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

“I go with you; but first I must go to my squadron, for I have a number of men to send out.”

“Let us go together.”

They went; and with them Podbipienta, Zagloba, and old Zatsvilikhovski, who was on the way to his squadron. Not far from the tents of Volodyovski’s dragoons they met Pan Lashch, walking, or rather staggering, at the head of a number of nobles, for he and his comrades were completely drunk. At the sight of this Zagloba sighed. The two men had fallen in love with each other at Konstantinoff, because, from a certain point of view, they had natures as much alike as two drops of water. For Pan Lashch, though a formidable knight, and terrible against Pagans as few men were terrible, was also a notorious drinker and feaster, who loved, above all things, to pass the time free from battle, prayers, attacks, and quarrels, in the circle of men like Zagloba, to drink with might and main, and listen to jokes. He was a roysterer on a grand scale, who himself alone had caused so much disturbance, had so many times risen up against the law, that in any other State he would have lost his life long before. More sentences than one were hanging over him, but even in time of peace he troubled himself little about those; and now, in time of war, everything passed into forgetfulness all the more. He joined the prince at Rosolovtsi, and had rendered no small service at Konstantinoff; but since they had halted at Zbaraj he had become quite unendurable, through the tumults which he raised. No one had given regular count or calculation to the wine that Zagloba had drunk at his quarters, or the stories he had told, to the great delight of the host, who urged him to come every day.

But since the news of the taking of Bar, Zagloba had become gloomy, lost his humor and vivacity, and no longer visited Pan Lashch. Pan Lashch, indeed, thought that the jovial nobleman had gone somewhere from the army, when suddenly he saw him. He extended his hand, and said⁠—

“My greetings to you. Why don’t you come to see me? What are you doing?”

“I am attending Skshetuski,” answered Zagloba, gloomily.

The colonel did not like Skshetuski on account of his dignity, and nicknamed him “The Grave.” He knew of his misfortune perfectly well, for he was present at the banquet in Zbaraj when news of the capture of Bar came in. But being of unrestrained nature, and drunk at the moment, he did not respect human suffering, and seizing the lieutenant by the button, inquired⁠—

“So, then, you are crying for a girl? And was she pretty, hei?”

“Let me go, please,” said Skshetuski.

“Wait!”

“On my way to service you cannot command me. I am free of you.”

“Wait!” said Lashch, with the stubbornness of a drunken man. “You have service, but I have none. There is no one to command me here.” Then lowering his voice, he repeated the question, “But she was pretty, hei?”

The lieutenant frowned, “I tell you, sir, better not touch a sore spot.”

“Not touch? Never fear! If she was pretty, she is alive.”

Skshetuski’s face was covered with a deathly pallor, but he restrained himself, and said: “I hope I shall not forget with whom I am talking⁠—”

Lashch stuck out his eyes. “What! Are you threatening me, threatening me⁠—for one little wench?”

“Go your way!” shouted old Zatsvilikhovski, trembling with anger.

“Ah, sneaks, rabble, lackeys!” roared the commander. “Gentlemen, to your sabres!”

Drawing his own, he sprang at Skshetuski; but that moment the steel whistled in Skshetuski’s hand, and the sabre of the commander hopped like a bird through the air, and staggered by the blow, he fell his whole length on the ground.

Skshetuski did not strike again. He became pale as a corpse, as if stunned, and that moment a tumult arose. From one side rushed in the soldiers of the commander; from the other Volodyovski’s dragoons hurried like bees from a hive. Many hastened up, not knowing what the matter was; sabres began to rattle; any moment the tumult might have changed into a general battle. Happily Lashch’s comrades, seeing that Vishnyevetski’s men were arriving every moment, made sober from fear, seized the commander and started off with him.

In truth, if Lashch had had to do with other and less disciplined forces, they would have cut him into small pieces with their swords; but old Zatsvilikhovski, recollecting himself, merely cried, “Stop!” and the sabres were sheathed. Nevertheless there was excitement throughout the whole camp, and the echo of the tumult reached the ears of the prince just as Pan Kushel, who was on duty, rushed into the room in which the prince was holding counsel with the voevoda of Kiev, the starosta of Stobnik, and Pan Denhoff, and shouted⁠—

“Your Highness, the soldiers are fighting with sabres!”

At that moment Lashch, pale and beside himself with rage, but sober, shot in like a bomb.

“Your Highness, justice! It is in this camp as with Hmelnitski⁠—no respect for blood or rank. Dignitaries of the Crown are slashed with sabres! If your Highness will not mete out justice, will not punish with death, then I myself will mete it out.”

The prince sprang up from the table. “What has happened? Who has attacked you?”

“Thy officer, Skshetuski.”

Genuine astonishment was reflected on the face of the prince. “Skshetuski?”

Suddenly the doors were opened, and in walked Zatsvilikhovski. “Your Highness, I was a witness,” said he.

“I have not come here to give reasons, but to demand punishment,” cried Lashch.

The prince turned and fastened his eyes upon him. “Stop! stop!” said he, quietly and with emphasis.

There was something so terrible in his eyes and in his hushed voice that Lashch, though notorious for insolence, became silent at once, as if he had lost his speech, and the spectators grew pale.

“Speak!” said the prince to Zatsvilikhovski.

Zatsvilikhovski described the whole affair⁠—how the commander, led by an ignoble sentiment, unworthy not only of a dignitary but