charm with which these poor people strive to pacify the divinities they
believe in, the sufferer repeats the words with his dying breath and
expires without anxiety on that score. When the corpse has stiffened,
they bury it beneath some forest tree, cutting a great cross into the
bole, not forgetting some mysterious signs to its right and left "for
the other gods."

If, then, they manage even to die without the aid of a parish priest,
it is scarcely to be wondered at if they do not need him to tie the
nuptial knot. When any man and woman among them, generally of riper
years, have agreed to spend their future days in common, this is a
matter, they think, which concerns no one beyond themselves except the
heads of their settlements, who never withhold their blessing unless
the bridal pair should happen to be of different settlements at
variance at the time about some bit of property or act of violence. If
such is not the case the wedding is fixed upon forthwith, and word is
sent over the mountains: "Come to the homestead of Marko, on such and
such a day, when long-legged Sefko will take curly Magdusia to wife."
And everybody is sure to come, bringing little gifts of kindness, and
taking their fill of the schnaps which the heads of the settlements
have procured in exchange for some sheep in honour of the guests. And
when the last drop has been consumed, Sefko and Magdusia are looked
upon as married, which does not always imply a change in the place of
abode of either of them.

As for the pope's blessing, it is not disregarded on principle, since
even the other gods are remembered; only there is no hurry. Sefko has
no idea that Magdusia, in order to be his really, must be given to him
by the pope, and so he takes his time about it, presenting himself for
the blessing when opportunity offers, maybe the christening of their
first offspring. If the pope be at all zealous he will, of course,
lecture them on their want of morality, the pair listening
submissively, but never understanding what should have roused the good
man's ire, or displeased the Almighty, as he tells them. As for the
infant, it is considered to belong to its mother's settlement, growing
up to the same rights as any other youth.

For the rest, the Huzul shares in all the virtues and vices of
uncivilised humanity: he is free from envy, candid, brave, and
hospitable, but also coarse in his tastes and cruel. The Emperor's
magistrates are nothing to him, he does not need their protection; and
of his free-will he is not likely to pay any tax. Let his cousins of
the lowlands do that, whom he pities and despises accordingly.

Of a similar kind are his feelings concerning the homeless hajdamaks;
he, the native of the mountains, looking upon the outlaws much as the
bear is supposed to look upon man; and, in consequence, actual enmity
between them is rare. Not unless he were really starving with hunger or
cold would a hajdamak ever think of attacking even a single herdsman up
yonder, a last remnant of generosity preventing him from wronging those
on whose soil he dwells, and who, as he but too well knows, could take
grievous revenge any moment. Not in the memory of men, therefore--which
is the only source of authentic history within the mountains--has it
ever happened that a band of outlaws dared an attack upon any
settlement.

But if the Huzul has little to fear from the hajdamaks, he may yet get
into trouble on account of them, that is, by means of the Whitecoats
who are after those ruffians. The Huzul considers it incumbent on him
to hate the soldiers; for are they not the servants of a power he
refuses to recognise? But that power will lay hold of him if it can.
There is no help for the Emperor--he must just put up with it--if the
Huzul refuses to consider himself a taxpayer; some Imperial exciseman,
however, may see his opportunity of paying the Huzuls a visit under
cover of the military. "Hang the hajdamaks!" groans the Huzul, "but for
them no confounded exciseman would have ventured up hither;" and,
overpowered with the thought of his loss in lambs and sheep, he is sure
to add: "Hang the Whitecoats! I wish the hajdamaks could teach them a
lesson and make them keep clear of the mountains for ever." He is so
wrathful, indeed, that he could scarcely tell which of the two he would
like to see hanged first.

A strict neutrality, however, is the outcome. He would rather die than
betray to the Whitecoats the hiding place of "Green Giorgi"; at the
same time he has no idea of warning the outlaw of his enemy's approach,
or of rendering him any assistance whatever. He just looks on; and
nothing would please him better than that the belligerent parties, like
the fighting lions of the fable, should devour each other bodily. And
there are other considerations, besides, inviting him to neutrality. He
knows that there are ruffians among the hajdamaks whom, even with his
notions of honour and justice, he cannot possibly approve of; but they
are a mixed lot, and there are others among them who have done nothing
a Huzul would despise. And since it is not written in a man's face why
he has become an outlaw, the Huzul behaves alike to them all, neither
loving them nor hating them, but holding aloof strictly.

The Imperial authorities, then, cannot expect the Huzuls' help against
the bandits, and need not fear their making common cause with them; but
that is all, since no one ever lifts a finger to raise the poor
dwellers of the mountains and teach them a higher standard of right and
wrong. It were quite useless to expect any better; and if regiment upon
regiment were let loose upon the Carpathians no lasting result could be
looked for; for to give chase to any outlaw in the vast forests is as
hopeless as to seek for a particular insect in a cornfield. The lawless
trade will not die out till Civilisation takes up her abode in the
mountain wilds, taming the dwellers therein; and, if unable to make
better men of them, preparing the way at least for her nobler sister,
even Justice herself, in whose fair sight men are equals, and
oppression shall not stand.

It would be a mistake, however, to imagine that all hajdamaks are
criminals and cut-throats; a distinction must be made. There is no
exact rendering for the word itself in any of the western tongues, and,
fortunately, the thing also lies beyond the experience of happier
nations. The Bulgarians only have a similar word, denoting a similar
existence, the "hajdamak" of the Carpathians and the "hajduk" of the
Balkan being akin, both revealing in strangest blending some of the
best and some of the very worst impulses of a suffering people. It is
not easy, therefore, to judge fairly.

There are three distinct types among these outlaws, or "free men" as
they call themselves. Firstly, there are those who have escaped from
the arm of justice, having committed some crime, and who are not only
guilty in the sight of the law, but of ill repute even among their
kind. These men never unite in great numbers, their own wickedness
rendering them distrustful of one another. Singly, or at most by twos
and threes, they will pursue their villainous trade of waylaying
travellers, or perpetrating what robbery they can. They avoid open
fight, being best protected by their cunning.

Secondly, and far more numerous, are those who are criminals indeed in
the eye of the law, but are looked upon by the people as martyrs to
their cause. Some may have fought the tax-gatherers in bitter despair
when they were about to be sold up; they may have been good and
peaceful men, who thus suddenly took up the evil life. But, terrible as
existence may be in the forest wilds, it is better than prison, and the
unhappy man flies thither from the wrong he has committed almost in
spite of himself. "He is gone after the sun," say his neighbours, glad
to know him safe when the constables seek him--gone westward, that is,
from lowland Podolia into the Carpathians. And others there are,
martyrs to the sad relation between the Polish landlord and the Ruthen
peasant; the landlord oppressing, till at some dark moment of wrath or
drunkenness the peasant snatches up his gun or hatchet. There are
deserters, too, from the Emperor's colours, sympathised with cordially;
for what right should the Emperor have, argue these people, to levy the
life-tax among them!

"Come join us, ye men, for life here is sweet!" are the words of a
hajdamak song. But in truth it is an awful existence, although the
miserable fellows do their best to make it bearable to one another.
They will gather in bands of a score or more, plighting their troth,
each sharing with the other the good things which are of the fewest and
the ill things that abound. The Huzul will leave them alone, and the
Whitecoats they need scarcely fear. But it is nowise easy to be an
"honest hajdamak" when hunger and cold pursue them--for they have
notions of honesty of their own, as old Jemilian suggested in his
report to Father Leo. It is "honest" in an outlaw not to commit mere
vulgar robbery, or take life save in self-defence or for revenge. He
may rob a Polish landlord or the men of the law, but he would be
disgraced by robbing a peasant or a village pope. It is quite "honest"
to stop a stage-coach, empty the postbags, and rob any Polish or
Austrian passenger; but it would be disgraceful to inquire what money a
pope might carry with him, travelling by the same coach. There was a
time when no stage-coach in those parts could be safe from an attack of
hajdamaks, unless accompanied by a strong escort of soldiers. "Great
deeds," however, grew more and more impossible, and indeed they were
never easy. It was always a miserable life in the dreary wilds, without
shelter in the rigorous winter-time, and often without food. And it
would entirely depend on what manner of man the 'hetman' (captain) was,
as to how a band would bear up through such a season of distress;
whether "dishonesty" would be had recourse to, when for the gaining of
a mere livelihood they would sink to the level of the despised
criminal, or whether their spirit would rise to some "great deed" of
despair, even if it must bring them to close quarters with the
Whitecoats. But this second alternative, as a rule, might only be
looked for if the 'hetman' was a hajdamak by deliberate choice, driven
to the life for an idea rather than as the outcome of some crime.

Men of this kind form the third class; they have always been rare, and
the history of one adopting the awful trade of his own free will has
ever made a stir. Mere love of pillage could never be an adequate
reason; for a man of this description is aware that he can rob his
neighbours with less trouble in the plain. No, there are nobler
motives--a wild passionate manliness rising against oppression, or a
yearning indignation and pitiful sympathy with the helpless despair of
the people, will urge some few to "go after the sun." These few are the
last representatives of the true hajdamak, who is fast becoming a
legend of the past. The Ruthens, now the most peaceful and the most
oppressed of Slavonic tribes, at one time were the boldest and most
belligerent of the race, the terror of their neighbours, Poles,
Russians, and Roumanians. But to-day one could only wonder why these
people in song and story should always be designated as "falcon-faced,"
if indeed such a face were not met with among them occasionally even
now--bold and clear-cut, full of energy and passion, with dark daring
eyes. And as the type is found still, so are the old dauntless courage,
and the ardent love of liberty. But he who preserves the true nature is
lonely among his kind, and the misery about him will fill his soul with
a bitter yearning for the times that are gone, the times surviving only
in their songs--wild passionate outbursts, full of bravery and
fortitude, sounding strangely enough on the lips of the humbled,
labouring peasants. And such a one by his own inward necessity is
driven forth from the plain; he takes to the mountains, and henceforth
it is his one desire to make war upon the Polish oppressors, the
murderers of his race. It is his one idea, his one resolve; and being a
man of energy and power, he will naturally rise to the leadership of a
band. He is an "honest hajdamak" at first, but does not always end so;
for it is an evil trade, hurtful to body and soul. And whether they
remain "honest," or fall away from the higher aspiration, they are sure
to end ill--they and their followers.

Truly an evil trade, and few taking to it ever reach old age; the
pitiless cold, or hunger and hardships of grimmest kind decimating the
band, while the more hardy ones fall a prey to the wild beasts, if not
brought to the gallows instead. And whatever their end may be, their
people are anxious that their memory should be wiped out--anxious it
should be forgotten that one of theirs took to the mountains. A
hajdamak while he lives is held in some respect, inasmuch as he has
gained the liberty sighed for by others--the dead man is nowhere.

But among the numbers living and dying thus sadly, there are three
whose names are not forgotten, whose memory lives in song and tale,
though dimmed with the haze of receding years; three who are famous,
moreover, as being the only "hetmen" who moved the Huzuls to take part
for or against them.

The first of these was one Alexander Dobosch, called the Black, or the
Iron-framed, a Ruthen from the Bukowina who arose towards the end of
the eighteenth century, and for several years was far more powerful
throughout Pokutia than the Emperor. He had been a well-to-do peasant,
and a boundless ambition only appears to have led him to his strange
and fearful adventures. The Huzuls adored him, and he behaved like a
king of the mountains, issuing manifestos to the "fellow at Vienna,"
making laws and levying taxes. But this was his ruin; the Huzuls were
not going to condone in the iron-framed hajdamak what they had never
approved of in the "fellow at Vienna." Their devotion gave way to
wrath, but the man was so powerful that they dared not oppose him
openly. He was poisoned by some of his followers at a drinking bout.

Of a different type was "Wild Wassilj," or, as song has it, the "great
hajdamak," a Podolian peasant youth, lithe as a sapling pine, strong as
a bear, and daring as a falcon. He had been in the personal service of
a young noble, the brother-in-law of the lord of the manor, both of
whom were the terror and detestation of every father and husband in the
neighbourhood. But Wassilj suddenly set his face against the lawless
life, growing strangely silent and anxious to be good; the fact was he
loved an honest maiden of the village. But, unhappily, his master
himself had set eyes upon the girl, and, finding her proof against his
advances, he carried her off with the help of some menials. Wassilj
thereupon waylaid and shot him, forming a band there and then, and
becoming the scourge of the nobility for miles around, his thirst for
revenge being unappeasable. It was found in those days how little it
availed to send out soldiers with a hope of crushing the bandits in
their mountains. The "great hajdamak" was not vanquished by anything
the authorities could devise against him; but the innate spark of
goodness in his wild and wayward heart overcame him in the end. For he
was not a bad man by nature, and the remorse that would seize upon him
was as poignant as it was true; but he quieted his conscience with the
delusion that he was doing these terrible things for the sake of the
suffering people. One day, however, when he had overpowered some nobles
in the castle of his native village, and had called upon the judge to
assist him in bringing them to their just doom, the latter refused,
saying he was an honest man, and could not join in the evil work of a
cut-throat. That word struck Wassilj to the heart, and the same night,
with a bullet from his own gun, he stilled that misguided heart for
ever.

But the third one, whom the Huzuls assisted--he whom in song they
called "the good judge" and "the great avenger"--was Taras Barabola.

                              CHAPTER XI.

                                OUTLAWED.

THE "good judge!" ... the "great avenger!" ...

