For the Right

by Karl Emil Franzos

CHAPTER XIV.

[GATHERING STRENGTH.]

The steep, narrow path which from Zulawce winds westward into the uplands, is not without danger to the pedestrian, but safe enough to the small, sure-footed mountain pony of the Huzuls. Here and there it takes you into one of those cool, dusky clefts which separate the terraced heights, leading for the most part straight across the mountains, so that each sudden rise is succeeded by an equally precipitous descent, and the traveller would hardly imagine he were nearing the very top of the chain, if every successive ridge he gained did not show him a wider and more glorious expanse of the plain left behind. For the view is open from every summit where the growing copse wood is swept away or kept low by the terrific eastern gales which burst upon these elevated regions from the broad level between the Dniester and the Don; tall bracken and giant trees closing in the path elsewhere, one particular spot excepted, where it winds between bare rocks of a brownish yellow and strangely shaped.

This is the Red Hollow, some half-day's journey from Zulawce. Traversing it, you would most likely follow the main path, westward still, to the Black Water and into the Marmaros beyond; indeed, few travellers, on reaching the centre of this rocky glen, where beneath a stunted fir a small red cross is to be seen, would strike off at right angles on what could scarcely be called a path. It is the poorest of tracks, now ascending boldly, now descending abruptly amid boulders and crumbling stones; and the traveller who loves his life, having ventured so far, would do well to surrender himself to the safer instincts of his pony. It is a desperate attempt at best; but whoever has dared it will remember it with rapture. For having traversed a wilderness of nature's débris, you pass a rocky entrance overlooking a valley, the very home of beauty bright and still, wondrously fair, and its like hardly to be found even amid the glories of the Carpathians.

Lovely beech woods enclose a small lake of clearest blue; the sheltered slopes around are covered with wild flowers, in a profusion which is rare even in the lower valleys; and between bright leaves, in due season, the luscious, deep-coloured strawberries abound. Eastward the lake has an outlet, a tumbling brook making its way through a narrow cleft towards the Pruth, while all around from the slopes silvery rills come down, just ruffling the blue mirror which receives them. Above and beyond, this gem of mountain scenery is overhung with rugged peaks and solemn fir woods, looking down in proud protection upon this most favoured spot. The people round about have learned to call it again by its ancient name, "The Crystal Springs;" but in the days we write of it came to be known as "The Waters of Taras."

Here was his camp--hither he brought his men on that Palm Sunday of 1839.

The place was well chosen, secluded enough for safety, except in case of treason; a natural fastness, too, which could be held against almost any attack, and yet not far from the lowlands, for in following that outlet of the lake the sedgy banks of the Pruth might be reached in three hours. Moreover, the Red Hollow and its neighbourhood is the best-stocked hunting ground in these game-haunts; a fact not to be overlooked by a captain of outlaws, determined to make honest provision for his men.

For the matter of that, however, it seemed at first as though Taras, apart from this, need never be at a loss how to feed his men. The news of his arrival by the Crystal Springs had scarcely had time to spread before the dwellers in the glens round about arrived with a friendly greeting of bread, sheep's flesh, butter, and milk for the new neighbour. Taras knew what such hospitality cost these people, and he had money enough and to spare; but he could not refuse their gifts, well aware that they would look upon it as an insult to be resented. Nor was he pleased that their young men should offer to join him, bold and fearless as they were, huntsmen and shepherds of the mountain wilds, accustomed to any hardship, and seasoned to any storm. Their sympathy with the avenger was more the love of fighting than anything else; but they were honest, and Taras knew they would not forsake him in any plight, still less play him false in trouble. Nevertheless, to most of them he turned a deaf ear. He knew that these half-savage hordes were strangers to common obedience; he could never have trained them to the discipline he intended to uphold, and though he might perchance have taught them to respect property, he knew there was no trusting them with defenceless women anywhere.

Three of them, however, he admitted, because he believed himself certain of their inmost souls. These were a couple of huntsmen who had acted as his guides on his former visits, and the "Royal Eagle," Julko Rosenko, youngest son of Hilarion the Just, who dwelt by the Black Water. His handsome presence, rare strength and activity, together with a courage so dauntless and daring that it was conspicuous even among that reckless tribe, had gained him the proud name he bore. And of the Huzuls who offered themselves to Taras he was the only one actuated not solely by a spirit of defiant adventurousness, but by a deep longing to take vengeance for violence he had suffered. When a mere youth, he had, by order of a military captain, been dragged from a fair to the barracks at Wiznitz, and declared fit for service, against all show of right. His fine figure had thus brought him to grief. In vain he remonstrated, assuring his captors he was not even near the legal age for conscription; their answer was: "We have no wings, young eagle, to fetch you from your eyry when you may have reached the age. You had better submit; be reasonable, and you will enjoy the life." But the young man refused to be "reasonable;" no punishment, no bullying, could force him to take the military oath. For eight months he held out, when the visit of a higher officer brought sharp censure to the captain and liberation to the youth. He returned to the mountains thirsting for revenge; but Julko loved his father, Hilarion the Just, too dearly to grieve him by joining those who were looked upon as the refuse of the plains; he did not become a hajdamak, the repressed fury eating the deeper into his passionate heart. Now, at last, the longed-for hour of retribution seemed to have come: to join the avenger was no shame, but a glory.

