ominous whistling; and then it appeared to the Cossacks that among those ruins were heard heavy sighs, issuing as it were from straitened breasts, sad groans, laughter, wailing, and puling of infants. The whole mound began to be alive, to call with various voices. From behind the stones lofty dark figures seemed to look, shadows of strange forms glided along quietly among the slabs. Far off in the darkness gleamed lights like the eyes of wolves. Finally, from the other end of the mound, from among the thickest heaps and piles, was heard a low guttural howling, to which other howling responded at once.

˝Vampires!˝ whispered a young Cossack, turning to the old essaul.

˝No, werewolves,˝ answered the old essaul, in a still lower voice.

˝O Lord, have mercy on us!˝ said others in terror, removing their caps and crossing themselves devoutly.

The horses began to point their ears forward and snort. Horpyna, riding at the head of the party, muttered unintelligible words, as it were a sort of Satanic Pater-noster. When they had arrived at the other end of the mound, she turned and said,–

˝Well, it is over. We are safe now. I had to keep them back with a charm, for they were very hungry.˝

A sigh of relief came from every breast. Bogun and Horpyna rode ahead again; but the Cossacks, who a little while before had held their breaths, began to whisper and talk. Each one remembered what had happened to him when he met ghosts or werewolves.

˝We couldn't have passed without Horpyna,˝ said one.

˝She is a powerful witch.˝

˝And our ataman does not fear even the werewolf. He didn't look, didn't listen, only turned toward his princess.˝

˝If what happened to me happened to him, he wouldn't have been so free from danger,˝ said the old essaul.

˝And what happened to you, Father Ovsivuyu?˝

˝Once, while riding from Reimentarovka to Gulaipolye, I passed near some mounds at night, and I saw something jump from a grave behind me on the saddle. I looked; it was a little child, blue and pale! Evidently the Tartars had taken it captive with its mother and it had died without baptism. Its eyes were burning like candles, and it wailed and wailed. It jumped from the saddle to my neck, and I felt it biting me behind the ear. O Lord, save us! it is a vampire! I had served long in Wallachia, where there are more vampires than people, but where there are weapons against them. I sprang from the horse and thrust my dagger into the ground. 'A vaunt! disappear!' and it groaned, seized the hilt of the dagger, and slipped down along the edge under the grass. I cut the ground in the form of a cross and rode off.˝

˝Are there so many vampires in Wallachia, father?˝

˝Every other Wallachian after death becomes a vampire, and the Wallachian vampires are the worst of all. They call them brukolaki.˝

˝And who is stronger, father,–the werewolf or the vampire?˝

˝The werewolf is stronger, but the vampire is more stubborn. If you are able to get the upper hand of the werewolf, he will serve you, but vampires are good for nothing except to follow blood. The werewolf is always ataman over the vampires.˝

˝And Horpyna commands the werewolves?˝

˝Yes, surely. As long as she lives she will command them. If she had not power over them, then the ataman would not give her his cuckoo, for werewolves thirst for maiden's blood above all.˝

˝But I have heard that they have no approach to an innocent soul.˝

˝To a soul they have not, but to a body they have.˝

˝Oh, it would be a pity! She is a beauty. Blood and milk! our father knew what to take in Bar.˝

Ovsivuyu smacked his tongue. ˝There is no denying it; she is a golden Pole.˝

˝But I am sorry for her,˝ said a young Cossack. ˝When we were putting her in the swing she clasped her white hands and begged, saying, 'Kill me; do not ruin me, unfortunate one!'˝

˝No harm will come to her.˝

Further conversation was interrupted by the approach of Horpyna.