It was not only after his death, not in commemorating song only, that
Taras was first so designated. These appellations dated from the
spring-time of 1839. When Palm Sunday had come and gone they were
echoed from mouth to mouth, while the strange declaration of war that
had been uttered beneath the linden of Zulawce was fresh in the minds
of all. His mission was believed in, though as yet unaccredited by
deed. As on the wings of a mighty wind the news sped from village to
village, from district to district. Not a week passed before all the
people had heard it--in Pokutia, in the Marmaros, in Podolia, and in
the Bukowina; and gathering in groups after the morning service on
Easter Sunday, it was the one topic with them everywhere: "To-day Taras
will be unfurling his banner.... Could there be a surer proof of our
misery? He, a Christ-like man, and yet driven to turn hajdamak!... But
it is well for us--Taras has ever been a good judge, and he will prove
a mighty avenger!"

This opinion had formed rapidly. A whole people stirred to its depth is
almost always a righteous judge, a true prophet. Every man and woman
understood that unheard-of things were passing. True, it was within the
experience of most of them that some one or other had taken to the
mountains; but such volunteers to the desperate trade had been young
fellows without home ties, or men of a turbulent character breaking
away from the restraints of the law. But how different with this
peace-loving peasant, who had everything to make his home attractive,
this man who once pointed a pistol at his own forehead to prevent
violence from being met with violence! That phrase of Mr. Broza's which
Taras himself had repeated reluctantly, and only because he was a
"dying man," had taken hold of the people's imagination--_a Christ-like
man_. And truly there was a breath of the Divine sweeping the senses of
the oppressed peasantry as they strove to understand his motives. It
could not be the love of revenge with him, for he had not been wronged
personally; it could not be that he sought to defend his own property,
for it had not been touched. He must be doing it, then, simply because
"in this unhappy country justice was not to be found," and "because the
people had sore need of one to avenge them." And if there is anything
that will move the heart of man to its inmost depth, filling it with
holy reverence, it is the unselfish deed done for love of a cause which
is sacred to all and believed in by each.

With similar enthusiasm Taras was greeted in the mountains. The rude
men who dwell there had been gained so thoroughly during his former
sojourn, that one and all they welcomed the news of his returning to be
among them for good. Was he not a victim of the oppression they hated?
its sworn enemy, who henceforth would live to oppose it? Every glen on
either side of the Black Water was alive with sympathy, and Taras had a
staunch ally in every man far and wide in the forest.

In his own village, too, opinion had rallied round him entirely, though
it would have been difficult to say whether this was due chiefly to the
impression he had made upon his hearers on that Sunday, or to the
selfish vanity of the people. The hearts of some had certainly been
touched, and a natural pity for his forsaken wife roused others; while
others, again, were merely glad that Taras had come to see the folly of
trusting in the law, and it flattered their pride that from among
themselves an avenger should rise who would make the country ring with
his valour. A man of Zulawce in those days was welcome wherever he
went, because he could tell of the hero of the hour. The people round
about seemed to be insatiable of news concerning this Taras, and were
ready to stand any amount of drink to him who could gratify them, for
which reason the men of Zulawce, nothing loth, invented story upon
story to glorify the pure-hearted man whose life they had embittered
all along. Yes, the outlaw once more had risen to be the great
favourite of his adopted village.

Yet there were few, even in his own village, who felt for him truly or
mourned his loss, and the one man whose sorrow was most deeply sincere
carefully avoided the very mention of his name. The good pope had not
breathed a word concerning Taras since that saddest of partings beneath
the linden. His wife only guessed how he suffered, but even she was
mistaken in believing that his heart ached for the loss of his friend
alone. He was battling with another sorrow, a deeper trouble
overshadowing his pious mind. And the moment came when the popadja
understood it.

It was on the evening of Good Friday. Not till nine o'clock, and weary
with the many services of the day, had the priest returned home, eating
a mouthful of supper, and retiring to his study. Thither his wife
followed him presently, establishing herself with her needlework in
silence. He was pacing the room, murmuring to himself, as was his wont
in preparing his sermon, and she refrained from speaking, but gave a
furtive glance at him now and then. She had often thus watched him
occupied in holy meditation, and the inward peace radiating from his
countenance at such times would sink into her own heart with a loving
content. Not so now, for an unspeakable grief was reflected in the face
she gazed upon, and the bitterness seemed overflowing till she trembled
and took courage to interrupt him.

"Husband," she said, with a beating heart, "are you now busy with the
sermon for Easter Day?"

He started, looking before him gloomily. "I am utterly unfit!" he
whispered hoarsely, as though speaking to himself ... "utterly unfit!"
He groaned aloud, covering his face with his hands.

The good wife was by his side in a moment. "Leo," she sobbed, "what is
it? ... Ah, yes, I know; but you must not thus give way to your grief.
You could not prevent it!"

He shook his head, and then caught her hand like a drowning man. "No,
wife," he groaned, "it is not merely grief for his loss! But since
that man has gone to ruin, I seem a hypocrite whenever I turn to my
prayers ..."

"Good God!" she cried, aghast.

"I seem such, indeed," he continued, hastily; "it is more than I can
bear, and I cannot help it! Have I not been teaching and preaching the
justice of God? And now to see this man gone to ruin--this man!"

"But, husband, dear," she cried, anxiously, "have you not often tried
to make us see that the true recompense is in the life to come? Will
you doubt it yourself now?"

"In the life to come; yes, yes," he repeated in the same husky voice;
"it is the one thing to hold by.... But why should it all go wrong in
this world? I mean, so terribly wrong? This man!... his wife gone out
of her mind, his children orphaned, and he himself making straight for
the gallows, just because, in a wicked, self-seeking world, he has
within him the heart of a child that will trust his God and believe in
justice ... oh, it is awful ... awful!"

She clung to him, but he freed himself from her embrace, and once more
walked to and fro excitedly. The faithful wife could but retire to her
corner, sharing his trouble apart.

Some minutes passed.

And presently he stood still before her, lifting her tearful face, and
stroking her hair gently. "Fruzia," he said, with quivering voice, "I
promise you to try and bear it. I shall battle it out; but it is a sore
thing, and needs time.... Go to bed now and be comforted.... I shall
battle it out."

The wife obeyed, but found little sleep, and her soul kept crying
through the darkness of that night: "Oh, God, pity my husband--he, the
priest, to lose faith in Thee!" Many a wiser prayer may rise to the ear
of the Giver of all things; yet none, perhaps, ever was more touching.

When daylight returned she felt comforted, and drew courage from her
husband's quiet face on his bidding her good-bye for early service.
She, too, left the house, but not to go to church, for a duty no less
sacred directed her steps to Anusia's house.

Poor Anusia, indeed! It was not without reason that her friends
sorrowed for her, for she was doubly stricken. The last articulate
sound that had crossed her lips had been her husband's name--that cry
of despair wrung from her as he departed. Her grief since then had
found vent in wild ravings only, night and day, day and night. Not a
prayer, not a complaint had she uttered, and her eyes were tearless;
but she would give a shriek and continue moaning with parched lips.
Those that watched her believed her out of her mind, and no hope seemed
left, save with Father Leo, who clung to it. "It will pass away," he
said, well-nigh despairing himself; "hers is a more passionate nature
than ours, and her grief is the wilder." Her ravings, indeed, appeared
to lessen, the feverish agony grew calmer, and she began to take food;
but to her friends the supervening apathy seemed worse than what had
gone before. There she lay in a kind of living death, uttering not a
sound, large-eyed and white-faced, wearing the expression of a helpless
agony. But when her friends or the children attempted to rouse her, she
waved them off, or cried huskily: "Leave me alone, I must think it
over." And Father Leo would say: "No one can help her, she must battle
through it; but the children must be seen to, having lost both father
and mother." And he arranged with his wife that twice a day she should
go over to the farm to see to the needs of the household; while outdoor
matters found a willing helper in Hritzko Pomenko, the eldest of
Simeon's lads. "If I work for Taras I shall perhaps bear it that he
left me behind," said the honest youth.

That had been on the Thursday. Anusia appeared to take no notice that
things were seen to by friends and neighbours, and she continued the
whole of Good Friday in the same dull stupor. But when the popadja
entered the sick-chamber early on the Saturday a happy change,
evidently, had taken place. The bed was vacated, and a servant-girl
came running in explaining: "The mistress is looking after the dairy,
she is scolding poor Hritzko grievously because he brought over his
father's new churn."

And, indeed, the startled popadja even now could hear the so-called
scolding. "I know you meant kindly, Hritzko," Anusia was saying, in a
voice both firm and clear; "but just take your things home with you, I
can manage my own business." And the priest's lady herself presently
received a similar greeting. "It is most kind of you"--Anusia made
haste to address her friend as soon as she beheld her--"I am pleased to
see you any time; but leave me now. And this kerchief must be yours, I
think; I found my Tereska wearing it. But my children are no poor
orphans, thank God, requiring friends to clothe them."

The good lady was only too willing to be reproved. "Say what you like,"
she cried, "I am happy to find you up again!"

"Yes," said Anusia, with perfect composure, "I know you all thought I
had gone mad. But my mind was right enough; only, you see, I had to
satisfy my own judgment that my husband had done well. I had always
looked upon him as the most perfect man on earth, so that the need was
great to find an answer to my questioning, and everything besides had
to give way."

"Then you arrived at the conclusion that nothing else was left for
him?" broke in Hritzko, vehemently.

"I have," she assented. "I saw it was his heart that laid it upon him
to act as he has done, and he is a man that cannot go against the
behest of his own heart. I know that, and it must be enough for me. As
to whether he is otherwise in the right or not, I, a woman, am unable
to decide. My mind says 'Yes,' but the heart keeps crying 'No.' I can
but wait and see. If he is in the right the Almighty will own him and
let him be a helper to many. But if he is on the path of wrong, God
will turn from him, and his end will be the gallows. Be that as it may;
he is lost to us, my children are fatherless, and henceforth I must be
to them father and mother in one."

"And we all will help you!" cried the popadja, warmly.

"As far as I may need your help," returned Anusia, "I shall accept it
gratefully." And therewith she resumed issuing orders to the servants
about the place.

Father Leo did not learn the good news till about noon, when he
returned from the parish, and, not waiting to eat his dinner, he
hastened to the farm to see with his own eyes that Anusia indeed had
recovered. He found her very quiet and self-possessed, and there was
nothing to make him doubt the soundness of her mind, save the
occupation he found her engaged upon. She had had the great barn
cleared and the floor was being spread with straw. "What for?" he
inquired, wonderingly.

"To sleep the soldiers," she replied, with a bitter smile.

"The soldiers! What soldiers?"

"I am surprised your reverence should require me to explain," she said.
"Is it unknown to you that he who but lately was master here has
declared war against his Emperor, and that the wife and children of
that man are here unprotected? Will it not be the most natural thing to
take possession of this farm in order to make it impossible for him to
visit his family secretly? And, moreover, it might be supposed that his
wife could be so questioned that from her his whereabouts could be
learned; at any rate, it might be useful to make sure of her and her
children as hostages, in case ..."

"No, no!" cried Leo, "this latter, most certainly not. The Emperor will
never wage war upon women and children."

"Well, we shall see," she continued; "thus much is certain, that we
shall have the Whitecoats quartered here before long; that coward of a
mandatar will take care we shall, if no one else will. Did not Taras
inform him plainly that with him the beginning should be made? I am
only sorry for the village. It is hard that the neighbours should
suffer, and it will turn them against us. It will be but natural if
they do, and I cannot help it."

"They shall not, if I can prevent it," cried the pope, eagerly. "Now I
know what to preach about to-morrow!"

"Well, I shall be grateful to you, whether you succeed or not, but one
thing you must promise me"--she held out her hand, drawing herself up
proudly. "You shall not ask them to pity me or my children. We do not
need it, please God, while I have health and am able to keep house and
home together."

He gave her his word, and kept it as far as his own compassion would
let him. But his wife, in her own heart, was proudly happy, for never
had she heard him preach with a fervour more tender and soul-stirring;
not noticing in her wifely gladness that this sermon of his differed
somewhat from his usual discourses, inasmuch as he never mentioned
either the wisdom or the justice of the Almighty, being taken up
entirely with the one message to his hearers, the one exhortation of
"loving our neighbour as ourselves!" And as he strove in his simple,
yet impressive way to make it plain that an act of true love to one's
neighbours, mistaken, even, though it might be, was none the less
worthy of grateful acknowledgment, and that at all events it could
never deserve the ill-will of those for whose sake it had been done,
even though they might have to suffer in consequence--they all knew
whom and what he meant, and felt moved accordingly. And emotion
deepened when he spoke of the common sorrow making all men as brethren,
since none was fully happy here below, and that there was no surer
salvation from our own misery than being loving and good to other
sufferers, especially to the weak and forsaken, the widows and orphans
about us. And taking up an example to hand, he spoke of the sad lot of
a poor woman, named Josephka, whose husband they had lately buried. "Do
not let us imagine," he cried, "that we are doing more than our bounden
duty if we remember her trouble, aiding her with our alms, which she
hath need of sorely. Yet, poor as Josephka is, it is not she that is
the most sorrow-stricken widow among us; there being a balm to her
grief in the blessed thought that the husband she mourns has gained
that rest to which we ourselves are journeying, that he has attained
beyond the sorrow which remains with us still. There is another one
among us, widowed, I say, and more grief-bowed than she, to whom this
consolation is denied, and our most sacred duty is to her! Our alms
then to Josephka, for she has need of them, but give ye your tenderest
love, your most helpful sympathy, to that other most sorrowful widow in
this village, whose children in their father's lifetime are as orphans
in our midst!"

