For the Right

by Karl Emil Franzos

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.