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

now. But in the old time he was happy, for then he told of his expeditions with the Zaporojians, she listened, and at times her dark eyes rested on his face, and her open red lips showed with what interest she listened; now she would not even look. Then when he played on the lute she would listen and look, till the heart melted within him. And, wonder of wonders, he is now master of her⁠—he has taken her with armed hand; she is his captive, his prisoner; he can command her. But nevertheless in the old time he felt himself nearer, more her equal in rank. The Kurtsevichi were her cousins, she was as a sister; she was not only his cuckoo, falcon, dearest, dark-browed, but also a relative. Now she sits before him a proud lady, gloomy, silent, merciless. Ah, but anger is boiling within him! He would like to show her what it means to slight a Cossack; but he loves this merciless woman, he would shed his blood for her. But how many times had anger seized his breast! when suddenly an unseen hand, as it were, grasps him by the hair, and a voice shouts in his ear, “Stop!” He belches forth something like a flame, beats his forehead on the earth, and stops. The Cossack squirms now, for he feels that he is oppressive to her in that room. Let her but smile and give a kind word, he would fall at her feet and go to the devil, to drown in Polish blood all his grief and anger together with the insult put upon him. But in that room he is like a captive before that princess. If he had not known her of old, if she were a Pole taken from the first noble castle, he would have more daring; but she is Princess Helena, for whom he had asked the Kurtsevichi, and for whom he was willing to give up Rozlogi and all he had. And the more ashamed he is of being a slave before her, the less bold is he.

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

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

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

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

She was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helena was silent.

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

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

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

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

“If you would only⁠—”

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

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

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

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

“Glorious fame will rise
Among the Cossacks,
Among the heroes,
For many a year,
Till the end of time.”

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

XXXVII

“The Lord has wrought an evident miracle in her favor