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

his brows contracted. Something terrible had happened to him.

“What’s the matter?” asked Zagloba.

The Cossack began to wave his hand feverishly, and from his lips issued a suppressed hoarse voice: “Read⁠—read the other letter!”

“The other is to Princess Helena.”

“Read! read!”

Zagloba began:⁠—

“Sweetest, beloved Halshko, mistress and queen of my heart! Since in the service of the prince I had but little time to stop at Rozlogi, I write therefore to your aunt, that you and she go to Lubni, where no harm can happen to you from Bogun, and our mutual affection cannot be exposed to interruption⁠—”

“Enough!” cried Bogun; and jumping up in madness from the table, he sprang toward Jendzian.

The unfortunate young fellow, struck straight in the breast, groaned and fell to the floor. Frenzy carried Bogun away; he threw himself on Zagloba and snatched the letters from him.

Zagloba, seizing the fat bottle of mead, sprang to the stove and cried out⁠—

“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, have you grown wild, man, or mad? Calm down! be mild! Stick your head in the water-pail! A hundred devils take you! Do you hear me?”

“Blood! blood!” howled Bogun.

“Have you lost your mind? Thrust your head in the water-pail, I tell you! You have blood already⁠—you have spilt innocent blood. That unfortunate youth is already breathless. The devil has snared you, or you are the devil yourself with something to boot. Come to your senses, the deuce take you, you son of a pagan!”

While crying out in this fashion, Zagloba pushed around to the other side of the table, and bending over Jendzian felt of his breast and put his hand to his mouth, from which blood was flowing freely.

Bogun seized himself by the head, and howled like a wounded wolf. Then he dropped on the bench, without ceasing to howl, for the spirit within was torn from rage and pain. Suddenly he sprang up, ran to the door, kicked it open, and hurried to the anteroom.

“I hope you will break your neck!” muttered Zagloba to himself. “Go and smash your head against the stable or the barn⁠—though, as a horned beast, you can knock your head without danger. But he is a fury! I have never seen anything like him in my life. He snapped his teeth like a dog going to bite. But this boy is alive yet, poor fellow! In truth, if this mead won’t help him, he lied when he said he was a noble.”

Thus muttering, Zagloba placed Jendzian’s head on his knees and began to pour the mead through his blue lips.

“We will see if you have good blood in you. If it is Jewish, when mixed with mead or wine it will boil; if clownish, being torpid and heavy, it will sink. Only the blood of a noble becomes lively and forms excellent liquor, which gives manhood and daring to the body. The Lord gave different drinks to different people, so that each one might have his own appropriate pleasure.”

Jendzian groaned faintly.

“Ah, ha! you want more. No, brother, let me have some too⁠—that’s the style. Now, since you have given sign of life, I think I’ll take you to the stable and put you somewhere in a corner, so that dragon of a Cossack may not tear you to pieces when he gets back. He is a dangerous friend, the devil take him! for I see that his hand is quicker than his wit.”

Zagloba raised Jendzian from the floor with ease, showing unusual strength, carried him to the anteroom, and then to the yard, where a number of Cossacks were playing dice on a rug spread on the ground. They greeted him, and he said⁠—

“Boys, take this youngster for me, put him on the hay, and let someone run for a barber.”

The command was obeyed immediately, for Zagloba as a friend of Bogun enjoyed consideration among the Cossacks.

“And where is the colonel?” he asked.

“He ordered his horse and went to the regimental quarters. He commanded us also to be ready and have our horses saddled.”

“Is mine ready?”

“Ready.”

“Then bring it; I will find the colonel at the regiment. But here he comes!”

In fact, Bogun was to be seen through the arched gateway riding from the square. After him appeared in the distance the lances of a hundred and some tens of Cossacks, apparently ready for the march.

“To horse!” cried Bogun to the Cossacks who had remained in the yard. All moved quickly. Zagloba went through the gate, and looked attentively at the young leader.

“You are going on a journey?” asked he.

“Yes.”

“And whither is the devil taking you?”

“To a wedding.”

Zagloba drew nearer.

“Fear God, my son! The hetman ordered you to guard the town. You are going away yourself, and taking the Cossacks with you⁠—disobeying orders. Here the mob is merely waiting a favorable moment to rush on the nobility. You will destroy the town and expose yourself to the wrath of the hetman!”

“To the devil with the hetman and the town!”

“It is a question of your head.”

“What do I care for that?”

Zagloba saw that it was useless to talk with the Cossack. He had made up his mind, and though he were to bury himself and others, he was determined to carry his point. Zagloba guessed, too, where the expedition was going; but he did not know himself what to do⁠—whether to go with Bogun or to remain. It was dangerous to go, for it was the same as to enter upon a hazardous and criminal affair in rough, warlike times. But to remain? The mob was in fact only waiting for news from the Saitch⁠—the moment of signal for slaughter; and maybe they would not have waited at all had it not been for Bogun’s thousand Cossacks and his authority in the Ukraine.

Zagloba might have taken refuge in the camp of the hetmans; but he had his reasons for not doing that⁠—whether it was a sentence for having killed someone or some little defect in accounts he himself only knew; it is