At first then Taras's band consisted of seven in all--the three Huzuls, his own two men, and the youths, Lazarko and Wassilj, the latter of whom was almost always absent reconnoitring. Old Jemilian would shake his faithful head sadly, because the expected reinforcements were slow in appearing; and when Wassilj, after his first day's scouting, made a glowing description of the enthusiasm he had met with, the old man laughed grimly, saying: "I doubt not but they will find us worthy of song, even when we have come to the gallows." Taras was unmoved; his heart having gone through the heaving waters, seemed to have gained the shore of a mysterious calm. He was silent, solemn, and though a rare smile might come to his lips, it never reached his eyes; but that expression of brooding thought, of agonised conflict, had left him. When the news was brought that Anusia had gone out of her mind he shook his head. "I do not believe it," he said to Jemilian; "I know what one can bear and not go mad. I know it from my own experience, but now the worst is over. I have lost much, but I have recovered myself." And he would cheer his followers: "Never fear, we shall lack neither work, nor fit hands to do it." Whereupon he ordered the construction of a storehouse, a shelter for horses, and barracks to lodge thirty men.

Nor was his confidence mistaken; not a week passed before helpers poured in, one of the very first being a man whom neither Taras nor any one else in that country would have expected to volunteer for such service.

It was early in the morning, the rocky heights and the firs above them stood forth against a background of brilliant light; but the lake below and the meadows on the gentle slopes had just caught the first rosy glimmer of day. Taras had relieved the "Royal Eagle," who had done sentry duty through the night, and was sitting with his gun between his knees on the solitary rock against which the barracks were to be erected. He sat motionless, his eye commanding the fair valley from the rocky entrance on the one side to the shrubby cleft on the other, through which the lake found its outlet. The dewy stillness of early morning hung on bush and brae. But suddenly he bent forward, listening. There were steps approaching from the Red Hollow, distant yet, but falling heavily on the rocky soil, as of a traveller unused to such rough descent. The dark outline of a human figure grew visible presently amid the yellowish rocks, and Taras scanned the new comer.

"A Jew!" he exclaimed, with great surprise; "and he carries a firelock! what on earth can he want?"

Well might Taras wonder, for a Jew bearing arms had never crossed his vision. Men of that persuasion in the East have a horror of weapons of any kind, and any humble Israelite who may be met with occasionally in the mountain-wilds is but a pedlar, trudging with his bundle of stuffs from homestead to homestead with no ground of safety but the goodness of the God of Abraham or the knowledge of his own abject poverty. But the son of Jacob now coming hither carried his head high, and his back was bowed by no other burden than the musket, the barrel of which caught sparkles from the rising sun. He was young, tall, and broad-shouldered; and if his ample caftan gave sorry proof of the difficult path he had come by, there was no weariness in his movements. With undaunted step he approached the hetman.

"I greet you, Taras." he said. "I recognised you at first sight, although I daresay you have forgotten me; you used to be kind to me when I was a boy."

Taras gave a searching glance at the face before him, sharp-featured, gloomy, and furrowed as with terrible experience. "Nashko!" he cried, "is it you? Little Nashko, the son of the innkeeper at Ridowa?"

He held out both his hands, and the Jew caught them, his face trembling with delight. "I could hardly be sure of such a welcome," he said. "It is I indeed--your old friend Nashko, son of Berish!"

"But how is it?" cried Taras, making him sit beside him. "When I left my own village, twelve years ago, I cut you a reed-pipe to console you, and now----"

"Now," continued the Jew, with a dark smile, "it is a wonder I am not grey-haired, to judge from this face of mine. I am but four-and-twenty, Taras, but an old man through sorrow and despair."

"Things have gone ill with you? You have suffered wrong, and come to me to redress it?"

Nashko shook his head, yet added quickly, with a scrutinising look in Taras's face. "And if it were so, would you help me, though I am a Jew?"

"Can you doubt it?" exclaimed Taras, warmly. "Does the wrong-doer inquire into his victim's faith? How, then, should I? As they inflict wrong where they list, it is for me to right it wherever I find it. And I would help you, even if I hated the Jews. But I do not hate you, because, from a child upward, I have striven to be just. And whenever I heard people speak ill of them, I thought of you, Nashko, and of your father. Old Berish lived among us honestly and like one of ourselves. He drew a modest livelihood from his tavern, and tilled his fields with diligence. The people of Ridowa respected him, therefore, as they would any other good man among them. And were not you as merry-hearted and plucky a boy as any in the village? The only difference was that you wore no cross, but the Jewish fringe.[^[6]] And I always thought, it is not the difference of race; but the Jews behave to us just as we behave to them. Say on, then; what can I do for you?"