There was a great sobbing among the women, and a stirring among the
men. One only in all that congregation sat unmoved, even shaking her
head in disapproval--Anusia herself; and when the service was ended she
quitted the building composedly. They all made room, and none dared
address her, the popadja only joined her in silence and saw her home.

And when the men had gathered in groups without, the one topic was
Taras, as, indeed, was the case all over the country that morning. Some
had heard that already more than a hundred men had joined his banner;
others had been told that his native parish of Ridowa had sent him word
how, one and all, they were ready to rise in rebellion at his command;
others again had certain information that the district governor at
Colomea had fainted right away on hearing of Taras's now famous
declaration of war ... all of which tidings were believed in as
faithfully as though the pope himself had announced them as gospel
truth from the pulpit. And not a soul present doubted but that Taras
would swoop down on the arch-villain in their midst to judge him.

What difference of opinion there was concerned the time only when the
avenger might be expected.

"I say he will come to-night," said Wassilj, the butcher; "for to-day
he unfurls his banner, and he told us it would be his first deed."

But others opposed this opinion. "Taras is a God-fearing man," said the
sexton, "I'll never believe he will thus spend the blessed Easter."

"Nor should I think he would act foolishly," added Red Schymko; "why
the mandatar is safe away at Zablotow, hiding with the military. I know
it for certain."

"You know it for a falsehood then," retorted Giorgi Pomenko, "the
coward is hiding in the iron closet he has had built for himself at the
manor house. I rather think, therefore, we shall hear of Taras this
very night."

"So do I," chimed in Marko the smith, the giant with the infant voice;
"what should he be waiting for? Has he not men enough with the hundred
about him, being sure also of every honest, brave one among us?"

"Ho! ho!" rejoined Wassilj, the butcher, "am I not honest, or as brave
as any? yet, would I lend a hand to the deed? I doubt if many will
assist him!"

"Do you?" snarled the corporal. "Can it be a matter of doubt, indeed,
when it is a question of aiding your own great hero?"

"Hold your wicked tongue," burst in the sons of Pomenko. "The time is
gone when Taras could be insulted with impunity. Whoever would do so is
a scoundrel--and a scoundrel is every one that will not stand by him
against the mandatar!"

At which Jewgeni, the judge, grew alarmed. "Hear me," he cried.

"A scoundrel?" interrupted the butcher. "You had better hold your
tongues, youngsters; this axe of mine has silenced many a bullock!"

"Hear me," pleaded Jewgeni "A hajdamak----" and there he stopped.

"Nay, hear _me_," broke in Red Schymko; "I know what is best to do. I
make no promises either way, but shall just wait and see! If the
mandatar offers resistance, to the shedding of blood even, I were a
fool to risk life in opposing him. Is it my quarrel? Have I prevented
the parish from getting back the field by force? It was Taras's doing.
Have I lost the law suit? No, but Taras has. Have I turned outlaw,
calling myself an avenger, and having my praises sung by all the land?
No, not I; but Taras. Then, I say, let him bear the brunt. But when the
mandatar and his men are worsted, and there is a chance of repaying
ourselves, let us not be such fools as to stand by and look on. As he
robbed us, so let us rob him--that is what I think..."

"For shame!" cried Giorgi Pomenko; and Wassilj, the butcher, added:
"Yes, for shame! Are you addressing a parcel of thieves?"

"Well, hear me then--a hajdamak--and I your judge----" But Jewgeni
again stopped short, the butcher being bent on a further hearing.

"Listen to me, you men, and I will show you that I am no scoundrel," he
cried, lifting up his powerful voice, "I am all for Taras, and whoever
speaks ill of him shall answer for it to me. He is a grand hero, and
far from being a hajdamak. He has undertaken the sacred duty of being
an avenger, of righting the wrong. But in this great work we may not
help him, because we have wife and child to consider. If he has risen
above any such consideration it is in virtue of his own magnanimity.
For my part, I am unable to equal it. Whoever joins Taras openly has to
choose between going to prison or taking refuge in the mountains. I
shall keep the peace, therefore, and so will every conscientious man
here, for the sake of his family."

"Yes! yes!" cried the men, one after another, "Wassilj has said well,
Taras has our best wishes. More is the pity that we cannot openly join
him."

"Pity!" sneered the corporal; "but you may look on, at a safe
distance!"

"Yes, indeed, and we will," was the unanimous retort. "It is you and
Schymko that disgrace the village. No honest man will go to sleep
to-night."

And therewith the consultation ended.

Not long after, Halko, the servant lad of Anusia's farm, rushed into
his mistress's presence. "Is it true"--he cried, "it is being spoken of
all over the village--that Taras, with a hundred men, will attack the
manor to-night? The people mean to watch for it, but will not join him
for fear of the law. Is it true?"

Anusia stood trembling violently, a burning glow and a death-like
pallor succeeding one another rapidly in her face.

"How should I know?" she said presently, with a stony look. "I and my
family belong to the village, and have nothing to do with the
'avenger.' And just because he has been the master of this house there
is henceforth no communion between him and us! Let the others watch for
him; we shall retire as usual. Let no one dare to disregard my orders!"

                              CHAPTER XII.

                      FLOURISHING LIKE A BAY-TREE.

"While the inhabitants of Zulawce thus excitedly waited for the events
of the coming night, their busy imagination beguiling the slow hours
with various visions of the hapless mandatar, beholding him either
hanged, or shot, or burnt alive, this gentleman himself was similarly
engaged. That is to say, he also was waiting excitedly for the night,
endeavouring to shorten the agony of delay by picturing to himself the
approaching crisis. But the images he had in view were of a vastly
different nature. For he was nowise hiding in an iron closet at
Zulawce, which, even if he had desired it, would have been impossible,
for the simple reason that there was no such stronghold; but he was at
that moment comfortably established in the snug little smoking-room of
his chambers at Colomea--his refuge, both for his pleasures and,
perchance now, in trouble. He had just returned from a dinner which the
district governor at this season was in the habit of giving to the
officials of the place; and between the blue circles ascending from his
expensive cheroot he now beheld visions--imagining the impending scenes
at an evening party to which the richest man of the neighbourhood, Herr
Bogdan von Antoniewicz, an Armenian, had invited a small but select
company. These scenes presumably would be of a pleasant nature, for Mr.
Hajek kept smiling--nay, he even skipped about his room the while he
puffed his fragrant cloudlets with a sort of irrepressible delight. But
if he was expecting some happy event it appeared to be a critical one
also, to judge from the nervous action with which he kept pulling out
his watch, and there was even an occasional shadow of seriousness
gliding over his finely-cut but dissipated features. But this was like
a noonday cloud, only darkening for a moment the brilliant sky, and the
mandatar returned to his smiles.

"Pshaw," he said, stopping before his looking-glass and twirling his
moustache, "as if I had not made sure of her virtues myself!... three
of them! And for the rest of it----" he paused, bowing profoundly to
his image in the glass; "for the rest of it, Mr. Hajek, please to bear
in mind your history and your present dilemma. Ha! ha!" He appeared
immensely tickled with this pretence at honesty; it seemed quite a joke
to ruminate over a bit of self-knowledge, and it kept him in the best
of humour till the clock struck eight, when he rang for his valet, and,
having completed his toilet, he drove to the villa of the Armenian.

It was early for an evening party of distinction, and Mr. Hajek, who
had lived in Paris, and therefore was looked upon as an oracle of good
style by all who pretended to be fashionable at Colomea, would under
ordinary circumstances never have sinned so grievously against the laws
he himself had established. But in the present case it was incumbent on
him to be the first of the guests. For these were not ordinary
circumstances, but, on the contrary, an event which as a rule comes but
once in life; he was driving to the villa in order to celebrate his
betrothal with the widowed Countess Wanda Koninski, the Armenian's only
daughter. It was indeed an event! and the several actors in the little
comedy had even drawn up a programme for the most suitable expression
of their feelings.

It has been maintained by people of experience that it is not so much
fiery love which ensures the happiest marriages--since the flame too
often is sadly transient--but rather an even share of mutual
understanding and a certain sympathetic perception of each other's aims
in life. If it be so, the mandatar and the young widow might fairly be
congratulated. And again, if it be true that a man's relations with his
parents-in-law, in order to be satisfactory, must preclude the
possibility of a delusion on either side concerning each other's moral
worth, not a shadow of a doubt could be entertained but that the
mandatar and the parents of his bride elect would yield a spectacle of
the most charming friendship--quite hand in glove, in fact. For,
excepting Mr. Hajek himself, Herr Bogdan von Antoniewicz certainly was
the greatest rascal of the district.

This prosperous man did not like to be reminded of his earlier years,
nor was he ever heard to refer to his ancestors, although they had been
honest cattle-drovers in Moldavia. He himself had pursued this
occupation in his youth: but possessing a kind of prudence which
rendered his conscience easy and his money-bag close, he managed to
make a little capital, establishing cattle trading on his own account.

Then it happened, as he would describe it, that a sore blow was
experienced by the death of the best of uncles, a merchant at
Constantinople, who had made him his heir. The chief facts were
correct, and the deceased had left his money to his nephew, only it was
not Bogdan who was that nephew, but a poor man of the name of Mikita,
who was in Bogdan's service. The latter had received a ponderous
document with seals and flourishes, announcing to him his uncle's
bequest; and, being unable to read, he had taken it to his master.
Bogdan read it--there was a legacy of ten thousand ducats--and he was
seized with a feeling of vast sympathy with the humble man. He
remembered that Mikita had nine ragged children, and that a shower of
riches coming thus suddenly could be no blessing, since, no doubt, it
would teach him to be thriftless. He said, therefore, to his labourer,
"You're a lucky dog, to be sure, there's your uncle dead and left you
ten ducats!" This, of course, was to try the man, to see if he were
worthy of a great fortune; for what would become of his poor children,
mused the philanthropic Bogdan, if he made away with his ten thousand
ducats, leading a riotous life and turning his back upon work! Let him
prove first how he will take the lesser luck. The poor man but ill
stood the test. He had never known such wealth, and simply cried with
delight, begging his master to lend him a ducat on the strength of his
inheritance. Bogdan did so, hoping the man would not waste so great a
sum, but put it out at interest discreetly. But Mikita, that
spendthrift, knew no better investment than some new clothes for his
little ones, also giving them a regular good meal for once. After
awhile he presented himself again to his master, who, sadly grieving,
handed him a second ducat; and so on till, after six months or so,
the wretched father had actually spent the ten of them. And now the
well-intentioned Bogdan went through a severe conflict with himself,
ending with the renewed conviction that it were an unpardonable want of
foresight to let those children be ruined. So having given to Mikita
ten ill-spent ducats, he got him to put his mark to a receipt that the
full amount of the legacy had been made over to him, and thereupon he
went and presented himself as the required heir.

Thus Bogdan, acting for the best for his humble neighbour, had laid the
foundation of his fortune. But it is well known that one's noblest
actions are often cruelly misjudged, and this matter somehow leaking
out, made it impossible for the tenderhearted cattle-trader to continue
in the neighbourhood. He resolved to shake off from his feet the very
dust of his old life, departing stealthily, and making his way into
Austria, where, with his newly-acquired capital, he bought a large
property, ostensibly bent on farming his land. The property, however,
happened to be situated in the Bukowina, a very central position, where
Austria, Russia, and Moldavia join. Now the import duties in those days
were particularly heavy, and a man of resources living on the frontiers
could not but direct his faculties to studying their results. Mr.
Bogdan was too clever not to see that free commerce naturally must
spring from an overdone system of protection, and, experimenting upon
his theory, he ended in siding with free trade altogether. His property
was delightfully situated for smuggling purposes, and he flattered
himself he would best serve his generation by introducing large
quantities of tobacco from Bessarabia into Austria, to the detriment of
the Imperial monopoly, which was disgracefully selfish, he argued. He
throve for awhile, but the eyes of the customs authorities were upon
him. He escaped conviction just in time, selling his property
advantageously and acquiring a larger one in Eastern Galicia.

He was now forty years of age, rich and prosperous, but alone in his
glory. His heart, such as it was, longed for a distinguished passion,
and his buttonhole gaped for a decoration. He would marry into the
aristocracy, and become the founder of a noble house. As for marrying a
person of title, that is almost easier in those parts than insisting on
the contrary; but on what grounds he could become ennobled, even his
fertile brain was at a loss to suggest. Fortune, however, had always
smiled on him; and it so happened that the mysterious power which rules
our hearts and destinies introduced to him a lady well qualified for
becoming the stepping-stone of his aspirations. In the present instance
that world-famed power elected to show itself in the person of a
certain Jew, who made his living by acting as go-between in the
matrimonial market. This herald appeared one day, proposing to Mr.
Bogdan a union with a certain aristocratic spinster, Antonia von
Kulczika. There was no doubt as to her good birth, but she was not
_very_ young, and not rich--possessed of influence, however, through
having enjoyed the protection, hitherto, of one of the most powerful
magnates of the land. Wicked tongues, of course, delighted in a tale,
for which reason Aaron Moses, in stating the lady's virtues, kept his
hand cautiously on the door-handle. To his agreeable surprise, however,
Mr. Bogdan listened quietly, owning even to a sort of partiality for
the lady he had never seen, and that nothing was required but certain
easily-defined conditions in order to rouse his ardent love, which
conditions being stated, Aaron Moses entered them in his notebook.

