CHAPTER XLIV
THE UKRAINE CROSS
Upon the green plain beside the Alla a great multitude was assembled. They had come together to witness a sight never seen in Courtland before—the dread punishment of the Ukraine Cross. It was to be done, they said, upon the body of the handsome youth with whom the Princess Margaret was secretly in love—some even whispered married to him.
The townsfolk murmured among themselves. This was certainly the beginning of the end. Who knew what would come next? If the barbarous Muscovite punishments began in Courtland, it would end in all of them being made slaves, liable at any moment to knout and plet. Ivan had bewitched the Prince. That was clear, and for a certainty the Princess Margaret wept night and day. In this fashion ran the bruit of that which was to be.
"Torn to pieces by wild horses!" It was a thing often talked about, but one which none had seen in a civilised country for a thousand years. Where was it to be done? It was shocking, terrible; but—it would be worth seeing. So all the city went out, the men with weapons under their cloaks pressing as near as the soldiers would allow them, while the women, being more pitiful, stood afar off and wept into their aprons—only putting aside the corners that they might see clearly and miss nothing.
At ten a great green square of riverside grass was held by the archers of Courtland. The people extended as far back as the shrine of the Virgin, where at the city entrance travellers are wont to give thanks for a favourable journey. At eleven the lances of Prince Ivan's Cossacks were seen topping the city wall. On the high bank of the Alla the people were craning their necks and looking over each other's shoulders.
The wild music of the Cossacks came nearer, each man with the butt of his lance set upon his thigh, and the pennon of blue and white waving above. Then a long pitying "A—a—h!" went up from the people. For now the Sparhawk was in sight, and at the first glimpse of him they swayed from the Riga Gate to the shrine of John Evangelist, like a willow copse stricken by a squall from off the Baltic, so that it shows the under-grey of its leaves.
"The poor lad! So handsome, so young!"
The first soft universal hush of pity broke presently into a myriad exclamations of anger and deprecation. "How high he holds his head! See! They have opened his shirt at the neck. Poor Princess, how she must love him! His hands are tied behind his back. He rides in that jolting cart as if he were a conqueror in a triumphal procession, instead of a victim going to his doom."