"Thank you, heartily," said the Jew, again seizing his hand. "But I have not come to beg for your help. It is too late for that, both as regards myself and my sister. And if there were a chance of revenge I would do the deed alone! I have come with another prayer, and the words you have just spoken give me courage to ask it. Let me join your band, Taras!"

"You!" cried the outlaw, starting from his seat in sheer amazement. "A Jew fighting for the right in the mountains. This has never been heard of since the beginning of days. To be sure, you have grown up like one of ourselves, as I have just been saying; still it is unheard-of. Poor fellow, what grievous wrong you must have suffered!"

"Grievous, indeed; but after all it is only what has happened to others before and will happen again," replied the Jew, his voice quivering with the deep trouble of his soul. "But while some can rise from their shame and forget it, others are undone for ever.... You will scarcely remember my sister Jutta?"

"O! yes," returned Taras, eagerly, "a dear little golden-haired thing--the prettiest child of the village."

"Well, she grew but the fairer as she grew in years. My father and I guarded her as the apple of our eye; my mother having died early, he and I brought her up, and she was the joy and pride of our life. Several respectable men had asked her in marriage, although we were poor, but my father would not give her to any of them; none seemed good enough for our sweet girl. He regretted it sorely in his dying hour, and could only take comfort in the sacred promise I made him, henceforth to watch over her with double care and let my own happiness in life be subordinate to hers. I kept my promise. Our farm brought in little, and the tavern still less, because the lord of the manor increased the rent from year to year; nevertheless, I remained at Ridowa, because my going forth to look for a living elsewhere would have obliged Jutta to seek service with strangers. For her sake also I remained unmarried, that she might remain mistress of the house and my only care. For both these reasons the Jews of Barnow were dissatisfied with me, for, in the judgment of my people, it is well-nigh a wrong to remain unwedded, and nearly as bad to live apart from one's fellows in the faith without forcible reason. But I had other trouble to think of than the displeasure of the Jews of Barnow! A young nephew of our Count, a certain Baron Kaminski, was visiting at the manor. He saw my sister, and fell in love with her--after the fashion, Taras, in which a young Polish noble will play at love with a poor Jewish maiden! He often came riding by, annoying her with his addresses whenever he knew I was out of the way. She kept it from me as long as she could, knowing my passionate temper, but the poor child at last could not help telling me. She had judged me aright--I was furious; and had I met the youngster in that hour, with these hands of mine I would have strangled him. But, growing calmer, I judged it best to appeal to our Count, begging him to interfere. He promised to speak to his nephew, and we seemed to be left at peace, the young baron never coming near the place, and even condescending to make some sort of apology on meeting me accidentally elsewhere."

"I know their tricks," said Taras, darkly; "it was his cunning to throw you off your guard."

"Yes," cried Nashko, drawing himself up and pacing to and fro wildly; "it was! I had business at the distillery one day, which kept me away over night. On returning, I found that the baron had been with his lackeys and creatures. I barely listened to the poor girl's piteous story, but snatched up my gun and forced my way into the manor-house. The wretch had left the place, thinking himself safer in Poland. My unhappy sister was seized with a burning fever, and, lest she should die without help, there being no doctor near us, I took her to Barnow. The people there had nursed their anger against us, and perhaps not without some reason, as they viewed matters; but pity was strong, and they stood by us in that time of sorrow. My sister was kindly taken care of, and when she had recovered I made over to her all I possessed, and went my way to seek the baron. I knew what awaited me if I did the deed my heart demanded, but go I must. Again I missed him; he had left for Paris. Thither I could not follow. I returned to Barnow, but my sister was gone ..." He covered his face, his bosom heaving.

"Gone after him?" cried Taras, wondering.

"What do you mean!" retorted poor Nashko, with a proud look of disdain. "Was she not an honest Jewish maiden? No; but the Sereth is a deep river and holds fast its prey. I never learned why she did it; whether for maidenly shame only, or because of any evil scorn, repressed while she was ill, but flung at her when she was about again--I cannot tell. But what is now left for me I know; and therefore your call to every wronged one has found an echo in my heart I shook off the lethargy of grief and despair, and I have come to ask you, judge and avenger as you claim to be, will you let me join your band?"

Taras went up to him, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "Nashko," he said, solemnly, "if I still hesitate, it is not because of your being a Jew. A man who has gone through what I have gone through would not deserve a ray of sunlight on his path if he could make any difference between his brethren. And who is my brother but he who has suffered wrong? My doubts, therefore, do not concern your faith, but yourself. Let me ask you, have you really lost all hope that your heart can ever grow still again and capable of being happy?"

"Certainly not," replied the Jew, firmly, and the fire of his eye spoke of terrible possibilities; "such hope, on the contrary, is ever present with me. My heart will grow calm again, and I shall be happy on the day when I shall cleave the head of him who ruined my sister.... Spare yourself any further trouble, Taras; the men of my race are wont to consider before they act. And I have considered. Will you accept me as one of yours?"

"Yes," said Taras, briefly, and called his men, who were not a little taken aback on beholding their new comrade, a scornful remark hovering on the lips of the "Royal Eagle," and shrinking back only at the captain's look of command.