Within a month the Jew returned with a deed of gift, whereby the
above-mentioned magnate, with brotherly generosity, settled on the lady
the landed property of Rossow. Mr. Bogdan, on making sure of this, laid
his hand upon his heart, confessing to the Jew his unmistakable
devotion to the lady, to whom he was ready now to be introduced. But
there was no talk of betrothal as yet. True love mostly is of the
shyest, and Mr. Bogdan found no words for his feelings until Aaron
Moses had brought him a letter wherein the magnate, under his own hand,
had given his word of honour that he would procure a patent of nobility
for Mr. Bogdan Antoniewicz within a year of his marriage with Miss
Antonia von Kulczika. This settled, there was nothing left to hinder
the flow of his feelings, and in due course the nuptials were
solemnised.

They were a pattern pair; and if those only can be happy in married
life whose mutual love is equalled by their mutual respect, their
happiness was assured, for the love of this couple could not easily
have been less than the esteem they bore one another. The happy husband
in due time found himself Herr _von_ Antoniewicz, his wife presenting
him, moreover, with a fair-haired little girl. There appeared nothing
to prevent their being received into society, for the lady was
handsome, Bogdan rich and prosperous. The officers of the neighbouring
garrison were the first to get over their qualms, the rest of society
following suit. As years went on the lady, of course, could not be said
to grow in grace or beauty; but Bogdan gained riches steadily,
possessing three large estates now and plenty of money, which he
continued to put to usury advantageously.

Such were the future parents-in-law of Mr. Hajek. Those who knew them
could not but own that all three were worthy of each other, and the
same might be said of the bridal couple itself. Bogdan von Antoniewicz
had his daughter educated after the style most approved of by the
Polish aristocracy. She had a Parisian governess, who taught her French
and the piano, the rest of the 'branches' being confided to a refugee
from Warsaw, in whose estimation there wad no science equal to Polish
patriotism, and in this he instructed her. Wanda should be a true Pole.
It was not pleasant, therefore, when her parents one day made a
sorrowful discovery, proving her Austrian predilections. She had a
lover in the Imperial army, who, on being moved with his regiment, left
it expedient for her father to find her a husband. It had better not be
a rogue, if a fool was to be had, thought the latter; and a suitable
youth was found in the person of one Count Agenor Koninski. Very
suitable he was, being, in the first place, of the bluest aristocracy;
moreover, in the second place, of such doubtful finances that Bogdan's
offer was a godsend to him; and, thirdly, he was an easy-going fellow,
whose wife might be what she pleased. "Koninski" might be correctly
rendered by "horseman"--it was just the name for him. He spent his life
with horses, and even came by his death through them, being thrown on a
racecourse.

The widowed Wanda knew what she owed to her position; her sympathies
were no longer with the Imperial army, but no Polish nobleman therefore
cared for her hand. She and her belongings had thoroughly disgusted
even that lenient body; and, at the time when Mr. Hajek was making
friends at Colomea, the Armenian, in spite of his great wealth, was
reduced to a select circle of visitors--respectable people refused his
invitations. He and his wife had reached their threescore and ten, the
Countess Wanda was thirty, and her boy eleven years old. It was high
time to put an end to the scandal, and gain an able man who could
manage the property. This state of things explains why Bogdan, in spite
of the pride of his acquired nobility, as well as the widowed Countess
herself, had turned their thoughts to the low-born mandatar,
instructing their willing emissary, Mr. Thaddeus de Bazanski,
accordingly--he being no other than that refugee who, in her youth,
had educated Wanda in Polish patriotism, and who still awaited the day
when Russia should suffer, glad meanwhile to act as the Armenian's
hanger-on. He had to take his time in making overtures to the mandatar,
who did not seem open to his hints; but he was able at last to inform
the countess that Mr. Hajek had discovered he loved her; and it was
agreed to celebrate the betrothal forthwith, even on Easter Sunday.

It had been no easy resolve on the part of the mandatar. To be sure,
the widowed Countess possessed three first-rate charms, nay, virtues,
in his eyes, being heiress to the broad lands of Rossow, Horkowka, and
Drinkowce, and he himself was not a man given to prejudice. Still he
had managed somehow to acquire the position of a man of honour in the
district, and was loth to part with this pleasant sensation, all the
more valued, perhaps, for its novelty. But while he yet felt divided,
the news reached him of Taras's declaration, and the cowardly wretch
was seized with a perfect frenzy of fear. Indeed, the real match-maker,
bringing together this pair of worthies, was not so much Thaddeus as
Taras Barabola.

Mr. Hajek had not been in the village, and knew nothing of the great
meeting. He had gone to a mess breakfast at Zablotow, Captain Mihaly,
of the Palffy hussars, in garrison there, having invited him over. It
was a merry gathering, comprising, besides the officers, several young
nobles of the neighbourhood. But none so merry as Hajek himself; and he
kept up his spirits when, breakfast over, he was invited to preside at
the gaming table. He was winning largely, and was a very fountain of
fun to the dissipated party. They went on gambling for the best part of
the day.

But there was a strange interruption, the captain's man announcing,
with a queer expression, that the under-steward, Boleslaw, had arrived,
bearing an important message to the mandatar--a certain peasant named
Barabola having that day declared war against the Emperor.

The news produced the greatest hilarity; the officers roared with
laughter. But Wenceslas Hajek grew deadly pale, and, dropping the cards
from his hands, he jumped from his seat shaking from head to foot.
"Gentlemen," he gasped, "you would not laugh if you knew the man ...
this is a matter of life and death ... excuse me, I must have
particulars...."

He moved to the door, but the captain was before him. "No!" he cried,
facetiously, "you shall not monopolise this declaration of war. _We_
are His Majesty's officers, and ought to have our share--let the man
enter!"

The under-steward appeared, his gigantic frame positively limp with
dismay, as he reported the chief contents of Taras's speech. "You know
what sort of man you have to deal with, sir," he said, in conclusion,
turning to the mandatar. "This day week he means to make his
beginning--make it upon you, sir! He has retired for the present in the
direction of the Red Hollow. Four men are with him to-day; there will
be fifty before the week is out."

The gentlemen ceased to be amused; somehow the giant's consternation
had affected them. But when he had done, their laughter returned.
"War!" they cried, "what fun! Double pay and promotion for all of us!"
The captain adding: "But he has given us a week's grace, so let us
finish our rubber. Mr. Hajek, I think you were meditating a trump ...
but, good heavens, man!" he interrupted himself, evidently alarmed,
"what is the matter? ... He is fainting!"

And, indeed, the mandatar's appearance was enough to startle his
companions. He had sunk down on the nearest chair, the bloodless face
distorted with terror; and as they gazed at him his head sank lower,
till it rested on the table.

"Belshazzar!" cried a youthful lieutenant, "Mene, Tekel, Upharsin! Yes,
yes, my dear Mr. Hajek, your conscience seems ill at ease concerning
these peasants! Why, you are crying!"

The mandatar actually had begun to sob. "Ah!" he moaned, "I must be
off to the town...." He attempted to rise, but fell back on his chair.
"No ... I must go back to the manor first ... my papers.... Captain!"
he shrieked, imploringly, "I entreat you, let your troop be mounted,
and escort me to Zulawce--I mean, stay with me till you can bring me
away again in safety. I'm a dead man, and the manor will be in ruins,
if you refuse!"

"Nonsense!" cried the captain, in disgust. "I should not have believed
it of you! This sudden news has made a coward of you! Don't you know
that I am not at liberty to order my men about in that fashion?"

"Then you shall answer for the consequences!" screamed Hajek, wildly.
"But I shall not go home by myself!" And again he sobbed, but recovered
himself presently. "I must take refuge at Colomea. We are but three of
us--the under-steward, myself, and the coachman, and those cut-throats
are four or five! I trust you will, at least, set us up with arms,
captain, and lend me some of your men to see us safely on our way."

"Certainly," replied Captain Mihaly, coldly. "I am quite able to grant
you an escort."

And within an hour Mr. Hajek was on the road to Colomea, a hussar on
either side of his vehicle, the under-steward besides having provided
himself with a perfect arsenal of weapons. Nevertheless, the mandatar
was dying with fright at every turn, crying aloud with terror as often
as a sound rose in the distance or some horseman appeared in view. In
vain Boleslaw tried to comfort him; all he could do was to remind him
that Taras had said with, his own lips another week would lapse before
he should make his beginning, "and you know he always is true to his
word!"

The mandatar's answer to this was, perhaps, the finest praise ever
awarded to Taras. "Ah!" he groaned, "you may not have heard it
correctly"--for that Taras should ever deviate from his word, in great
things or little, even he did not doubt; but just this made all the
rest so fearful!...

The news had come to him quite unexpectedly, although he had been fully
informed concerning Taras's doings, his prolonged visits to the
mountains, his growing despair, and lastly his cession of property. But
he had misjudged these signs, believing in his own evil soul that Taras
intended to make away with himself, and would probably do so upon the
Emperor's refusal; indeed, he had even pitied the man, after a fashion,
as a butcher may feel pity for a fine bullock whose carcase he intends
to sell well. Now that he had learned Taras's intentions, he seemed
suddenly to be aware what stuff the man was made of, and though but the
barest outline of that memorable speech could have been reported to
him, he had a clearer perception of its drift, no doubt, than most of
those who had heard it with their own ears. "Yes, yes," he groaned,
"the angel has become a fiend, and none so black as those that were all
light before!"

At last the morning dawned. The mandatar ventured to dismiss his
escort, and towards nine o'clock he reached the town, where he parted
also from Boleslaw, sending him back to Zulawce.

"Do you believe the manor is endangered by my absence?"

"No," said the giant, "only by your presence, sir. What Taras wants is
to punish _you_ in life and limb; he does not care for your property,
save as far as it may serve to indemnify the people for their supposed
loss. But I should say he will not touch anything till he has got hold
of yourself."

The mandatar shook. "I daresay you are right," he said. "Nevertheless,
I want you to bring me, without delay, the black casket you will find
in my bedroom cupboard--this is the key. I shall not leave this place
for the present, and shall do my best to have the wretch hanged,
else----"

"He will see you hanged," concluded Boleslaw. "I am afraid you are
right, sir."

And with this parting benediction ringing in his ears, Mr. Hajek
repaired at once to the district governor, to whom he represented the
matter as a rebellion of gigantic dimensions, endangering the lives and
property of thousands of helpless subjects, if a price were not set on
Taras's head forthwith and half a dozen regiments despatched against
him.

Herr von Bauer took refuge in his favourite growling. "Pleasant! most
pleasant!" he muttered, and took to pacing his office like a caged
lion. "Who on earth has to face such bothers but me? Defend your enemy,
not to say your friend, from being a district governor in Galicia! I
hoped we had done with these cut-throats since 'Wild Wassilj' had the
good sense to shoot himself--now there is another of these rascals! But
who would have believed it of Taras Barabola! I would have taken my
oath that he was an honest man. To be sure, he understands nothing of
justice--came to me once expecting _we_ should prosecute for the
recovery of that field. He positively believed it was our duty--to
prosecute, you understand! A man who has such notions may as well turn
hajdamak! They are just savages here--I have always said so ... not a
notion of how the law works!... Well, I am much obliged for your news,
sir, but it is not for us to proceed on it. Things must be done in
order. Kindly send in your information in writing; it will cost you
nothing. Good morning!"

"And may I ask how soon the matter will then be attended to?"

"In due course--first come, first served!"

"Sir! Why this is a most pressing case! I would propose, as a first
step, to send for the hussars from Zablotow----"

"Hussars? Good gracious!" and the district governor grew as red as a
turkey-cock. "Who do you take me for, sir? Am I a general to order
about the military? I am governor of the district, sir--worse luck that
I am!"

The mandatar was abashed, but made another attempt. "Sir," he said,
rather pathetically, "my life is at stake, and what is more, the
property of the Count, my master. I venture to ask how the matter will
be dealt with!"

"In due course, to be sure! When your statement has been filed we shall
despatch a commissary to Zulawce to report to us; and if it is as you
tell me, we have quite a complicated charge of felony: the man has
insulted the Emperor, not to say the Almighty Himself; he has libelled
Government, and is guilty of seditious proceedings. It will be an
interesting case, to be sure; he'll have ten years of penal servitude
for that speech alone. And if he should lay hands on you, as he seems
fully to intend, we will have him hanged! Will that satisfy you?"

But strange to say, the mandatar was not satisfied. "Sir," he
stammered, "delay is most dangerous. Will that commissary be starting
to-morrow?"

"To-morrow?" gasped the governor. "Why not, rather, to-day? Perhaps we
ought to ask your pardon for not having sent him as early as
yesterday!... _To-morrow!_ Are you in your senses, sir?" And he paced
his office more violently than ever. It took him some time to get over,
this unheard-of suggestion, and then he said: "A commissioner will be
sent as soon as feasible; in about a month's time, I should say; things
must be done in due course! And now I have the honour of making my bow
to you."

The mandatar could but take his leave, standing still a moment outside.
It was the very spot where his unhappy victim, and now his implacable
enemy, had first felt the sore pain of disappointed hope and helpless
wrath--these same sensations now having him for their prey. The fear of
death, which he had been able to hold at bay awhile with the vain
expectation that the all-powerful State would hedge him round with
safety, seized upon him afresh, tearing his cowardly heart to pieces.
With tottering knees, and almost beside himself with rage and terror,
he slunk away.

