"It was her own brave doing," cried the old Jew. "She would rather die than be dishonoured. Ah! how fair and sweet she was, and how good; and to come by such an end!" The honest innkeeper struggled with his tears, continuing, amid sobs, "We have known her these few days only, my wife and I, but we grieve for her as for a child of our own."
"But how did it happen?" cried Taras, vehemently.
"Cannot you see?" returned the old Jew. "Two days ago, toward midnight, that Huzul came----"
"The Royal Eagle?"
"Yes; but Vulture were a truer name! He came with a hundred of his men--or two hundred for aught I can tell--and, knocking at this very window, insisted that I should let him in. 'What do you want?' said I. 'Open the door,' says he, 'or I shall force it open.' 'I am a poor old Jew,' I replied, 'and there are but three women in the house besides me--my wife, and her servant, and Tatiana. Of course we cannot resist you, but I ask you whether it is fit for a son of Hilarion, whom they call the Just, to turn house-breaker, and worse!' 'Open,' he retorted, 'or you shall rue it.' 'So please the God of Abraham,' said I, 'but I shall never let you in with my own hand, for I have sworn to keep the girl safe, and God Almighty will punish him who breaks his oath. I am afraid of you, of course I am, for I am but a poor old Jew, but much more do I fear God, and I will not let you in.' So he kicked open the door and carried off the girl. On to his own horse he lifted her, holding her in the saddle before him, and was off to the Black Water. But she was a jewel of a maid, and her honour was dearer to her than life. She slipped from the horse as they rode by the river and leapt into the roaring water. They tried to save her, but in vain. I heard of it early in the morning, and went to seek for the body with some of our men, the good pope himself coming with us. And, as I said, they'll bury her to-morrow morning. Go to the chapel if you like to have a last look at her."
The piteous tale had been interrupted with many an indignant exclamation from the men, Nashko and Taras only listening speechless, nor could they find words at once.
"Come to the chapel!" said Taras, after a sorrowful pause.
In deep silence and slowly the band rode through the village, reaching the cemetery at the other end. There they dismounted, casting the bridles over the railings, and one after another they entered the chapel, baring their heads.
It was a modest place, damp and bare, lit up with a couple of torches. And there, at the foot of a large, crude crucifix, stood the open coffin in which they had laid the body. No one was watching by the dead, those to whom the pope had delegated that pious duty no doubt preferring to spend the blustering night in more congenial quarters.
With bowed heads and murmuring a prayer the outlaws stood by the humble coffin and gazed at the marble features, lovely even in death. The fair face, but for its pallor, seemed bound in sleep only, and the green wreath, the crown of virginity, rested lovingly on the maiden's brow. The hearts of these rough men were stirred to their depths, but one only was unable to keep silence, and with a smothered cry the maiden's name burst from his lips. He broke down utterly.