Julko Rosenko, the first volunteer of the mountain wilds, and the Jew, the first one from the lowlands--or as, to this day, they are known in song, the "Royal Eagle" and "Black Nashko"--are the only two of Taras's band who strike the imagination either by their originality or by the motives inspiring their action. All the others, whom a lawless or revengeful disposition brought to his standard, may have been the victims of tyranny, indeed, but they were men of a lower type, and their history is but the outcome of the troublous confusion of oppressors and oppressed struggling for mastery.

Thus there was with him a peasant from the Bukowina, one Thodika Synkow, who to his fortieth year had lived quietly on his bit of land, till the harshness of a tax-gatherer selling the very pillow from under the head of his sick wife drove him to a deed of murder. There was an under-steward from near the frontier, Stas Barilko, who after years of faithful service had been cruelly flogged for having shot a hare without his master's leave. There was a certain Sophron Hlinkowski, the leader of a church choir, who in a dispute between the priest and the parish concerning tithes had sided with the people, and, when the angry pastor, with the approval of his superiors, suspended the church services, had yielded to the entreaty of the peasants, reading prayers when there was a funeral. That was his crime; the priest denounced him, and the unfortunate precentor was sent to prison, finding himself a beggar when his two years had expired. His only child had died, and his wife had gone off with another man. So he joined Taras to "lift his voice now after another fashion, and make the ears tingle of those who used him so cruelly;" and Taras admitted him, as, indeed, he admitted any one whom honest resentment brought to his standard, and who, having nothing to lose, was possessed of the three requisites he looked for--obedience, courage, and frugality. For Taras held strictly by the words he had spoken beneath the linden: "Let none come to me who seeks for pleasure in life, and no happy man shall join me." Many offered themselves, setting aside this primary condition, but the hetman subjected every one to the most rigid examination; and any one hoping to find refuge with him from just punishment was rejected as mercilessly as were the mere ruffians looking for booty. Yet, in spite of such strict investigation, Taras's band on Easter morning consisted of thirty well-armed and resolute men.

But he had to give audience to a host of people besides, peaceful men coming to tell him of their troubles, or delegates pleading for a wronged community. Some of their complaints were worthless enough, but the greater number were well founded, strengthening him in his conviction that this "unhappy land in which justice is not to be found" was sorely in need of an "avenger." The wisdom he had gained at the cost of his life's happiness made him sufficiently cautious not to believe blindly any reports that might reach him, and the only promise any of his suppliants got out of him was to the effect that he would make inquiry, and "woe to you if you have lied to me, but woe to your oppressors if you speak the truth!" And if they grew urgent, protesting their honesty, and entreating for speedy redress, he would answer: "You may look for me soon, but the hour shall not be fixed; for how can I be sure there are no tell-tales among you, enabling the Whitecoats to meet me? And, moreover, I have undertaken, first of all, to settle accounts with the mandatar of Zulawce. Not that I long for his punishment before that of any other evil-doer in the land, but a man must be true to his word."

But, to judge from the intelligence brought to him by Wassilj, who on the Saturday had returned from a reconnoitring expedition to Colomea, it promised to be a desperate venture to get hold of the mandatar, and Taras shrank from the risk of leading his faithful men to the well-garrisoned district town merely to carry out to the letter an assurance given. If, however, his spirits failed him for a moment, his energy and confidence soon rose uppermost. Wassilj was ordered back to Colomea to procure farther information, whilst Sefko and the Royal Eagle were despatched to inquire into the complaints made by two parishes on the plain, and Jemilian was sent off to announce to Anusia, and through her to the village, the impending arrival of the Whitecoats.

"Master," said the faithful old servant, hesitatingly, "have you forgotten that the mistress----"

"Is gone out of her mind?" interrupted Taras. "She never did, and by this time is as collected as you or I, Jemilian. She was stunned for a moment, but she knows what is laid upon her, and will never flinch."

"Have you had farther news?" inquired the man, wondering.

"No, but I know my wife. My own heart tells me."

And Taras continued making his preparations. "I have promised to be ready by Easter Day; that much, at least, I will keep." He assigned to each man his place in the barracks, which, a light wooden structure, had been run up already; he gave orders concerning the daily rations and appointed the regulation of sentries. He also divided his band into two distinct companies, setting a sub-captain over each. The Royal Eagle should command the one, Black Nashko the other.

In naming the latter, Taras, with an imperious look, scanned the faces of his followers as they were drawn up before him. A flush of anger was plainly evident, and one of them, Stas Barilko, was about to speak. But that look of the hetman's silenced him, Taras repeating, "Our brother Nashko shall command these." Not a sound of dissent--and the sign for dispersing was given.

The Jew then came forward. "Taras," he exclaimed, "why did you not take me into your counsel? I fear this will be neither to your advantage, nor to mine. As for me it matters little, but you and your cause must not suffer. You should not have braved needlessly the prejudice in which they have grown up, and which is next to religion with them."

