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

“I have received information too,” answered the prince. “All is ready, only let our people hurry with the ramparts.”

“They are nearly finished.”

“That is well! We will occupy them in the evening.” Then he turned to the four knights. “It is best to try after the storm, if the night is dark.”

“How is that?” asked Firlei; “are you preparing a sally?”

“The sally in its own order⁠—I will lead it myself; but now we are talking about something else. These gentlemen undertake to creep through the enemy and inform the king of our condition.”

The castellan was astonished, opened his eyes, and looked at the knights in succession. The prince smiled with delight. He had this vanity⁠—he loved to have his soldiers admired.

“In God’s name!” said the castellan; “there are such hearts then in the world? As God lives, I will not dissuade you from the daring deed.”

Zagloba was purple from rage; but he said nothing, he only puffed like a bear. The prince thought awhile, then said⁠—

“I do not wish, however, to spend your blood in vain, and I am not willing that all four should go together. One will go first; if the enemy kill him, they will not delay in boasting of it, as they have once already boasted of the death of my servant whom they seized at Lvoff. If they kill the first, the second will go; afterward in case of necessity the third and the fourth. But perhaps the first will pass through; in such an event I do not wish to expose the others to a useless death.”

“Your Highness,” interrupted Skshetuski.

“This is my will and command,” said Yeremi, with emphasis. “To bring you to agreement, I say that he shall go first who offered himself first.”

“It was I!” cried Pan Longin, with a beaming face.

“Tonight, after the storm, if it is dark,” added the prince. “I will give no letters to the king; you will tell what you have seen⁠—merely take a signet-ring as credential.”

Podbipienta took the signet-ring and bowed to the prince, who caught him by the temples and held him awhile with his two hands; then he kissed him several times on the forehead, and said in a voice of emotion⁠—

“You are as near to my heart as a brother. May the God of Hosts and our Queen of Angels carry you through, warrior of the Lord! Amen!”

“Amen!” repeated Sobieski, the castellan of Belsk, and Pan Pshiyemski.

The prince had tears in his eyes, for he was a real father to the knights. Others wept, and a quiver of enthusiasm shook the body of Pan Podbipienta. A flame passed through his bones; and rejoiced to its depth was his soul, pure, obedient, and heroic, with the hope of coming sacrifice.

“History will write of you!” cried the castellan.

“Non nobis, non nobis, sed nomini tuo, Domine, da gloriam (Not to us, not to us, but to thy name, Lord, give the glory),” said the prince.

The knights issued from the tent.

“Tfu! something has seized me by the throat and holds me,” said Zagloba; “and it is as bitter in my mouth as wormwood, and there they are firing continually. Oh, if the thunders would fire you away!” said he, pointing to the smoking trenches of the Cossacks. “Oh, it is hard to live in this world! Pan Longin, are you really going out? May the angels guard you! If the plague would choke those ruffians!”

“I must take farewell of you,” said Podbipienta.

“How is that? Where are you going?” asked Zagloba.

“To the priest Mukhovetski⁠—to confess, my brother. I must cleanse my sinful soul.”

Pan Longin hastened to the castle; the others returned to the ramparts. Skshetuski and Volodyovski were silent, but Zagloba said⁠—

“Something holds me by the throat. I did not think to be sorrowful, but that is the worthiest man in the world. If anyone contradicts me, I’ll give it to him in the face. Oh, my God, my God! I thought the castellan of Belsk would restrain the prince, but he beat the drums still more. The hangman brought that heretic! ‘History,’ he says, ‘will write of you.’ Let it write of him, but not on the skin of Pan Longin. And why doesn’t he go out himself? He has six toes on his feet, like every Calvinist, and he can walk better. I tell you, gentlemen, that it is getting worse and worse on earth, and Jabkovski is a true prophet when he says that the end of the world is near. Let us sit down awhile at the ramparts, and a go to the castle, so as to console ourselves with the company of our friend till evening at least.”

But Pan Longin, after confession and communion, spent the whole time in prayer. He made his first appearance at the storm in the evening, which was one of the most awful, for the Cossacks had struck just when the troops were transporting their cannon and wagons to the newly raised ramparts. For a time it seemed that the slender forces of the Poles would fall before the onrush of two hundred thousand foes. The Polish battalions had become so intermingled with the enemy that they could not distinguish their own, and three times they closed in this fashion. Hmelnitski exerted all his power; for the Khan and his own colonels had told him that this must be the last storm, and that henceforth they would only harass the besieged with hunger. But after three hours all attacks were repulsed with such terrible losses that according to later reports forty thousand of the enemy had fallen. One thing is certain⁠—after the battle a whole bundle of flags was thrown at the feet of the prince; and this was really the last great assault, after which followed more difficult times of digging under the ramparts, capturing wagons, continual firing, suffering, and famine.

Immediately after the storm the soldiers, ready to drop from weariness, were led by the tireless Yeremi in a sally, which ended in a