And the tar burners in the forests looked up from under their matted brows at the fair oval face of the Polish boy, and said:
"He is like a wild flower blown by the wind. He is like the violets that laugh in spring at the sun."
And the shaggy fighting-men of the frontier villages watched him ride through their streets, and thought:
"This is an angel. He looks toward heaven because he sees his
Brothers there."
They crossed themselves piously as he passed. And some of the light and laughter of his face glowed 'for a moment in their dark lives, as a gloomy glen in the forest is brightened up by a darting ray of sunlight.
He was wonderful, but he was always a boy. He was glad to feel the good horse under him, to grip the Tartar saddle with his knees, to feel the air rush by his cheek.
Sometimes they met poor people staggering wearily afoot along the road. Often Stanislaus checked his horse and lightly dismounted.
"Get up, get up, old father!" he would cry. "My legs are stiff from the saddle. I want to walk."
And though a peasant might often be afraid to accept the favor from
a noble, or be surly and churlish, the folk never were so with
Stanislaus. Up climbed the old father into the saddle, and
Stanislaus stepped out by his side.
"God give your grace long years!" said the thankful old man.