In one of the streets his eye was caught by a shop window exhibiting
fire-arms. He entered and bought a double-barrelled pistol. "If I
should have the misfortune of falling into his hands," he murmured, "I
will at least save myself the worst of ignominy." But a voice in his
heart gave him the lie directly. "Coward!" it said; "you would never
dare it--never!"

Retribution for this man's crimes had begun before Taras lifted a
finger against him, and his just terrors continued--nay, were added to
hourly. The mandatar, even in his least cowardly moments, felt the
situation to be most critical. While Taras lived, his returning to
Zulawce was a movement in the direction of death; and there appeared to
be every likelihood of Taras's continuing in life, while the
authorities were bent on dealing with him "in due course," as the
district governor had taken pains to point out. It seemed highly
advisable, then, for Mr. Hajek to keep at a safe distance from Zulawce,
and this was tantamount to his retiring from his stewardship, since the
peasants, he knew, would never dream of rendering the slightest of
their dues, be it tribute or labour, unless the mandatar were bodily
present to make them. And if he got into arrears with the monthly
payments to the Count, in Paris, this gentleman would not be long in
dismissing him, without the least pity for his difficulties. It was
preferable, then, to anticipate a dismissal. But how to make a living
for the future? To be sure, he had improved the stewardship he was
about to quit, putting by in that little black box of his a neat sum of
several thousand florins in good Austrian securities, although he had
never stinted himself of any personal luxury. Should he fall back upon
these savings, leaving the country altogether and seeking a berth
elsewhere? But in that case, not only this little capital would be
endangered, but another and more precious one would also be lost, even
the good name he had managed to acquire, and which he hoped to turn
into a bait with which to land a fortune one of these days. Nor was
this a mere illusion. Mr. Hajek was too sharp-witted to fool himself,
and he really had come to enjoy a certain position at Colomea; for he
was a man of the world and knew how to ingratiate himself with society,
while even his worst enemy must admit he was an adept in the management
of landed property. He knew, therefore, to what port he ought to run:
he must look out for an heiress and become a landed proprietor himself.
There were several eligible maidens, presumably willing to further his
aims, with handsome sums in their pockets, if not Polish coronets on
their brows. But all these hopes had vanished now; the successful
mandatar might have proffered his suit in such quarters, but never the
luckless culprit whose misdeeds had found him out. The one question for
him was how to gain time, in order to make the best of his miserable
fate.

Thus, by a strange coincidence of circumstances, the mere announcement
of Taras's intentions had sufficed to ruin his enemy effectively; and
the under-steward, returning on Tuesday with the precious black casket,
found his master deeply dejected. Nor was his news calculated to rouse
better hopes. "To tell the truth," said Boleslaw, "I brought away the
worst impressions concerning the peasantry. Not an hour's further
labour will they yield, and no tribute of any kind. Taras is a hero and
a liberator in their eyes; and as for you, sir--I beg your pardon, but
it is a fact--they are all delighted at the bare idea that he is going
to hang you. I spoke with several of the villagers, and they all said
the same thing."

"That will do," said the mandatar, faintly, and motioned him to go.
Left alone, he sank into a chair, and involuntarily put his fingers
round his throat. "There must be an end to this!" he cried. "I must
shake off this business; I will have nothing more to do with these
wretches."

And, going to his desk, he wrote a letter to the Count--it was his
resignation. He folded the sheet, and put it into an envelope, which he
sealed. But there he stopped, dipping his pen again and again without
addressing the missive. "It might be premature after all," he murmured
at last, throwing down the quill and snatching up his hat. "I ought not
to act rashly, at least not before finding out the opinion of the
town."

But if any one wished to know what the world thought at Colomea, he
could not do better than repair to a certain wine-cellar, where the
"daily news" of the place was almost sure to be present, gossipping
away from early morning sometimes till the closing hour at midnight.
This worthy was none other than Mr. Thaddeus de Bazanski, whose
vicissitudes in life were a prolific source of entertainment to all the
tipplers of the place. Mr. Thaddeus, by his own showing, was a man of
consequence; but the jovial company listening to his tales somehow had
agreed to call him Thaddy. Now Thaddy's history--of which he was most
liberal--was of a curious kind, and never the same for two days
running. On a Sunday he would have large possessions in Volhynia; and,
being the last of an honourable name, he had fought the Russians
gallantly, but was left for dead on the field of battle, after which he
made his escape into Galicia. On Mondays he was the son of a Polish
officer in French service, who had enjoyed the close friendship of
Napoleon, and he had been a cadet at Vincennes; but, turning his back
upon his brilliant prospects, he had entered the Polish army for love
of his country--the rest being the same as on Sunday. On a Tuesday his
name, de Bazanski, was merely an alias for prudence' sake, and he was
really the scion of a princely house of Lithuania; but, having
quarrelled with his family, who were of Russian tendencies, he had
entered the Polish army--the rest the same as on Monday. On Wednesdays
he had large possessions in the Ukraine, and in fact all the revolution
of 1831 had been carried on with his money. Having been obliged to
flee, he joined the Carbonari in Piedmont, and now lived in Galicia in
order to be at hand when the great day of revenge should have dawned.
On Thursdays, when the cellars would be specially well filled after the
weekly meeting of the local board, Thaddy's history had quite a
romantic origin. He was a natural son of Alexander I. and a Polish
countess, spending his youth at the Court of St. Petersburg, petted by
all, until he did his duty as the son of his mother, standing up boldly
before his half-brother Nicolas and demanding of him a grant of liberty
for poor Poland. He was refused, and then--the same as on Wednesday. On
Fridays, when the place was but indifferently visited, he was just a
poor brave nobleman, who had spent the best years of his life for the
good of his country, and was ready to do so again; while on the
Saturday his tale had an anti-semitic tinge. His father, on those days,
having been one of the richest landowners of Masovia, had been so
foolish as to allow his Jewish tenants to drop into arrears with their
rents, till the family was nearly beggared. It was then that Thaddeus
showed the stuff he was made of, evicting "those rascally Jews," and
making front against the Russians at the same time; and he was now at
Colomea endeavouring to work up those sad arrears. To be sure, he never
had any success to tell of, but that might be because of his constantly
changing his lawyer, who, it was observed, was mentioned by a different
name every Saturday. For the rest, if any visitor of the cellars ever
had forgotten what day of the week it might be, he had but to listen
for a moment to Thaddy's tale in order to recover the lost thread of
his time.

These varying accounts were calculated to lend an air of distinction to
the narrator, but there were some whose shrewdness believed his fame to
be spurious, and one or two wicked tongues had even asserted that his
features bore a suspicious likeness to a loquacious barber they had
known at Warsaw. Thaddy denounced this as a libel, boldly; but it was
not so easy to accuse people of calumny when they added that his
appearance, somehow, was not of the aristocratic military type! That
was true enough, for there was nothing of the heroic about his mean
little figure, and those greenish eyes, half cunning, half cowardly,
peering away over a coppery nose for any good luck in his way. Of
course he always appeared in the national costume; but the 'kantouche'
was peculiarly long and ill-fitting, not because of any eccentric taste
of his, but simply because nature had endowed Mr. Bogdan with a figure
so utterly different from Thaddy's. His 'confederatka,' however, was
his own--one of the strangest head-gears ever worn by mortal man. It
probably had been high, stiff, and square originally, but it had
collapsed to utter flabbiness, and it could not now be said to be of
any colour, having faded to a mixture of all. Thaddy kept assuring his
listeners that he wore this article on great anniversaries for the most
patriotic of reasons, since it had covered his head at the famous
battle of Ostrolenka. It certainly looked ancient enough to have seen
even the Napoleonic wars; and if it had many holes, that no doubt was a
proof of the many bullets which had threatened the head of its gallant
wearer. As for the anniversaries, there were those who pretended to
observe that the famous confederatka was seen rather often, in fact
quite habitually, on Thaddy's head--but then, the history of Poland is
so rich in events, that the year of the piously inclined is one long
anniversary naturally.

As for the present employment of this national martyr, it was twofold;
he ostensibly waited for the better days of Poland, gaining his
livelihood meanwhile by entertaining the customers at the cellars with
his gossip, and holding himself in readiness for any business in which
an agent might be wanted who was not over squeamish in his views.

When Mr. Hajek, on that Tuesday afternoon, entered the cellars he found
Thaddy alone, in his usual corner, sadly occupied with counting the
flies on the various pictures adorning the room. He looked up, a gleam
of satisfaction shooting across his countenance, and held out his hand,
which cordiality, however, the new comer appeared not to observe. "Ha!"
he cried, "what a strange coincidence; here I was just thinking of you,
actually! There is a curious likeness between this excellent young
man's fate--meaning yourself--and mine, I was saying."

"Indeed!" replied the mandatar, coldly, taking a seat and ordering a
bottle of wine. "Between you and me?"

"Yes, unmistakably," cried Mr. de Bazanski, coming nearer and taking
his place opposite the mandatar. "A striking likeness in fact. It so
occupied my mind that I quite forgot I was thirsty, and, indeed, for
the matter of that, I am of too sociable a turn to have a glass by
myself." This was true enough, for Thaddy never had any drink except in
company. They knew better at the cellars than to give him anything that
was not ordered and paid for by his friends.

Mr. Hajek smiled, requesting the waiter to bring a second glass. "A
striking likeness, you were saying?"

"Most striking, sir, and unmistakable! Just look at me--what is it I
have come to? I am an old officer, to be sure, who will give proof yet
of the stuff he is made of. But what of this? I was thinking of my
happy youth, and how from the battlements of our princely castle in
Lithuania I, with a telescope, would scan our broad domain; forty-nine
villages I could count, and they all were situated on our lands. Yes,
ours was a princely family, and now, alas, I may not even confess to
the name I was born to, I----"

"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted the mandatar; "besides, I was aware
that this is Tuesday."

But Thaddy was not the man to be disconcerted. "Of course, this is
Tuesday," he assented, smilingly. "I was going to add--who is to blame
that I am a stranger now to my princely heritage, if not my wicked
relatives? And who is it that, at the present moment, is a sore trouble
to you, if not this wicked peasantry of Zulawce? Is it not a strange
and striking similarity?"

"Very striking," said Hajek. "Then you have heard about affairs at
Zulawce?"

"Of course I have," cried Bazanski; "why the town is full of it."
And the ex-officer waxed hot with excitement. "You would scarcely
believe it," he cried, "but there are those, actually, who take this
cut-throat's part against you--respectable people--nay, even Poles, I
am ashamed to say!"

"Who, for instance?" inquired the mandatar, apparently unconcerned, but
his heart was beating in spite of him.

"Well, there is that old demagogue, who ought to know better, being a
lawyer--Dr. Starkowski, I mean--to begin with. This very morning we
were sitting here, some twenty of us, and some one started the matter.
My stars, you should have heard him! 'Gentlemen,' he said, quite
solemnly, as though he were on his oath, 'I know this Taras; he is the
most unselfish, the noblest man I have ever met, and filled with a
passion for justice which would grace a king. And that this man, with
the views he holds, had nothing left but to turn hajdamak, must make
every honest man blush for our country. It is my opinion that this
noble-hearted fellow has been morally murdered, and his murderer is the
mandatar of Zulawce.' And the others, so far from contradicting him,
clamoured for more. 'Tell us, Doctor, tell us all about it,' they
cried. And he gave them a long rigmarole of a story about a field, and
perjury, and what not; and when he had finished--'Humph,' said the
others, 'why, if it is so, Mr. Hajek is just a blackguard.' 'He is,'
affirmed the brazen-faced lawyer. Such is the world!"

"Such--is--- the world!" repeated Hajek, absently, and white as a
ghost. It was plain there was nothing left for him now but to make his
speedy escape. The laborious edifice of his wickedness was tottering,
and threatening to bury him in its ruins. But whither should he turn?
He gazed into his future helplessly....

"Such, indeed, is the world," repeated Bazanski, eagerly; "and there
were those present who said--'Dear, dear, it is a mercy to learn that
before it is too late!' Those, you understand, who hitherto would have
considered you an eligible son-in-law--conceited fools!--as if you ever
would have looked at any of their daughters--you, whose heart is
adamant even to a countess."

Hajek turned to him with a start, his face flushing crimson. He had
racked his brain for a way out of his plight, but had forgotten all
about this possibility, in his very grasp if he chose! Three different
estates in the lowlands, beyond the reach of Taras--what a splendid
match to be sure! If he married the countess he need not give another
thought to his master in Paris, nor to that wretch of an "avenger," nor
yet to all the respectable folk at Colomea. And this grandest of
chances had almost escaped him!

"Well," cried the wily Thaddeus, "I do like your pretending to be taken
by surprise; as if you did not know how desperately the amiable
Countess Wanda is in love with you." And he began to describe the
secret passion of that lady with such glowing colours, that any writer
of love sonnets might have envied him. "And there is her great fortune
besides," he said, in conclusion; "but that is a mere accessory. First
love, and then the practical advantages."

Mr. Hajek had recovered himself. "Don't talk rubbish," he said,
sharply. "The countess is not likely to love me, being too--too
experienced to make a fool of herself; and, besides, I am an utter
stranger to her. If she intends to marry me it is simply because she is
in want of a husband, and if I take her it will be because it happens
to suit me. So it is a clear case of the practical advantage first and
foremost; that settled, there may be love, for all I care. What about
the property and the settlement? I daresay you have been instructed....
I don't want any flourishes; just let me know the facts."

