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

“Let them go to the devil! Where are they⁠—where?”

“There, on the other side of the hill, I saw flags.”

“Troops?”

“They appear to be troops.”

“May the dogs bite them! Are there many of them?”

“You can’t tell, for they are far away. We might hide here behind these rocks and fall on them unawares, for their road lies this way. If their numbers are too great, Pan Volodyovski is not far off; he will hear the shots and hasten to our aid.”

Daring rose suddenly to Zagloba’s head like wine. It may be that despair gave him such an impulse to action; possibly hope that Volodyovski was still near. Enough that he waved his naked sabre, rolled his eyes terribly, and cried⁠—

“Hide behind the rocks! We will show those ruffians⁠—” The trained soldiers of the prince turned behind the rocks, and in the twinkle of an eye placed themselves in battle-array, ready for a sudden attack.

An hour passed. At last the noise of approaching people was heard. An echo bore the sounds of joyful songs; and a moment later the sounds of fiddles, bagpipes, and a drum reached the ears of the men lurking in ambush. The sergeant came to Zagloba again, and said⁠—

“They are not troops, Commander, nor Cossacks. It is a wedding.”

“A wedding? I’ll play a tune for them; let them wait a bit.”

Saying this, he rode out, and after him the soldiers, and formed in line on the road. “After me!” cried Zagloba, threateningly.

The line moved on a trot, then a gallop, and passing around the cliff, stood suddenly in front of the crowd of people, frightened and confused by the unexpected sight.

“Stop! stop!” was the cry from both sides.

It was really a peasant wedding. In front rode the piper, the flute-player, the fiddler, and two drummers, already somewhat intoxicated, and playing dance-music out of tune. Behind them was the bride, a brisk young woman in a dark jacket, with hair flowing over her shoulders. She was surrounded by her bridesmaids, singing songs and carrying wreaths in their hands. All the girls were sitting on horseback, man-fashion, adorned with wildflowers. They looked at a distance like a party of handsome Cossacks. In another line rode the bridegroom on a sturdy horse, with his groomsmen, having wreaths on long poles, like pikes. The rear of the party was brought up by the parents of the newly married and guests, all on horseback. In light wagons strewn with straw were drawn a number of kegs of gorailka, mead, and beer, which belched out a pleasant odor along the rough, stony road.

“Halt! halt!” was shouted from both sides. The wedding-party was confused. The young girls raised a cry of fear, and drew back to the rear. The young men and elder groomsmen rushed forward to protect the young women from the unexpected attack.

Zagloba sprang before them, and brandishing his sabre, which gleamed in the eyes of the terror-stricken peasants, began to shout⁠—

“Ha, you bullock-drivers, dog-tails, rebels! You wanted to join the insurrection! You are on the side of Hmelnitski, you scoundrels! You are going to spy out something; you are blocking the road to troops⁠—raising your hand against nobles! Oh, I’ll give it to you, you foul spirits of curs! I’ll order you to be fettered, to be impaled, O rascals, Pagans! Now you will pay for all your crimes.”

A groomsman, old, and white as a dove, jumped from his horse, approached the noble, and holding his stirrup humbly, began to bow to his girdle and implore⁠—

“Have mercy, serene knight! Do not ruin poor people! God is our witness that we are innocent. We are not going to a rebellion. We are going from the church at Gusiatyn. We crowned our relative Dmitry, the blacksmith, with Ksenia, the cooper’s daughter. We have come with a wedding and with a dance.”

“These are innocent people,” whispered the sergeant.

“Out of my sight! They are scoundrels; they have come from Krívonos’s to a wedding!” roared Zagloba.

“May the plague kill him!” cried the old man. “We have never looked on him with our eyes; we are poor people. Have mercy on us, serene lord, and let us pass; we are doing harm to no man, and we know our duty.”

“You will go to Yarmolintsi in fetters!”

“We will go wherever you command. Our lord, it is for you to command, for us to obey. But you will do us a kindness, serene knight! Order your soldiers to do us no harm, and you yourself pardon us simple people. We now beat to you humbly with the forehead, to drink with us to the happiness of the newly married. Drink, your mercy, to the joy of simple people, as God and the holy Gospels command.”

“But don’t suppose that I forgive you if I drink,” said Zagloba, sharply.

“No, no, my lord,” exclaimed with joy the old man; “we don’t dream of it. Hei, musicians!” cried he, “strike up for the serene knight, because the serene knight is kind; and you, young men, hurry for mead⁠—sweet mead for the knight; he will not harm poor people. Hurry, boys, hurry! We thank you, our lord.”

The young men ran with the speed of wind to the kegs; and immediately the drums sounded, the fiddles squeaked sharply, the piper puffed out his cheeks and began to press the windbag under his arm. The groomsmen shook the wreaths on the poles, in view of which the soldiers began to press forward, twirl their mustaches, laugh, and look at the bride over the shoulders of the young fellows. The song resounded again. Terror had passed away, and here and there too was heard the joyful “U-ha! u-ha!”

Zagloba did not become serene-browed in a moment. Even when a quart of mead was brought to him, he still muttered to himself: “Oh, the scoundrels, the ruffians!” Even when he had sunk his mustaches in the dark surface of the mead, his brows did not unwrinkle. He raised his head, winked his eyes, and smacking his lips, began to