"Needlessly?" exclaimed Taras. "I have appointed you, because after due consideration I take you to be the most earnest and best qualified of my followers. These others--well they will soon see for themselves that you are worthy of my confidence; till then they will just obey."

"Yes, resentfully and under protest," urged the Jew, "and you should avoid that, unless the most sacred principle were at stake. Remember that your influence rests upon their free will alone."

"No!" cried Taras. "They could come to me or stay away of their own free will. But having come, they are what I am, instruments towards the gaining of a common and most holy end."

... The following morning--it was Easter Sunday--rose with all the wondrous fragrance of spring. Taras had caused a plain wooden cross to be erected, and the wild outlaws, bareheaded, gathered beneath the sacred sign. Nashko only held aloof.

And, taking his place beside the cross, Taras spoke to his men. "My brothers," he said, "we have neither priest nor altar to help us to keep this day. But God is to be found wherever the heart of man will turn to Him, and He will listen to the humble prayer we would offer up--a homeless flock, having left all that men count dear for the sake of His own holy justice."

He crossed himself and repeated the Lord's Prayer slowly and solemnly, the men saying it after him; and after that Sophron, of the church choir, stood up beside him, once more to do his duty in leading the ancient Easter Hymn; and all their voices joined in the fine old chorale:--

"Christ, the Lord, is risen to-day!"

Thus the homeless ones kept Easter in the mountains.

They were yet singing when Jemilian returned; and, service over, he informed his master he had found Anusia exactly as Taras had predicted. "She has even made ready for the soldiers," the man said. "The rest of the people seem utterly confident, firmly believing that this night you will storm the manor-house; and they are all preparing to witness it, for Anusia refused to give them your message."

"What!" cried Taras, staggering.

"Refused point-blank," repeated Jemilian. "This is her answer--I took care to remember it: 'Tell him,' she said, 'I shall be grateful for any news of my lord and master, but I entreat him to send me word about himself only, not concerning his plans or the movements of those against him; for I will not speak an untruth when the men of the law ask me, and I will keep a clean heart. That is my prayer, let him grant it or not, as he pleases; but one thing I will never do, however urgently he may demand it--I refuse to be the go-between, carrying his messages to the village. I shall not do so in the present instance, although his news is for the good of the people entirely, and I will not do it in any case whatever. I will not share his guilt, nor his punishment in the end--tell him so, he will understand. He has made our children fatherless, he shall not make them motherless as well.' This is her message!"

Taras grew white as death; but before he could answer another messenger arrived, a lad whom the Royal Eagle had despatched from Zablotow, his news being that the hussars were due at Zulawce by nightfall, to anticipate Taras's expected attempt on the manor.

The hetman looked anxious, Jemilian lending words to his fear. "There will be trouble," he said "if the soldiers come upon the excited villagers in the night."

"There will!" cried Taras, "they must be warned at any risk. You must go back directly, as fast as your horse will carry you. And if my wife still refuses, you must get Father Leo to tell them."

Jemilian promised his best, but Taras continued anxious, growing even more so with the setting sun, "All the misery of my life, so far, has struck me unawares," he said to his friend Nashko, "and I doubt whether a presaging voice is given to the heart of man; yet there is something within me making me sore afraid for my wife and children this night."

On waking in the morning from restless slumbers, he found Jemilian by his side. The old man looked wan, and his brow was clouded.

"They have been killed?" cried Taras, starting up.

"Not the mistress or the children," said Jemilian; "but blood has flowed." He was already on his way back when the tumult arose, and, returning cautiously, he learned what had happened, and that the smith had received his death-wound.

"Do not take it to heart so much, dear master," said the man, interrupting his report, for Taras was groaning pitifully. "The blood which has been shed lies neither at your door nor at your wife's. She did manage to have the people warned through Father Leo."

"At my door!" cried Taras, wildly. But, checking himself, he requested to be left alone. It was some time before he showed himself to his men, and then, with a silent nod only to their greeting, he departed into the lonely wood.

The rough men were at a loss to understand him. "Why, this is excellent news," they said. "Such butchery would rouse the most law-abiding people in the land!" The Jew alone guessed what moved the captain's heart, and took courage to go after him. He found him lying beneath a fir-tree, with a gloomy face and evidently suffering.

"Taras!" he said, taking his hand, "I understand your grief; but the comfort remains that you did your best to avert this trouble."

But the captain shook his head. "A man must reap what he sows," he said.

"Do you repent of the step you have taken?"

"No!" he cried, vehemently. "Oh! how little you understand me! If I had not done so already, I would this day declare war against those that are in power. I have but done what I must do. But what that means--all the fearful scope of my undertaking--has only now grown plain to me.... And more," he added, hoarsely ... "there is another thing! I used to think at times that possibly I might come to an evil end through this work of mine. Now I know it; I see now that my end can not, must not, be a good one...."

"What has come to you, Taras?" cried the Jew, alarmed.

"I cannot explain it," said the captain, with a wistful look; "it is a voice within me, not of the mind, but of the heart. I know it now!"

The following morning the deputies of the village, Wassilj, the butcher, and Hritzko Pomenko, appeared before Taras, delivering their message.

