With Fire and Sword by Henryk Sienkiewicz (big ebook reader .txt) 📕

pride must suffer from the humiliation put upon him. He, a prince, “by the grace of God;” he, a voevoda in Russia, senator of the Commonwealth⁠—must yield to some Hmelnitski or Krívonos. He, almost a monarch, who recently had received ambassadors from foreign rulers, must withdraw from the field of glory, and confine himself in some little castle, waiting for the outcome of a war directed by others or for humiliating negotiations. He, predestined for great things, conscious of ability to direct them, had to confess that he was without power.

This suffering, together with his labors, was marked on his figure. He had become greatly emaciated; his eyes had sunk; his hair, black as the wing of a raven, had begun to grow gray. But a certain grand tragic calm was spread over his countenance, for pride guarded him from betraying his suffering.

“Well, let it be so,” said he; “we will show this unthankful country that we are able not only to fight, but to die for it. Indeed I should prefer a more glorious death⁠—to fall in some other war than in a domestic squabble with serfs⁠—”

“Do not speak of death,” interrupted the voevoda of Kiev; “for though it is unknown what God has predestined to any man, still death may be far away. I do homage to your military genius and your knightly spirit; but I cannot take it ill, either of the viceroy, the chancellor, or the commanders, if they try to stem civil war by negotiations, for in it the blood of brothers is flowing, and who, unless a foreign enemy, can reap advantage from the stubbornness of both sides?”

The prince looked long into the eyes of the voevoda, and said emphatically⁠—

“Show favor to the conquered, and they will accept it with thanks and will remember it, but you will be only despised by conquerors. Would that no one had ever done injustice to these people! But when once insurrection has flamed up, we must quench it with blood, not negotiations; if we do not, disgrace and destruction to us!”

“Speedy ruin will come if we wage war each on his own account,” answered the voevoda.

“Does that mean that you will not go on with me?”

“I call God to witness that this is out of no ill-will to you; but my conscience tells me not to expose my men to evident destruction, for their blood is precious, and will be of value to the Commonwealth yet.”

The prince was silent awhile; then turning to his colonels, he said⁠—

“You, my old comrades, will not leave me now!”

At these words the colonels, as if impelled by one power and one will, rushed to the prince. Some kissed his garments; some embraced his knees; others, raising their hands to heaven, cried⁠—

“We are with you to the last breath, to the last drop of blood! Lead us, lead us! we will serve without pay.”

“And let me die with you,” cried young Pan Aksak, blushing like a girl.

At sight of this the voevoda of Kiev was moved; but the prince went from one to another, pressed the head of each one, and thanked him. A mighty enthusiasm seized on young and old. From the eyes of the warriors sparks flashed; they grasped their sabres from moment to moment.

“I will live with you, die with you!” said the prince.

“We will conquer!” cried the officers. “Against Krívonos! On Polónnoe! Whoever wishes to leave us, let him leave. We will do without aid. We wish to share neither glory nor death.”

“It is my will,” said the prince, “that before moving on Krívonos we take even a short rest to restore our strength. It is now the third month that we are on horseback, scarcely ever dismounting. The flesh is leaving our bones from excessive toil and change of climate. We have no horses; the infantry are barefoot. Let us go then to Zbaraj; there we will recruit and rest. Perhaps too some soldiers will join us, and we will move into the fire with new forces.”

“When do you wish to start?” asked old Zatsvilikhovski.

“Without delay, old soldier, without delay!” Here the prince turned to the voevoda: “And where do you wish to go?”

“To Gliniani, for I hear that forces are collecting there.”

“Then we will conduct you to a safe place, so that no harm may happen to you.”

The voevoda said nothing, for he felt rather ill at ease. He was leaving, and the prince still showed care for him and intended to conduct him. Was there irony in the words of the prince? The voevoda did not know. Still the voevoda did not abandon his design; for the colonels of the prince looked on him more inimically every moment, and it was clear that in any other less disciplined army there would have been an outbreak against him.

He bowed and went out; and the colonels went, each to his own regiment to make ready for the march. Skshetuski alone remained with the prince.

“What kind of soldiers are in those regiments?” asked the prince.

“So good that you cannot find better. Dragoons drilled in German fashion, and with infantry of the guard, veterans of the Thirty Years’ War. When I saw them I thought they were Roman legionaries.”

“Many of them?”

“Two regiments with the dragoons⁠—just three thousand men.”

“Oh, it is a pity, it is a pity! Great things might be done with their assistance.”

Suffering was already depicted on the face of the prince. After a while he said as if to himself⁠—

“It is unfortunate that such commanders were chosen in times of defeat! Ostrorog would be the right man if war could be put down with eloquence and Latin; Konyetspolski is my brother-in-law and a warrior by nature; but he is young, without experience. Zaslavski is worst of all. I know him of old. He is a man of small heart and narrow mind. His business is to slumber over the