Thaddeus de Bazanski was of an adaptable nature. "Just the facts! Yes,
certainly," he said. "There are three estates, as you know--Horkowka,
Drinkowce, and Rossow--quite unencumbered--will fetch in the market
half a million florins any day; the personal property, besides,
amounting to one hundred thousand florins in first-rate securities."

"Very well; and now for the conditions."

"The Rossow estate, on your marriage, will be settled on the countess,
of course, but you will have equal rights to the revenues for your
life; Horkowka, in reversion, on the countess alone; while Drinkowce
and the floating capital will be settled on--on---" Bazanski stammered
and blushed.

"On the lady's child by her first marriage--I understand," said Hajek
quietly. "But now for my conditions! I am quite agreed concerning
Rossow and Horkowka; but the boy has to be provided for out of the
personal property solely, while Drinkowce must be settled on me
absolutely. It shall be mine, whether there be any offspring of the
marriage or not; and it is to remain mine even in the event of a
dissolution."

"Humph! old Bogdan is no fool!"

"Quite sure of that; but neither am I! When shall I look for an
answer?"

"To-morrow at noon. Shall we have another bottle now on the strength of
the prospects?"

"No, not now; go and make sure of the prospects. Good evening to you."

Bazanski gazed after the retreating figure with positive awe. "Ugh!" he
said at length, with a deep breath of admiration, "they were not far
wrong this morning. What a villain! what an incomparable villain!"
And, having thus unburdened his mind, he hastened away to the Villa
Antoniewicz....

At noon punctually the following day he presented himself again to Mr.
Hajek. "I have come to congratulate you!" he cried on the threshold.

"Well, has your patron accepted my conditions?"

"Entirely--excepting only Drinkowce. He is very sorry, but his little
grandson----"

"Very well, that settles it. Excuse me, but I am busy, intending to
start to-night."

"Start! whereto?"

"To--anywhere, so long as it is far enough from here."

"Then do not be in such a hurry! Let me have another word with the
family."

"Very well. I will give you till to-morrow, but I cannot be detained
beyond that."

Thaddy departed on his errand sadly, there was little hope of earning
his pay. He was almost certain that Herr von Antoniewicz would prove
unyielding; but it turned out differently. The Countess, in the first
place, chose to pronounce in the intended bridegroom's favour. "He is
good-looking; tolerably young, of good manners, and sufficiently a man
of the world not to annoy me with any prejudice!" Her father arrived at
a similar conclusion. "The fellow is of suitable stuff to manage the
estates; whether Drinkowce be his or not, it will be his interest to
pull along with us. I am old now, and cannot wait till as great a booby
as your first husband may chance to turn up as a suitor for your hand.
I would prefer an honest booby, of course; but a clever villain
meanwhile must not be despised. He shall not do _me_. I'll take care of
that!"

And the following morning, Thaddeus, with a beaming face, burst into
the mandatar's presence. "Now I may congratulate you really," he cried.
"Drinkowce is yours!"

"Very well," responded Hajek. "I am off on the spot to pay my respects
to my future father-in-law, and to my bride-elect. One thing, though,
before I leave, you will hold your tongue for the present. I might find
it useful to be believed in as a man of honour by some of the folk here
yet awhile!"

"What a delightful joke!" cried Thaddy, full of laughter, and
brandishing the famous confederatka as he made his bow. But when the
door had closed upon him, an expression of admiring awe once more
settled on his features. "What a villain!" he murmured, "what an
incomparable villain!"

Mr. Hajek's visit at the villa proved highly touching; that supreme
moment especially, when, in his capacity of accepted lover, he
imprinted a delicate kiss on the fair one's brow, a proceeding at which
Herr and Frau von Antoniewicz tossed their handkerchiefs before their
tearless eyes, whimpering affectedly, "Be happy, children; as happy as
we ourselves have been!"

When the mandatar returned to his chambers he found on his table a note
from the district governor. "Favour me with a call at my private
residence at once," it said; "I have a communication of importance to
make to you." Hajek was surprised, and slightly fluttered. The die was
cast, his future secured, and if he stayed prudently at Colomea he had
scarcely anything to fear from Taras. And yet he trembled. What if
Taras had been caught, and he had sacrificed himself in vain--allowing
a lady of the countess's antecedents to address him as her promised
husband? Well, never mind, it was impossible to go back now,
considering the manner of his courting. He had cast in his lot with
these creatures and must abide by it.

With a sense of expectation he went his way to the governor's. Herr von
Bauer received him politely. He was one of those officials, rather
numerous at that time, who considered abruptness a sort of armour to be
worn during office hours, but not required when off duty. The district
governor was quite genial within the precincts of his own fireside, and
all the more courteous now for remembering that he had put forth some
special bristles along with that armour in his previous interview with
the mandatar. "A pleasure to see you," he assured Mr. Hajek, shaking
hands vigorously. "I have some important news which will please you,"
he said, winking mysteriously--"please you particularly."

"Has Taras been caught?" inquired the mandatar.

"Caught? Dear me, no! Why, who should have caught him? ... This is what
I wanted to tell you: You know the court sat to-day. We had an unusual
influx of landed proprietors and mandatars, and there was much talking
concerning Taras; in fact he seems the one topic all over the country.
They all agreed that his rising was most dangerous, because the
peasantry everywhere are devoted to him. There could be no doubt, they
assured me, but that the manor house at Zulawce would be attacked on
Sunday, and if he got hold of you, your life was not worth two
straws--not two straws, they said!"

"Well," said the mandatar, with affected composure, "this may be
important to know, but I fail to see why it should please me."

"No, no, of course, the pleasant part is coming--for yourself I mean,
not for me. I hate having things done in an irregular way. But I
suppose this is an exception." A groan escaped him. "Well, sir, I
called a meeting of the board--a special meeting, and it was resolved
to treat the case as a matter of unusual importance, attending to it,
therefore, on the spot--an example of despatch quite unprecedented in
my experience, I assure you. A commissioner will be sent to Zulawce as
early as next Tuesday--we must, if possible, have an exact report of
that speech--and a courier went off this very afternoon to inform the
brigadier-general at Stanislaw of the state of affairs, submitting to
him the necessity of ordering a company of infantry to Zulawce. This I
am sure----"

"Is pleasant to know! so it is," interrupted the mandatar. "But might I
suggest----"

"Yes, certainly; suggest away, sir," said the governor, waxing
impatient. There had been a sound of teacups from the adjoining
apartment.

"It appears to be a general conviction that the manor house at Zulawce
is to be attacked on the night of Easter Sunday. In that case the
military, in order to be of any use should arrive at the place on
Sunday afternoon. But this is scarcely possible if it be infantry. This
is Thursday. The courier, at the earliest, will reach Stanislaw at
daybreak to-morrow. Now, supposing even the general attended to the
matter at once, and made out his order to the soldiers by ten----"

"Or a quarter past," interrupted the governor, rushing into his office
armour evidently. "What are you driving at, sir?"

"You will see presently," retorted the mandatar, nettled in his
turn. "Supposing the general made out his order to the nearest regiment
of infantry by ten o'clock, a detachment could not be off under
four-and-twenty hours, for they are quartered at Czortkow, and it will
be a two days' march for them to reach their destination--by Monday
morning at the earliest, that is. So, you see, the village could only
be protected against Sunday by means of the Palffy hussars, who are at
Zablotow, close at hand."

"Sir," growled the governor, "are you fooling me? Am I the
brigadier-general? I am governor of this district, and my business is
to apply for military intervention if need be, but not to ask for
cavalry or artillery when there are no means of stabling the horses.
There are no large stables at Zulawce, so it must be infantry. They
shall be there when they can; or do you expect us to introduce new
regulations into the country just to suit _your_ need? What do you mean
by directing my attention to the distance, or to the length of time a
detachment will be on the march? Am I supposed to know that? Am I in
the general's coat to give his orders?"

"No--in your own smoking cap and slippers," replied the mandatar
quietly, the words acting like magic. The old growler suddenly
remembered that he was not in his office, but at home, where civility
was due to a caller. And he put off his armour hastily.

"Well--a case of unusual importance, I was saying...." The poor old
gentleman felt guilty, however, and was anxious to make reparation. "It
is a trouble altogether--this Taras--but I was going to add, I have
invited some of our people to dine with us on Sunday, and if you will
do me the honour, we shall be charmed, sir."

He held out his hand to Mr. Hajek who put his fingers into it eagerly.
An invitation to the district governor's annual dinner when all the
elite of the place was assembled would have flattered him at any time;
but to a man who had just become engaged to a lady of the Countess
Wanda's reputation this was simply invaluable....

"So far he has not heard of it, evidently," the bridegroom elect said
to himself as he descended the stairs. "I daresay it will be no secret
by Sunday, and it will be as well for me to be seen then at the
governor's dinner! However, I need not care now for anybody's opinion,
any more than I need for Taras himself. It was foolish of me to excite
myself at all about the military movements. What does it matter to me
whether the Count's manor house be burnt or not, so long as myself and
my cash-box are safe out of it?"

He was still pursuing this high-minded strain of thought, when, at the
end of the street, he came into collision with a figure rushing round
the corner in the opposite direction. But he saw at a glance that
apologies were needless, for it was only Thaddy whom he had sent flying
against the wall.

"Oh, to be sure," cried the latter, rubbing his shoulder, "what
eagerness in a lover! Romeo going to visit Juliet, I'll be bound."

"Oh no, I am going home; but you, I daresay, are making for the
cellars?"

"Alas! I am not in the vein. I was lost in meditation, remembering a
certain conversation I once had with my illustrious half-brother,
Nicolas I., and how my life since----"

"Nicolas I.! You don't mean to say that this is Thursday? I really was
forgetting.... But let me tell you, if you _do_ go to the cellars and
should not find any of your friends in the mood to treat you to a glass
of Moldavian for your story about Nicolas, I'll not have you try your
luck by publishing my engagement with the countess! If you breathe a
word of it, I shall deduct fifty florins from your expected pay. Just
bear that in mind. Good morning!"

The Czar's half-brother stood stock still, overtaken by an evident
conflict. For Bogdan had just told him, "If by this time to-morrow the
whole town is not aware of the engagement, I'll have you kicked
downstairs when next you show your face here." A sore dilemma for the
nobly-born Thaddy--to be kicked downstairs or forego fifty of his
hard-earned florins! He would have submitted to the kicking willingly,
so long as it left him at liberty to remount those stairs after the
performance....

In a distracted state of mind, Thaddy entered the cellars, but the
company there was in good humour, greeting him uproariously. "Good
heavens," they cried, "are we to stand treat for hearing your romances
about Nicolas--this is Thursday!" He could not, of course, submit to
this taunt, and resolved, therefore, for once to keep to realities,
giving them an account of the mandatar's latest achievement, the plain
truth of it, with some exceedingly daring interpolations. But when he
added: "This Mr. Hajek is a villain ingrained, sirs!" there was not one
to dissent from the statement.

Towards noon the following day the mandatar set out to repeat his call
at the villa, saying to himself as he crossed his threshold: "I shall
know within ten minutes whether Thaddy has kept the matter close or
not." And he did know before he had gone the length of the street! The
secretary of the local board, Mr. Wroblewski, was the first
acquaintance he met; but this gentleman appeared to have made a sudden
discovery upon the roof of the town hall, which required his intentest
gaze in that direction, whilst the chief postmaster, Nossek, another of
his acquaintances coming along, was lost in a contemplation of the
paving-stones, quite overlooking the mandatar in consequence. This was
a cut to the heart; but Hajek recovered himself very soon, holding his
head erect and stepping out courageously. "Once settled at Drinkowce,"
he consoled himself, "these things will show in a different light."

He was met in the Armenian's ante-chamber by the chosen bride herself;
she walked slowly, not for sweet modesty's sake, but only because she
was rather fat. That was a drawback to her charms; for the rest she had
sparkling eyes and a rare wig of golden hair, slightly reddish though.
She was in her ripest prime, like a cabbage-rose in September, when the
perfume of spring has fled and the petals have expanded, the season of
sweetness being gone.

He kissed her hands, she offered him her face. "Come," she whispered,
"my parents await you, to settle the programme for Sunday."

They were soon agreed that since the engagement was certain not to
remain a secret even till then, it behoved them to act a little drama
of innocence before the eyes of their guests. "We shall not ask many
people; just a select few," said Frau von Antoniewicz, Mr. Hajek
agreeing to this fervently, well knowing that not a dozen visitors
would be found forthcoming, if pressed ever so hard.

"And now the programme for the evening," resumed the lady--"a select
few; we shall talk and have some music, but no dancing. When the clock
strikes ten my daughter will take her place by the piano to give us an
air of Cherubini's, after which you move up to her, complimenting her
on her exquisite voice; and, giving her your arm, you will lead her
into the smaller drawing-room, where the illumination will be
appropriately subdued. I shall have some things up from the
conservatory--palms and things, to represent a bower; a fauteuil will
be placed conveniently, and a low stool beside it. Wanda will sink
gracefully into the fauteuil; you will be at her feet on the stool--it
will be quite a picture, and there will be a whispering among the
company. This will be the moment when you must kneel, gazing at her
adoringly; she will start up, endeavouring to escape.--It will be
pretty if you can manage a blush, my dear; it is easy, you know, if you
hold your breath.--I shall be crossing the room accidentally, and shall
give a startled cry; whereupon you will take my daughter by the hand,
leading her up to me, saying, 'Best of mothers, give us your blessing,'
or some such suitable words. I shall be greatly touched, and shall say
something appropriate. So will Bogdan. Then we shall have supper; a few
toasts will have to be managed: long life to the lovers, and you must
reply, lifting your glass to Bogdan and me."

