It was the face, however, that betrayed the soul beneath. It was a dark, oval, wicked face—the eyes were greenish and narrow and the eyebrow line above them ran straight across the bridge of the nose, giving the effect of a monkey rather than a man. One cheek was marked with a buttonlike scar, the scar of the button plague that is so common in the lands east of the Volga, or even the Dnieper, and marks the bearer as a Tartar or a Cossack or a Mongol. The ears were low-set and ugly. The mouth looked like the slit that boys make in the pumpkins they carry on the eve of Allhallows. Above the mouth was a cropped mustache which hung down at the ends and straggled into a scanty beard. The man carried at his waist a short curved sword and from the inside of his jacket could be seen protruding the jeweled handle of an Oriental dagger.
No sooner had the boy caught at his rein than the man was off his horse and with a leap had gained the wagon. Joseph’s father reached quickly under the wagon seat for a short cross-hilted sword.
“Not one step nearer,” he shouted as the man came toward him with hand outstretched as if to take his hand. “Who you may be I know not, but I stand as a Christian till I find out what your errand is.”
The stranger stopped, smiled at the ready sword still in its scabbard, though with a sudden respect in his smile, then pulled off his hat and made a bow. “I take it that you are Andrew Charnetski,” he said.
“You take too much,” answered the driver. “To strangers I am Pan[[1]] Andrew Charnetski.”
| [1] | Pan is a formal Polish term signifying Sir or Mr. |
The stranger bowed again. “I spoke as to an equal,” he said. “I am Stefan Ostrovski of Chelm. But now I am come from Kiev where I have been on state business. It is known that one Muscovite has some important business with our Lithuanian provinces and I, though I may not say by whom, was sent to learn——” He broke off suddenly as if wishing to give the impression that his business was such that he might not speak of it in public fashion. “But on my way home men told me that a band of Tartars had come north from the Krim pillaging much of the country about. Among the houses which they had burned and the fields which they had destroyed were the house and fields of one Andrew Charnetski—nay, I ask pardon—of Pan Andrew Charnetski, who was reported to have escaped with his wife and son in the direction of Krakow, where they were said to have friends. This being true, and since I was traveling in the same direction, I sought a description of Pan Andrew and his family, and this morning when I saw a true Ukrainian cart, drawn by two horses and not by one, and bearing a man and woman and boy such as had been described to me, I took the assurance to present myself and make my greetings to you.”
Pan Charnetski scrutinized the face, the clothing, and the figure of the stranger closely. “The half is not yet told,” he said.
“Nay,” answered the other, “but the rest is perhaps a tale for you and me behind some heavy door when we reach the city of Krakow just ahead. I have heard——” He spoke significantly, then with his hands he described a circle in the air.
Charnetski watched him with his eyelids drawn half shut so that he could focus his attention upon the man and see naught of the world outside. His heart was not so cold and steady, however, as one might think from looking at his calm, composed features. In truth at the stranger’s gesture his heart was beating a tattoo against his ribs. He knew that almost every word the man had uttered was false; he knew that his name was not Ostrovski even though there had been members of that family in Chelm—not one feature of the man’s countenance was Polish. And there was that in the tone of the last words that had suggested a threat. Charnetski realized also that here was no chance meeting. It was fourteen days and more since they had left the border. This man, he reasoned, had followed them all that distance, or had perhaps been sent by some person of higher rank to intercept them before they gained entrance to the city.