"We are convinced that you will stand by us," they said, "and only wish to know what time you fix for the revenge."

He had listened quietly, but then made answer with a terrible sternness: "Hearken!" he said, "if you had asked me to help you in attacking the hussars, I would have refused, both for your sakes, since it would harm you in the end, and for the sake of justice itself; for these soldiers have only obeyed those they are bound to obey. I would have reasoned with you, advising you to keep quiet, and if nevertheless you had suffered wrong I would have made those responsible who ordered it. But now you actually ask me to lift the arm of murder against the Whitecoats, who have done you no injury. I have but one answer, therefore--'Get ye gone from the camp of the avenger!' How could I have anything to do with men capable of the thought even of assassination?"

"Taras!" exclaimed Wassilj, staggering as though he had received a blow; but young Hritzko stood rooted to the ground, his eyes wide open with amazement. Taras's men, on the contrary, looked sullenly before them in plain disapproval.

"Yes," continued Taras; "let me repeat it. What you are thinking of is not an act of sacred vengeance, but of revengeful murder. If I were not sure you would never dare an attack without me, God knows I would send word of your intention to the officer on the spot."

"Taras," now cried Hritzko, in his turn. "How is it? Have we not heard your solemn declaration of war against the Emperor, and now you will not rid us of his soldiers, the instruments of tyranny?"

"No," replied Taras, firmly, "I will not, because I am not an assassin, but a champion of justice."

"A champion afraid of shedding blood?" interposed the butcher, scornfully.

"A champion who will not shed innocent blood, unless it be the only way of making justice victorious," returned Taras, solemnly. "If the mandatar were at Zablotow under the protection of these soldiers, and I had a force sufficient to risk an attack, I would do so this very night. For he has sinned against the law of God, and must be brought to judgment; and since Right is the most sacred thing upon earth, it is better to shed blood than let this holy thing be dragged low. But except for such reason, I will never consent to endanger an innocent life, lest the deed rise against me and mine in the day of judgment."

"But, Taras," pleaded Hritzko, "this is all very well as regards ourselves or the soldiers, but what of yourself? Do you think they would have the slightest compunction in slaying you, wherever they find you?"

"We will take care of ourselves," said Taras, quietly.

"I trust you may," rejoined the butcher. "Come, Hritzko, let us be gone."

But the young man went up closer to Taras. "What answer would you have us take back to our people?" said he, clasping Taras's hand. "They are in the worst of moods, bitterly resenting the military interference, but they have full confidence in your coming. All their fury will be turned against you if we tell them how you judge of their purpose. Have you no other message, Taras, which we might take back to them?"

"No," replied the captain, sternly. "Thank you for your good intentions; but I have put off the fear of man, since I serve God. Tell them the plain truth."

This happened about noon on the Tuesday. Towards evening Taras assembled his men, some forty in number by this time, to hold his first council of war, laying before them the two most important points of his latest information. Wassilj Soklewicz had come back with the news of the mandatar's matrimonial intentions, and that he was in the habit of spending his evenings at the Armenian's villa. The Royal Eagle also had returned from Kossowince, reporting that the complaints of that parish against their avaricious and hard-hearted priest were but too well founded; he had suspended all church functions, and was distraining for tithes pitilessly.

"The measure of iniquity, both of the mandatar and of the priest, is full to overflowing," Taras said. "Let us, then, hesitate no longer to do the work, ridding the fair earth of these scoundrels. There is danger in both undertakings, for soldiers are quartered at the manse of Kossowince, and the villa which harbours the mandatar of an evening is near the well-garrisoned district town. But we will rest our courage in the Almighty, and do the deed. To-morrow, Wednesday, afternoon we start, reaching Kossowince by night, to bring the evil-doer there to his doom, and before the midnight of Thursday we must be ready for passing judgment on the mandatar. Will you follow me?"

"Urrahah!" was the wild answer of delight, and as the men gathered round their watch-fires the excitement of action was among them. Nashko only had retired by himself, musing sadly.

"Poor Taras!" he said, sighing. "These fellows understand his meaning no better than any brute cattle could follow a Sunday's sermon. They think him a misguided fool for trusting me, and they resented his refusal to the people of Zulawce. But for his resolve to fall to work he might have found himself obliged to begin his judgments upon his own followers in the first place. Their meanness is forced back now within their own hearts, but it will break out again sooner or later. He will hold his own against the men of the law, but who shall keep his soul undefiled from the breath of these lawless ones?"

With the earliest dawn the men began getting themselves ready for the intended raid, polishing their arms and grooming their horses, whilst Taras held farther counsel with Nashko and the Royal Eagle, giving to each his special orders. The morning passed in high excitement.

But suddenly--the sun was just nearing the zenith--the alarm was given from the direction of the Red Hollow, and all eyes turned thither; the figure of a horseman was seen coming at full speed down the steep declivity. "The fellow is mad," was the general outcry, "he will break his neck in a moment."

Taras also was straining his eyes, and grew white with apprehension, having recognised his young servant, Halko. "There is trouble at home!" he cried, rushing to meet the messenger.