"And then the curtain will fall," said Hajek, at which the wrinkled
dame lifted her finger saucily. "My dear Mr. Hajek," she said, "the
whole of life is but a comedy; who thinks differently is a fool. Then
why should I not arrange this little scene before the closing act of my
own life as merrily as I please, and you just be satisfied!"

"Certainly," he said; "but I will stipulate for a comfortable hassock
to kneel upon."

They laughed and went to the dining-room....

Considering how he was being cut by every one in the streets, the
mandatar would not have been in the least surprised to receive some
excuse from the district governor cancelling the invitation to his
dinner. But no message came, for the simple reason that Herr von Bauer
had quite forgotten he had asked the mandatar, and had not even told
his wife. The governor, therefore, was disagreeably surprised when, at
the appointed hour, Mr. Hajek presented himself among his guests, while
the 'district governess'--as his wife, on account of her overbearing
ways, was often called by her jocose acquaintances--flared up crimson
with annoyance. It seemed to her as if the eyes of all present were
filled with angry reproaches. The fact was, the mandatar had arrived at
the very moment when the company was enjoying the newest bit of
scandal, having learned by this time how he and the Countess Wanda,
with the help of Thaddy, had discovered their secret flame. It was an
awkward interruption; not the least so for Hajek himself. But he was
the only one who showed any presence of mind. He made his bow to the
company, some staring back at him utterly surprised, some completely
disgusted; and having kissed the unwilling hand of the lady of the
house, he seized the paralysed fingers of her lord, shaking hands with
a fine pretence of unconcern. Herr von Bauer, of course, submitted,
greeting him with a smile even--"a smile, upon my word," said the witty
Wroblewski, "like that of a convict being tickled." The governor was
endeavouring to do his duty. "Ah," he said, "I am surprised.... ahem,
delighted to see you.... very.... ah!"

And then he recovered himself, perceiving that he owed it to his wife
to take upon himself the onus of this man's presence, and that he could
not expect any of his guests to entertain him. "Dearest Cornelia," he
was heard to say, "I am sure it slipped my memory, but I invited Mr.
Hajek--I asked him on Thursday--on _Thursday_, you know," he added,
pointedly, "and I am afraid I am going to monopolise him on account of
important business"--the mandatar keeping up his most amiable smile.

He drew him into a corner. "I have heard this morning from the
brigadier-general by special messenger. A detachment of infantry has
been despatched to Zulawce, and will arrive there on Monday as you
calculated. But the general, besides this, has thought well to order
the hussars to be there by this evening, just as you proposed. He
thinks it is as well to be on the safe side."

"Very commendable prudence, no doubt, since Taras seems determined----"

"Determined? What is that to us! Who ever heard of cavalry being
ordered to a place where they find no stabling! It is no joke to
disregard established rules--none whatever! But I wash my hands of any
consequences--I do, indeed!"

"And may I ask who will be sent on Tuesday, as you said, as your
commissioner?"

"Kapronski. Well! what is that grimace for? We do things in proper
order. He conducted the inquiry there on the former occasion, he
may therefore be expected to be the man for it now. But--a happy
thought!--I am sure you could give him a hint or two."

The governor rubbed his hands; it seemed a bright idea to set the two
least welcome of his guests at each other, thus rendering them harmless
for the rest of the company. And he gave a sign to Kapronski, who
obeyed with alacrity; for if it was an honour to be invited to the
governor's official dinner, it had, so far, not yielded him any
pleasure. The company was apt to overlook him, and people would appear
to labour under deafness when he addressed them. But being called upon
to enter into conversation with Mr. Hajek was like being lifted on to a
pedestal; for certainly this man stood lower now in the public
estimation than even Kapronski himself. So he approached him
accordingly, drawing up his fawning figure and assuming an expression
of patronage ludicrous to behold.

"You have a favour to ask of me?" he began pompously.

The mandatar gave him a look of cutting sarcasm. "You are mistaken,
sir!"

"I--I misunderstood--a request to make?" Kapronski could not stand
being looked at boldly, and was slipping down from his pedestal
rapidly.

"Nor yet a request, that I am aware," returned Hajek. "The governor
asked my opinion, or any advice I could give, concerning the personal
safety of the commissioner about to be despatched to Zulawce, and I am
ready to advise you." The mandatar had some trouble in keeping serious,
for Kapronski's features, besides recovering their wonted humility at a
stroke as it were, presented a ludicrous picture of most doleful
dismay.

"Personal safety," lie stammered, "why, is there any danger?"

"A great deal," said Hajek, confidently.

Kapronski's face turned white, and red, and ashy grey. "I shall have an
escort," he faltered; "but if Taras should attack us on the road, I am
a dead man! There is no help----"

His voice positively failed him.

"None whatever," assented the mandatar. "Stop--yes, there is," he
added, a sudden thought having flashed through him--indeed a capital
thought, so simple and so clever withal that he was surprised it should
not have presented itself before. "There is!" he said.

"Is there?" returned Kapronski, eagerly.

"Yes, indeed! a sure means of saving yourself and me, and all honest
folks from this cut-throat. Let me remind you that his wife and
children are still at his farm. It will be natural, then, to billet
most of the soldiers upon her. But this is not enough! You must tell
her that she will have to answer for it on the gallows if her husband
hurts a hair of the mandatar's head--be sure and say the mandatar's!
She is in communication with him, no doubt, and----"

"But this would be illegal!"

"Well, that is for you to judge. I only give you a hint or two, out of
kindness. It is you who have to go to Zulawce, not I!"

"Ah!" groaned Kapronski, "if it should get known, it would cost me my
place."

"Well, tell her without witnesses, then you can give her the lie, if
need be. For the rest do as you please--_I_ am safe enough here."

The conversation was interrupted! the governor inviting his guests to
move to the dining-room. "I have thought," he said, addressing the
pair, "it might be most agreeable for each of you if we put you
together."

Kapronski bowed more humbly than ever, Hajek smiling blandly. He had
made up his mind to let everybody feel mortified, but not himself--he
was not going to be annoyed, not he! And he carried out his resolution;
easier for him, no doubt, than for a man of higher mettle.

He drove home in the best of humours, and how he whiled away the rest
of his time, attuning his mind for the events of the evening, we have
had a glimpse of already. We need not describe the solemnities at the
villa, touching as they were, for we know the programme, which was
minutely followed. There were not many to witness the scene; but the
old dame had set her heart on the play-acting, and the mandatar, to
please her, fell in with her fancy. The manner of his kneeling to Wanda
was quite classical, and supper was consumed amid charming hilarity,
not forgetting some wonderful verses with which Thaddy astonished the
company.

But when the guests had departed, a final and real surprise was in
store for the happy bridegroom. He was cooling his brow at the open
window, when suddenly he perceived his coachman, Jasko, in conversation
with a horseman a little way up the road. He could see that the
stranger wore the Huzul garb. The night was dark, and a faint gleam
only from the lighted house fell on the road, but Hajek nevertheless
recognised the horseman. "Good heavens!" he shrieked, "stop him! Seize
him!"

Bogdan and the countess rushed up terrified; but the stranger also had
heard the alarm, and spurring his horse, he dashed away and was lost to
sight.

"My coachman! I entreat you send for my coachman!" cried Hajek, beside
himself. Jasko was called in. "That was Wassilj Soklewicz you were
talking with just now?" said the mandatar, quaking.

"Yes, sir," replied the man, wonderingly.

"Don't you know he is one of the outlaws--one of Taras's band?"

"Mercy on us!" cried the coachman, aghast. "He assured me he had taken
service with the mandatar at Prinkowce, and I believed him, telling him
all about ourselves on Tuesday and Thursday and this evening. I told
him: 'We need not fear Taras now, for we are going to marry a rich
lady, and shall live at Drinkowce. In the meantime, we are quite safe
at Colomea.' At which he laughed, telling me there was no saying what
might happen between now and the wedding; indeed soon----"

"Soon! soon!" groaned the mandatar, falling back on a chair. It chanced
to be the fauteuil near the palms and things. The comedy was being
changed into tragedy.

Bogdan recovered himself first. "I do not believe," he said, "that
Taras is in the neighbourhood and likely to attack you in your chambers
or on your way back to the town; but we will hold ourselves prepared
for the worst. Stay here for the night. I'll have the gates closed, my
men can be armed, and I will send for assistance to the main
guardhouse."

And so he did, but the protection he was able to hold out to his worthy
son-in-law proved of the poorest nevertheless. The officer on duty sent
back orders not to trouble him with idle tales; and, concerning his own
servants, Bogdan knew that they would throw down their arms at the
first sight of danger.

"If Taras indeed were to come, _I_ cannot protect you," he confessed to
the mandatar. "We are not without neighbours, but none of them would
stir to help us."

And with this agreeable assurance they kept watching through the night.

                             CHAPTER XIII.

                          THE BANNER UNFURLED.

The excitement of the people of Zulawce rose steadily as the Easter sun
was sinking to its rest. The cottages stood forsaken; the community had
gathered beneath the linden. The men were fully armed and many a fierce
threat was uttered against the "villain in the iron closet"; but the
peasants seemed fully resolved to take no part whatever in the coming
work of revenge. None of the inmates or dependents of the manor-house
were present. The under-steward, Boleslaw, had ordered the gates to be
closed, addressing his men in the courtyard. "Let us not act
foolishly," he said. "There is no doubt but that Taras will come, since
the report of the iron closet is so fully believed in; but he will not
harm us, if we open the doors to him to let him see that there is no
such thing as an iron closet in the place, and that the mandatar is not
with us. Our only fear is that the peasantry may grow revengeful, and
attack us when he is gone. Let us be ready to resist them, but we will
not fight Taras."

Nor had any of Anusia's people joined the public gathering; her orders
had been sufficient. She herself was sitting in the large family-room,
holding little Tereska on her lap, while her boys pressed close to her
with an indefinable fear. The children dared not speak, for the mother
seemed sunk in that strange stupor which had kept her to the bed of
sickness but lately.

Father Leo and the little popadja found her thus. A greeting was
exchanged, but conversation would not flow. It was impossible to talk
of indifferent matters, and they shrank from touching upon that which
filled their hearts. So they sat silent, a red light streaming in
through the windows; for the sun, like a glowing ball of fire, was
sinking behind the fir-covered uplands.

"How red it looks," whispered little Wassilj, pointing to the parting
glory.

"It forbodes blood," said Halko, under his breath.

"Blood," echoed the poor mother with staring eyes, pressing her
children closer.

Father Leo could bear it no longer. He went near to her, taking her
hand gently. "Anusia," he said, "do _you_ believe----?"

"What do I know," she interrupted him, sharply. "Am I of the avenger's
band? I am a widow, anxious to keep the peace for my children's sake."

Leo paced the room. "That is well," he said, presently. "I wish all the
people were like you. They say they will not join him, but I fear their
own wild disposition will be too much for them."

Anusia made no answer, and he sat down again in silence. Thus they
continued, amid the sinking shadows, in the darkening room.

But suddenly they started, and the children gave a cry of alarm. There
had been a tapping at the window which overlooked the garden. It was
the window to the west catching the last glimmer of light; no one
outside was visible, but as they gazed a hand was lifted cautiously
from below, once more tapping the pane.

"It is father!" cried the children, and the pope rose.

"Hush, children," said Anusia, in a whisper, but so impressively that
they forthwith obeyed. "Please keep quiet, Father Leo. It is not Taras,
but his messenger ... sit still ... I am his wife and must answer when
he calls."

Another tap, and Anusia glided from the room. They heard the outer door
creak on its hinges, and knew she was in the garden.

The children fell to sobbing, but the popadja put her arms round them,
beginning to say her prayers, good soul. Leo had risen, listening
intently; but not a sound was heard till the firm footstep of the
returning woman fell on their ear. She entered, carrying a lamp in her
hand. They could see her face; the old look of icy calm had once more
settled on it.

"Is it good news?" questioned Leo, eagerly.

"Yes--that is to say in some respects." She smiled bitterly. "Anyhow,
pope, you will be able to do a good service to your parishioners."

"I am most willing--what is it?"

"Go and tell them to go home quietly, for their own sakes."

"I have told them, and tried my best already. Will you tell me what
Taras----?"

"No," she said, fiercely; "I must have intercourse with him--I am his
wife; but no one else shall, if I can prevent it. Try yet again, pope;
for God's sake, do!"

Father Leo saw his wife home, and hastened to join his expectant
parishioners. But the people insisted they must see Taras storm the
castle; he was doing it as their own avenger; how should they forbear?
The long hours of waiting, and the quantity of spirits which had been
consumed, had but added to their excitement; exhortation availed not,
and with a sigh the pope desisted.

It was between ten and eleven in the evening. Away in the district town
the mandatar was about to undergo the graceful process of kneeling to
the Countess Wanda. The night lay deep and still on mountain and plain.

A strange sound broke on the stillness, indistinct at first, but
gaining in force. It was as though a mighty waterfall somewhere in the
distance had suddenly begun to roar.

"Hark!" cried a hundred voices, "what is it?" "He is coming!" exclaimed
the butcher. "No; listen!" said another.

The noise grew perceptibly, as though volumes of water were being added
to that far-off cataract. The upland echoes awoke in response, and it
was difficult to say whence the sound proceeded.

