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

head of his party farther and farther from the camp, turning his way toward Ojigovtsi to the Bug and Medvedovka. Though September had withered the leaves on the trees, the night was calm and warm as in July; for such, indeed, was that whole year, in which there was scarcely any winter, and in spring everything was in bloom at a time when in former years deep snow was still lying on the steppes. After a rather moist summer, the first months of autumn were dry and mild, with clear days and bright moonlight nights. They travelled along the easy road, not taking special care, for they were still too near the camp to be threatened by any attack. They rode briskly; Skshetuski ahead with a few horsemen, and behind him Volodyovski, Zagloba, and Podbipienta.

“Look, gentlemen, how the light of the moon shines on that hill!” whispered Zagloba. “You might swear that it is day. It is said that only in time of war are there such nights, so that spirits may leave their bodies without knocking their heads against trees in the dark, like sparrows against the crosspieces in a barn, and more easily find the way. Today is Friday, the day of the Saviour, in which poisonous vapors do not issue from the ground, and evil powers have no approach to men. I feel somehow easier, and hope takes possession of me.”

“That is because we are now on the way and will undertake some rescue.”

“The worst thing, in grief, is to sit in one place. When you get on horseback, all your despair flies down from the shaking, till you shake it off completely and entirely.”

“I do not believe,” whispered Volodyovski, “that you can shake off everything in that way⁠—for example, love, which clings to the heart like a wood-tick.”

“If love is genuine,” said Pan Longin, “then even if you should wrestle with it as with a bear, it would throw you.”

Having said this, Podbipienta relieved his swollen breast with a sigh which was like the puff of a blacksmith’s bellows; but little Volodyovski raised his eyes to heaven, as if seeking among the stars that one which was shining on Princess Barbara.

The horses began to snort in the whole company, and the soldiers answered, “Health, health!” Then all was silent till some melancholy voice began to sing in the rear ranks:

“You are going to the war, my boy,
You are going to the war!
Your nights will be cold,
And your days will be hot⁠—”

“Old soldiers say that horses always snort as a good omen, as my deceased father used to tell me,” said Volodyovski.

“Something whispers, as it were, in my ear, that we are not going for nothing,” answered Zagloba.

“God grant that some consolation enter the heart of the lieutenant!” sighed Pan Longin.

Zagloba began to nod and turn his head like a man who is unable to conquer some idea, and at last said⁠—

“Something altogether different is in my head, and I must get rid of the thought, for I cannot endure it. Have you noticed that for some time Skshetuski⁠—I am not sure, maybe he dissembles⁠—but still he, as it were, thinks less than any of us of saving that unfortunate lady.”

“Nonsense!” said Volodyovski. “It is his disposition never to confess anything to anyone. He has never been different.”

“Yes, that so far as it goes; but just remember, when we gave him hope, he said, ‘God reward you,’ both to me and to you, as coldly as if it had been some common affair. And God is witness, on his part that was black ingratitude; for what that poor woman has wept and grieved for him could not be inscribed on an ox-hide. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

Volodyovski shook his head. “It cannot be that he has given her up, though it is true that the first time when that devil seized her from him in Rozlogi, he despaired so that we feared he would lose his mind; but now he shows more reflection. If God has poured peace into his soul, it is better. As true friends, it is our duty to be comforted by this.”

Volodyovski then spurred his horse and sped on toward Pan Yan, but Zagloba rode for some time in silence by the side of Podbipienta.

“Are you not of my opinion, that if there were no love affairs a power of evil would cease in the world?”

“Whatever God has destined to anyone, will not avoid him,” answered the Lithuanian.

“But you never answer to the point. That is one affair, and this is another. Who caused the destruction of Troy, hei? And isn’t this war about fair locks? Hmelnitski wanted Chaplinski’s woman, or Chaplinski wanted Hmelnitski’s; and we are breaking our necks on account of their sinful desires.”

“Those are dishonorable loves; but there are honorable ones, through which the glory of God is increased.”

“Now you have hit the point better. But are you going soon to work in that vineyard yourself? I hear that a scarf is bound to you for the war.”

“Ah, brother! brother!”

“But three heads are in the way, are they?”

“Ah, that’s the truth!”

“Well, I tell you: give a good blow, and cut them off at once from Hmelnitski, the Khan, and Bogun.”

“Oh, if they would only stand in a row!” said Pan Longin, in a voice full of emotion, raising his eyes to heaven.

Meanwhile Volodyovski rode by Skshetuski, and looked from under his helmet in silence at his pallid face, till at last their stirrups touched.

“Yan,” said he, “it is bad for you to forget yourself.”

“I am not forgetting myself, I am praying,” answered Skshetuski.

“That is a holy and praiseworthy thing; but you are not a monk, to be occupied in prayer alone.”

Pan Yan turned his suffering face slowly to Volodyovski, and inquired with a dull voice, full of deathly resignation: “Tell me, Michael, what is left to me now but a monk’s habit?”

“It remains to you to rescue her,” answered Volodyovski.

“I will do that, if