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

“With the commissioners to Gushchi, and from there to Ostrog; farther I came alone.”

“Then you are an old acquaintance of Pan Skshetuski?”

“I made his acquaintance in the Saitch, nursed him when he was wounded, and then I learned to like him as if he were my own child. I am old, and have nobody to love.”

Zagloba called to the servant, gave orders to bring in mead and meat, and they sat down to supper. Zakhar ate heartily, for he was road-weary and hungry; then he sank his gray mustaches eagerly in the dark liquid, drank, smacked his lips, and said: “Splendid mead!”

“Better than the blood which you folks drink,” said Zagloba. “But I think that you are an honest man, and loving Pan Skshetuski, will not go any more to the rebellion, but remain with us. It will be good for you here.”

Zakhar raised his head. “I delivered the letter, now I’ll go back. I am a Cossack. It is for me to be a brother with the Cossacks, not with the Poles.”

“And will you beat us?”

“I will. I am a Cossack of the Saitch. We elected Hmelnitski hetman, and now the king has sent him the baton and the banner.”

“There it is for you, Pan Michael! Have not I advised a protest? And from what kuren are you?”

“From the Mirgorod; but it is no longer in existence.”

“What has happened to it?”

“The hussars of Pan Charnetski at Jóltiya Vodi cut it to pieces. I am under Donyéts now, with those who survived. Pan Charnetski is a real soldier; he is with us in captivity, and the commissioners have interceded for him.”

“We have your prisoners too.”

“That must be so. In Kiev they say that our best hero is a captive with the Poles, though some say he is dead.”

“Who is that?”

“Oh, the famous ataman, Bogun.”

“Bogun was killed in a duel.”

“But who killed him?”

“That knight there,” said Zagloba, pointing proudly to Volodyovski.

The eyes of Zakhar, who at that moment had raised the second quart of mead, stared, his face grew purple, and at last he snorted the liquid through his nostrils as he laughed. “That knight killed Bogun?” he asked, coughing violently from laughter.

“What’s the matter with the old devil?” asked Volodyovski, frowning. “This messenger takes too much liberty on himself.”

“Be not angry, Pan Michael!” interrupted Zagloba. “He is clearly an honest man, and if a stranger to politeness it is because he is a Cossack. On the other hand, it is the greater praise for you that though you are so paltry in appearance you have wrought such mighty deeds in your time. Your body is insignificant, but your soul is great. I myself, as you remember, when looking at you after the duel, though I saw the struggle with my own eyes, could not believe that such a whippersnapper⁠—”

“Oh, let us have peace!” blurted out Volodyovski.

“I am not your father, so don’t be angry with me. But I tell you this; I should like to have a son like you, and if you wish, I will adopt you and convey all my property to you; for it is no shame to be great in a small body. The prince is not much larger than you, and Alexander the Great would not deserve to be his armor-bearer.”

“What makes me angry,” said Volodyovski, somewhat mollified, “is specially this, that nothing favorable to Skshetuski is evident from this letter. He did not lay down his head on the Dniester, God be thanked for that; but he has not found the princess yet, and what surety is there that he will find her?”

“True. But if God through us has freed him from Bogun, and has conducted him through so many dangers, through so many snares, if he has inspired even the stony heart of Hmelnitski with a wonderful affection for him, you have no reason to dry up from torment and sorrow into smoked bacon. If you do not see in all this the hand of Providence, it is clear that your wit is duller than your sabre⁠—a reasonable arrangement enough, since no man can have all gifts at once.”

“I see one thing,” answered Volodyovski, moving his mustaches⁠—“that we have nothing to do here, and still we must stay here till we wither up altogether.”

“I shall wither up sooner than you, for I am older, and you know that turnips wither and salt meat grows bitter from age. Let us rather thank God for promising a happy end to all our troubles. Not a little have I grieved for the princess⁠—more indeed than you have, and little less than Skshetuski⁠—for she is my dear daughter, and it is true that I might not love my own so much. They say indeed that she is as much like me as one cup is like another; but I love her besides that, and you would not see me either happy or at peace if I did not hope that her trouble would soon come to an end. Tomorrow I shall write a wedding-hymn; for I write very beautiful verses, though in recent times I have neglected Apollo somewhat for Mars.”

“What is the use in thinking of Mars now! May the hangman take that Kisel and all the commissioners and their treaties! They will make peace in the spring as true as two and two are four. Pan Podbipienta, who saw the prince, says so too.”

“Podbipienta knows as much of public affairs as a goat does of pepper. While at the court his mind was more on that tufted lark than anything else, and he pushed up to her as a dog to a partridge. God grant that someone else may get her from him! But enough of this! I do not deny that Kisel is a traitor⁠—all the Commonwealth knows that; but as to treaties⁠—well, grandmother talks both ways.”

Here Zagloba turned to the Cossack. “And what, Zakhar, do they say among your folks? Will there