˝Hei! young men,˝ said the witch, ˝this is Tartar Valley, but don't fear; it is terrible here only one night in the year. Right after it is the Devil's Glen, and then my place.˝

In fact, the howling of dogs was soon heard. The party entered the mouth of the glen, running at right angles to the river, and so narrow that four horses could hardly enter it abreast. At the bottom of this chasm flowed a rivulet, changing color in the light of the moon like a snake, and running quickly to the river. But as the party pushed on, the precipitous and jagged walls receded from each other, leaving a rather roomy, slightly ascending valley, enclosed at each side with cliffs. The place was covered here and there with lofty trees. No wind was blowing. Long, dark shadows of the trees lay on the ground, and in the spaces flooded with the light of the moon certain white, round, or prolonged objects gleamed sharply, in which the Cossacks recognized with terror the skulls and leg-bones of men. They looked around therefore with distrust, marking their foreheads from time to time with the cross. Soon a light glimmered in the distance between the trees, and at that same time two terrible dogs ran up, enormous, black, with gleaming eyes, barking and howling at the sight of the men and horses. At the voice of Horpyna they stopped, however, and began to run around the riders, sneezing and panting.

˝They are not what they seem,˝ whispered the Cossacks.

˝They are not dogs,˝ said old Ovsivuyu, in a voice betraying deep conviction.

Just then a cottage became visible behind the trees; back of it a stable; farther and higher up another dark building. The cottage appeared strong and well-built, and in its windows a light was shining.

˝This is my dwelling,˝ said Horpyna to Bogun, ˝and up there is the mill which grinds grain for us; and I tell fortunes from the water on the wheel. I will tell yours. Your princess will live in the best chamber; but if you wish to ornament the walls, we can remove her to the other side immediately. Stop and dismount!˝

The party halted, and Horpyna began to cry: ˝Cheremís, I say! Cheremís!˝

A figure holding a bunch of burning pitch-pine came out in front of the cottage, and raising the torch, began to look in silence at those present. It was an old man, an ugly creature, small, quite a dwarf, with a flat, square face, and slanting eyes, like cracks.

˝What sort of devil are you?˝ asked Bogun.

˝Don't ask him,˝ said the giantess; ˝his tongue is cut out. Come nearer and listen!˝ continued the witch; ˝it is better, perhaps, to carry the princess to the mill. The Cossacks will fit up her chamber, and drive nails that would wake her up.˝

The Cossacks, having dismounted, began to untie the swing carefully. Bogun watched over everything with the greatest care, and carried the head of the swing himself when it was taken to the mill. The dwarf lighted the way in advance with the torch. The princess, put to sleep by Horpyna with a decoction of somniferous herbs, did not wake; her eyelids merely trembled a little from the light of the torch. Her face appeared alive from those red gleams. Perhaps, also, wonderful dreams soothed the girl, for she smiled sweetly during the journey, which was like a funeral. Bogun looked at her, and it appeared to him that his heart would break the ribs in his breast. ˝My darling, my cuckoo!˝ whispered he quietly; and the terrible though beautiful face of the chief became mild, and flamed with the great light of love, which had seized him, and was seizing him every moment the more, as fire, forgotten by the traveller, seizes the wild steppe.

Horpyna, walking at his side, said: ˝When she wakes from this sleep she will be well. Her wound will heal, and she will be well.˝

˝Glory be to God! glory be to God!˝ answered the chief.

The Cossacks began to loosen from six horses great packs in front of the cottage, and to take out the booty,–rich stuffs, carpets, and other valuables taken at Bar. A good fire was kindled in the room; and when some brought in new tapestry, others put it up to the wooden walls of the room. Bogun not only thought of a safe cage for his bird, but he determined so to furnish it that captivity should not seem unendurable. He came soon from the mill and directed the work himself. The night was passing away, and the moon had already removed its pale light from the summits of the cliffs. In the cottage were still heard the muffled blows of hammers. The simple room had become more like a chamber, when the walls were covered with drapery and the floor carpeted. The sleeping princess was brought back and placed on soft cushions.

Then all grew silent, except that in the stable for some time yet bursts of laughter were heard in the stillness like the neighing of a horse: the young witch was wrestling with the Cossacks, giving them fisticuffs and kisses.

Notes

Polish Alphabet.

Since the Polish alphabet has many peculiar phonetic combinations which are difficult to one who does not know the language, it was decided to transliterate the names of persons and places in which such combinations occur in this book. The following are the letters and combinations which are met with most frequently;