But in spite of the headlong career to which the bold rider forced his helpless steed, he reached the rocky entrance of the valley safely, and then, just at the last reckless plunge, the poor animal rolled over, the young man, in a flying leap, coming to the ground. A cry of horror burst from the expectant band, but the horse only lay gasping; the youth jumping up from his fall like a wild-cat, hastened onward with quickening steps, stopping in front of Taras.

"The chestnut is done for," he panted, "but I have kept my promise, to reach you by noon. This is the mistress's message!" And he reported how the commissioner had threatened Anusia. All the band had assembled round him, listening eagerly. "The cowards!" they cried when he had done, "being afraid of us, they are going to wage war upon women!"

Taras alone seemed calm. "It is well," he said to the youth; "did you not say the commissioner intends to return in the evening? We will have a word with him, then. Julko, I will ask you to bring him hither, not harming him, but blindfolding his eyes.... You, Halko, go back to my wife, and tell her to be of good cheer."

The Royal Eagle forthwith led off his men in the direction of the Pruth, Taras quietly setting himself to inspect the preparations of the others, seeing to the needful ammunition, the necessary rations, and holding everything in readiness for the night's expedition. Watching him thus calmly engaged, one would scarcely have guessed that such a message had just reached him, and that he was expecting a meeting that must stir his troubled heart to its depth. At dusk all was in readiness, the men standing by their horses, listening impatiently for any sign of Julko's return. But the last glimmer of daylight faded, the stars shone forth, and night spread her mantle over the mountains; not a sound yet, save the murmuring whispers in the tall firs and, far off, the hooting of an owl.

"The bird of ill omen!" said the men, with bated breath; "who can tell what may have happened to Julko?"

But Taras heeded them not, lost in thought. The bird's dismal cry had wakened another voice within him; or, rather, it appeared like an echo of his own inner consciousness, which, rising from the depths of his being, quivered through him in awful agony. And then it seemed as though the bird kept crying: "You are about to shed the blood of man--you! you!"

Jemilian went up to him. "They keep us waiting here rather long!" he said anxiously. Taras shivered and stared at him. The man had to repeat his remark.

"Never mind," he now made answer, his voice rising as though to silence that other voice within; and he drew himself up. "Julko may have had to wait before catching him, and the way up the ravine is difficult even in daylight.... But is it that you are afraid of the dark, children that you are! Well, then, light a fire; it will serve at the same time to show off that coward of a commissioner when he does arrive."

The captain's words acted like magic, freeing the souls of these men as from a nightmare; and when, a few minutes later, a great pile of firwood sent up shoots of ruddy flame, spreading light and warmth, their spirits rose mightily. They formed a circle round the welcome fire, and one of their number produced a bagpipe, to the plaintive droning of which they fell to dancing that strangest of reels known throughout the Carpathians, and which, executed by these men and in such circumstances, once more assumed what was, no doubt, its original character--that of a war-dance.

Taras did not interfere, but looked for Nashko, who once more kept aloof with his own saddened thoughts.

"What is the time?" he inquired.

The Jew was the only one of all these men who possessed a watch, and only Taras and Sophron, besides himself, understood the art of telling the hour by such means.

"Eleven. Are you beginning to be anxious?"

"No! What should have happened? But hark! listen!"

"I hear nothing."

"But I do.... Hark!" and Taras turned to the merrymakers with an imperious "Silence!" They stood still like statues, and the bagpipe ceased wailing.

They could all hear it now--a peculiar, whirring sound, not unlike that of an arrow cutting the air. It came from afar, through the stillness of the night. "It is Julko signalling," the men cried, delightedly; and Taras, taking his own whistle, signalled back. A moment's silence, and again the sound reached them--longdrawn, and thrice repeated.

"You understand its meaning," said Taras to his men. "They have missed the track in the dark. Away with you, Stas and Jemilian; take torches and go to meet them, and keep signalling as you go." The two obeyed, while the rest of the men, at his word, took their places by their horses.

But the minutes passed, and nothing was heard save the signalling and counter-signalling in the wood, till at last the sounds seemed blending, and presently the sign was given that the seekers and the sought had met. Ere long their voices could be distinguished, together with the tramping of their steeds.

First of all the Royal Eagle burst upon the waiting band. "We were sadly detained," he reported to the captain; "two full hours we had to lie in ambush by the Pruth, and when the night overtook us we missed our way. But we have caught him all right."

"Not injuring him, I hope!"

"No--that is to say, he suffered no harm at our hands, but fear may have killed him, for all I know."

And, indeed, there was no saying whether it was a living man or a dead body that was being brought before the captain. Julko, not satisfied with lashing the commissioner to the saddle, had ordered a man to mount behind him that he might be supported and saved from striking his head against the low-hanging branches, blindfolded as he was. A cloak also had been thrown round his shivering shoulders. Thus the poor wretch clung helplessly to the neck of the horse that carried him, the men shouting with laughter on beholding his abject figure; but a look of Taras's silenced them.