"A host of them coming from the mountains!" decided one, presently.
"No, from the plains--listen!" cried another.

It was like a low rumble of thunder, in the direction of the river
unmistakably. The very ground began to vibrate, and the dull noise ever
and anon was broken by the quick, sharp sound of a trumpet.

"Horsemen!" a voice cried suddenly. "The hussars! Save yourselves."
"No, stay," burst in another; "who should forbid our standing here
quietly? Save yourselves!" and the cry was taken up repeatedly; "these
hussars are worse than the devil!"

But the people seemed nailed to the spot, some pushing this way, some
that; the enclosing darkness, the state of semi-drunkenness most were
in, and a knowledge that a squadron of soldiers was bursting upon them,
robbed them of all self-possession.

"Go to your homes," the pope kept crying, despairingly. He had caught
hold of the torch which served to illumine the inn, and wildly urged
the people. But it seemed too late. Already the first of the soldiers,
four horsemen in advance of the troop, had reached the place, pulling
up their steeds at the near sight of the heaving, howling mass of
villagers. Two of the hussars lifted their pistols, firing into the
air.

The shots hit no one, but took full effect on the excited minds,
producing a wild panic in some, rousing rage and defiance in others.
"Save yourselves," was heard again. "We are not going to be killed like
sheep; take to your guns, men!" roared others, and bloodshed appeared
unavoidable.

The imminent danger inspired Father Leo with an unwonted power. He
forced a way through the people with his right arm, some falling back
before the blazing torch in his left, and thus he got to the head of
the crowd just as the body of soldiers galloped up the street, led by
an officer, sword in hand. It was Captain Mihaly; and at the sight of
the pale man in priestly dress, standing with a flaring torch between
the approaching horse and the overtaken crowd, he called to his men to
stop. The troop halted almost face to face with the people.
"Surrender!" exclaimed the officer.

But Father Leo lifted his hands. "Sir captain," he cried in German, his
voice rising above the turmoil behind him, "this is not the band of
Taras, but only the people of this village; they will disperse at
once."

"Then the bandit is not among you?"

"No!"

"But your people seem to be waiting for him--to assist him, I daresay."

"No; it is their curiosity only."

"I'll teach them better, then! Tell them I give them five minutes'
grace, after which time my men will have leave to cut down any one
about the streets at this late hour."

The pope repeated the orders in the people's own language; shrieks and
curses were the answer. But, even though they might have been willing,
most of the people could not at once free themselves from the
struggling crowd, and some refused to stir, in sheer defiance if not
for love of fight. The pope kept urging, but in vain. A few only
escaped; the confusion was no wise diminished.

The captain's patience appeared exhausted. The word was given, the
trumpet sounded, and, brandishing their sabres, the hussars charged the
crowd, which fell back amid a deafening tumult of shrieks and groans
and efforts of resistance. Father Leo was flung against the inn, his
head striking the door-post so violently that he staggered bleeding and
stunned with the blow. He was unable to see what happened, for the
darkness seemed denser than before, but the sounds which fell on his
ear filled him with dismay. He had suffered much of late, but trouble
seemed culminating now.

He could not quite tell how long it lasted; the noise decreased, the
hussars making their way towards the farms; presently there was
silence, save for the groans of some who evidently had been hurt in the
fray. His own head was bleeding and his limbs felt heavy, but he shook
off the lethargy, and pushing open the door of the inn called for help.

There was no answer. Some few had taken refuge in the parlour, and the
innkeeper's family were hiding in corners; the pope had to repeat his
calling, and then only a lad appeared with a rushlight in his trembling
hand.

The pope made his way into the house, conjuring the frightened people
to lend him their assistance. A couple of torches were lighted and
reluctant help was given. Matters outside were not quite so bad as
Father Leo had anticipated. Five only were lying there, more or less
severely wounded: four villagers and one of the hussars. The latter
evidently was in the worst plight, a bullet, in an almost hand-to-hand
encounter, had gone through his shoulder. Father Leo saw to him first,
ordering him to be moved into the inn. An old man was attended to next,
he had a sabre-cut on his forehead. The other three were women who had
fallen beneath the hoofs of the horses, but were not badly hurt.

Leo set himself to bind up the wounds as well as he could, aided by
Avrumko and Maxym Bobra, a soldier on furlough; and while they were
thus occupied the troop of horsemen were heard returning. A trumpet
sounded. "The signal for dismounting," whispered Maxym to the pope, and
almost immediately the door of the inn parlour was flung open. The
officer entered, followed by some half-dozen of his men.

"Bring out torches and some faggots!" he cried to the innkeeper,
turning to give a look at the wounded.

The pope met him. "Captain," he said modestly, "it might be well to
send a messenger to Zablotow, the doctor is badly needed."

"Got our own surgeon," was the gruff reply; and, having given orders
for the military Esculapius to attend, the officer stood over the
wounded soldier.

"Nice sort of 'curiosity' this on the part of your peaceful sheep," he
said, presently. But Father Leo forbore answering, busying himself
about the sufferers.

The surgeon entered, examined the wounds, and prepared to dress them.
"The peasant will get over it," he said; "but this man of ours will
hardly do so, a bullet having pierced his lung."

"Then the churls shall pay for it, by Jove!" returned the officer with
rising passion; "and so shall you, sir pope--you have deceived me!"

Leo looked him in the face quietly. "I shall be ready to answer
for anything to-morrow," he said; "I will now go along the village
street--there may be other sufferers."

The captain somehow felt disarmed. "You are bleeding yourself, your
reverence," he said more gently, almost abashed.

But Father Leo turned away in silence, leaving the inn with Maxym Bobra
and one or two other men.

The village, which but lately had been the scene of so wild an uproar,
lay still as death; a number of soldiers had settled round a watch fire
outside the inn, a similar guard being stationed in front of the manor
house. The lurid flames rising from these two spots were the only
lights visible. The sentries patrolling the village with cocked pistols
found no cause of alarm. Neither did good Father Leo, for no one seemed
to require his aid except a woman lying terror-stricken at her own
cottage door.

He went home, poor Fruzia receiving him with a cry of horror at the
sight of his pale, blood-stained countenance. But she, whom lesser
troubles would readily overpower, now recovered herself, courageously.
"I will not murmur," the faithful wife was saying, with trembling lips,
hastening to dress his wound, "you have but done your duty." Nor did
she raise the slightest objection on his declaring he would sit up
through the night. "I must indeed," he added, "I sadly fear we shell
hear of farther trouble; some wounded or dying man may send for me."

And so it proved. In the small hours of the morning a messenger arrived
begging him to take the sacrament to the smithy, since Marko had not
many minutes to live. He made all possible speed, but death was before
him; the towering giant who but a few hours before had spoken so
manfully, would never lift his chirping voice again. He had been
foremost among those who opposed the soldiers, a sabre-cut had disabled
him, and as he endeavoured to drag himself home after the fray a bullet
caught him in the back, inflicting his death-wound. He reached the
smithy, but only to die. Father Leo offered what consolation he could
to the bereaved widow, who in tearless grief held fast the dead man's
hand. "Peace!" she replied, gloomily: "there is but one comfort left; I
shall know how to use his gun, and the hour of reckoning will come."

Such, indeed, was the frame of mind of most of the people when the good
pope in the early morning went his round of the cottages. Few of the
villagers had been wounded or hurt, but one and all were burning with
resentment. And the strange quiet, blending with their wrath, appeared
to him more alarming than the turbulent anger he was accustomed to. "We
have suffered wrong," they said, "and we shall pay it back. We cannot
do so without a leader, but we may trust Taras. If we waited for him in
vain last night, it was no doubt because the mandatar evidently is not
at the house--he would have shown his cowardly face under the
protection of the military if he were hiding in the place! But no
matter, Taras will now be coming for our sakes."

On the afternoon of Easter Monday a body of infantry relieved the
hussars, the officer in command proving himself both judicious and
kind. On learning from the pope how matters stood, he readily promised
to spare the villagers as much as possible; and since the manor house,
the protection of which was the main object, offered plenty of room, he
would have the men quartered there--all but a few, at least, he added,
whom, according to special instructions, he would have to billet on
Taras's farm. "I am sorry," he said, "to make acquaintance of this
man's family in so unpleasant a way, for it went to one's heart to hear
him speak of them."

"Do you know Taras?" inquired Father Leo, wonderingly.

"Yes. I am Captain Stanczuk, and acted as interpreter when he was
admitted to the Emperor's presence at Vienna."

The peasants looked on with a savage gloom as the "Whitecoats" made
themselves at home in the village, their anger blazing forth when they
learned that the officer actually was the son of a Podolian pope.
Anusia received her uninvited guests after a similar fashion, treating
the officer, first to a withering look, and then to her utmost
contempt. The captain had come in person, hoping to smooth matters, but
the woman seemed beyond conciliation.

Yet she trembled visibly when Father Leo whispered to her that her
visitor was the same captain who had assisted Taras at Vienna, and a
deep flush overspread her face.

"What is it?" inquired the pope, surprised. "He is not likely to harm
you, seeing he was kind to Taras."

"Yes, yes," she groaned; "I am all the more sorry for him." But her
lips closed, and the old stony expression settled on her face.

That same evening the two who on the previous day had opposed each
other so strenuously concerning the attitude to be adopted by the
village--Wassilj, the butcher, and Hritzko Pomenko--went from farm to
farm, from cottage to cottage, evidently of one mind. "On account of
the Whitecoats there can be no general meeting," they said; "but we ask
you individually, Are you satisfied that tomorrow morning we should
start for the mountains, to call hither Taras in the name of the
community, for the avenging of this wrong? And do you pledge yourselves
to help him?" Every one of the peasants assented, most of them readily,
and some for very fear of the prevailing opinion. The horizon hung
heavy with bursting clouds.

But the pope only heard of it when the two had started on the Tuesday,
and the good man found himself in a painful plight. Should he inform
the captain, causing more stringent measures to be adopted against the
village, besides being the means of bringing two honest men to grievous
punishment? Should he keep silence and let the mischief be done? He
came to see that, of the two evils, this latter certainly was the
worst, and therefore imparted to the officer what was brewing, but
without mentioning names.

The captain smiled. "I know all about it," he said, "and more than you
tell me. That corporal, Constantino Turenko, has been before you,
embellishing his report, no doubt, with even more than the truth. But
let me assure your reverence that my measures have been taken with the
utmost circumspection; I hardly needed such information to be prepared
for any exigency. I shall not have recourse to harsh treatment; and
though that corporal has taken it upon himself so to advise me, I shall
not prohibit the public funeral of the smith to-day."

But this mournful occasion brought no cause of disturbance. Nearly all
the village attended, and Father Leo would fain have poured out his
heart had the widow not begged him to forego the usual discourse. "My
husband shall indeed have a funeral sermon by and by," she said, "not
in words, but in gun-shots."

On the evening of this day, also, two men went the round of the
village, Alexa Sembrow and Wilko Sembratowicz. "It has been announced,"
they said, "that to-morrow we have to expect a man of the law to take
our deposition with regard to Taras's speech. Now Taras himself has
desired us to make it known, but we consider the transactions of the
general assembly are no lawyer's business, and we propose to refuse
information. Do you agree?" which they all did, none having the
slightest compunction on this point.

Whilst the inhabitants of Zulawce were thus preparing to circumvent the
law after their own fashion, Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, the district
commissioner, with his office-clerk behind him, was being driven
towards the contumacious parish. He was seated in an open car, an armed
constable on either side of him, but nowise at his ease; indeed, so
harassed was his appearance, that the simple country folk by the
roadside, unable to guess at his position by his looks, kept wondering
what so respectable an individual could have done to be taken to prison
for! A coward every inch of him, he certainly did not show to advantage
with an escort of constables about him.

Nor did the rising sun of another day enhance his spirits; for was he
not approaching that desperate village? his craven imagination
conjuring up the most lively scenes of the regiment being murdered to a
man by that awful Taras. He quite gasped with relief on beholding some
of the soldiers patrolling by the Pruth, and their leader, a sergeant,
assured him, somewhat surprised, that the regiment, so far, was alive
and the people tolerably quiet.

This account seemed cheering, and he fell to determining his mode of
action. He would try, in the first place, to bully Anusia; for if the
mandatar's advice in this respect was illegal, it was nevertheless
useful, and this was not a case to stickle for technical correctness,
when positively one's life was in danger, the amiable man said to
himself. He instructed his driver, therefore, to put him down near
Taras's farm; and, to the astonishment of the constables, he went on
his errand alone. The beating of his heart was known to himself only.
"No doubt she is a termagant of a woman," he murmured, but face her he
must.

He was fortunate in finding her alone in the common sitting-room. She
gave a searching look at the man, who entered her presence with an
uncertain step.

"I am the district commissioner," Kapronski stammered.

"I am aware of the fact," said Anusia. "What may be your pleasure?"

Her manner was not exactly calculated to rouse any latent courage;
nevertheless he gathered himself up with an effort, saying hastily: "I
am the bearer of a message from the Board of magistrates. Your husband
is a miscreant. Unfortunately we cannot just lay our hands on him; but
you and your children and this farm are within our reach. If Taras
dares hurt a hair of my head--of my head, do you hear?--or anybody
else's, your property will be confiscated, and you shall answer for him
to the law. We know you have communication with him; so just send him
word!"

The woman had listened quietly--almost with indifference. "Yes, yes,"