"Has he fainted?" inquired he of the man whose brawny arm enfolded the commissioner.

"No, captain," was the answer, "it is just his pretence; only a few minutes ago he implored me to let him make his escape, promising me a hundred florins if he got away safely. I felt sorely tempted to pitch into him, but I remembered your injunctions." And the man looked so disappointed, that even Taras could not but smile. "Untie him," he said.

It was done. When the bandage was taken from his eyes Kapronski staggered and fell, his head striking the ground. That was no play-acting, for the scene thus suddenly presented to his vision might well have confounded a more courageous and less guilty man: first and foremost the towering figure of Taras, and behind him the band of outlaws armed to the teeth and leaning against their horses, all of them lit up by the lurid glare of their watchfire.

"Put him on his feet," exclaimed the captain, impatiently, two men endeavouring to do so, but they only got him to his knees. "For pity's sake," he whimpered, lifting his folded hands to Taras.

The latter came a step nearer. "Ah!" he cried scornfully, "is it you, friend Ladislas Kapronski? Get up, man; you need not shake like that."

The commissioner now managed to stand on his legs, but his head hung on his bosom, and his clasped hands continued in entreaty.

"I am not going to say a word concerning the matter at issue," began Taras, "you men of the law will just go on murdering justice--well, continue in your ways, but...."

At the mention of justice, Kapronski gasped, apparently recovering himself. "Yes," he said, with an obsequious bow, "I always told them at the Board it was no use arraigning you, who are as daring as you are just; and you have got the people to back you, honoured--much honoured, Mr. Taras."

"Be silent," cried the latter, "I am ashamed of you, for after all you are a man!... It is not on account of these matters, or concerning myself, that I wanted to see you, but because of your having threatened my wife."

"For pity's sake! I did but as I was told!"

"Indeed," said Taras, with so searching a look that the commissioner, unable to meet it, shook afresh. "Indeed! Then why are you trembling like that? Was it not rather an invention of your own cowardly brain?"

"No!" exclaimed Kapronski, "I swear by all the saints----"

"I will take your word for what it may be worth. I might well doubt you; you are fully capable of a lie--but the thing in itself is preposterous. That you, who call yourselves guardians of the law, should think even of such a glaring wrong! And how cowardly--how cowardly it is! You, with all the military at your command, are you not able to protect yourselves against me save by attacking my wife and children?"

"Oh, indeed," pleaded Kapronski, "did I not do my best to warn them? But my advice was not taken. I assure you----"

"No need of farther words; but listen to what I have to say, and take back my message to the Board.... No amount of threatening will prevent my carrying out the sacred duty I have undertaken. And if my wife and my poor children were indeed at your mercy, and I knew they would meet death at your hands for any act of mine, laid upon me by that duty, I would carry out such act unflinchingly. Do you take that in?"

"Ah!--yes--oh!"

"Well, then, listen again. I cannot hinder you from taking my wife and my children to prison, or even from taking their lives. But I tell you this: on the day you make good those threats, it will become my first and highest and most sacred duty to rid the land of the worst of evil-doers--of you, the so-called guardians of the law. Woe to any of you, then, who may fall into my hands! I shall have you hanged, every one, on these trees of ours...."

"Oh, no, not me--for pity's sake! I was always trying----"

"Well, hanging might be too good for you," said Taras, sternly. "I knew you were an abject coward, but this is worse even than the name you bear.... I regret to send you with an honest man's message. For there is yet another matter to speak about--and you shall tell them I have sworn to you a sacred oath that there is no deceit nor cunning in my request, but pity for the people alone. I earnestly pray the authorities to withdraw the soldiers from Zulawce. The hussars have done mischief enough already, and the infantry may do worse if they stay. There is no need of military occupation, for I give you my word that I shall not enter the village, not even if I knew the mandatar to be at the manor. I should bide my time to get hold of him elsewhere. Let me repeat it. I shall never set foot within the parish of Zulawce if my request be granted; and since the man lives not who could say that Taras ever broke his word, perhaps even you will believe me."

"Oh!--certainly--yes. I myself----"

"Stop your talking! This, then, is the message you shall bear; but I have a word for yourself also. See that you keep from lying in delivering my message, for the truth sooner or later will come to be known; and if ever I find that you altered one single word of what I have told you, I shall----"

"For pity's sake! I'll never alter a single letter!"

"Well, we shall see. I said I would not harm you in limb or life; but since you have shown yourself such a mean, craven coward, it is meet you should suffer punishment--that punishment which within these mountains is reserved for such meanness;" and, turning to his men, "Cut off his hair!" he said.

"Ah--pity!" groaned Kapronski, but it availed him not. He found himself held fast with a merciless grip, while Sophron made short work of the commissioner's well-oiled locks, leaving his head like a field of stubble in the dreary autumn.

"Now tie him to his horse again," said Taras, "blindfolding him as before."

It was done.

"Light the torches! Mount, and let us be off! By the Pruth we will leave him to his own devices."

The signals sounded, the procession formed, vanishing in the deeper shadows of the cleft which leads to the river in the direction of Kossowince....