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For the Right

by Karl Emil Franzos · English · Gutenberg #36904 · 917,460 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: For the Right

Author: Karl Emil Franzos

Author of introduction, etc.: George MacDonald

Translator: Julie Sutter


        
Release date: July 30, 2011 [eBook #36904]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36904

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR THE RIGHT ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive






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                             FOR THE RIGHT






                             FOR THE RIGHT




                                   BY

                           KARL EMIL FRANZOS



                            GIVEN IN ENGLISH

                            By JULIE SUTTER




                             With a Preface

                       By GEORGE MACDONALD, LLD.




                                NEW YORK

                   HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE

                                  1888




                                PREFACE.


Not having even been asked to do so, I write this preface from
admiration of the book. The translation I have not yet seen, but
knowing previous work by the same hand, have confidence in it.

How much the story is founded on fact I cannot tell; a substratum of
fact there must be. To know that such a man once lived as is
represented in it, might well wake a new feeling of both strength and
obligation: here is one who, with absolutely no help from what is
commonly meant by _education_, lived heroically. But be the tale as
much a product of the imagination as the wildest romance, it remains a
significant fact that the generation has produced a man capable of such
an ideal.

For the more evident tendency of art has for some time been to an
infinite degeneracy. The cry of "Art for art's sake," as a protest
against the pursuit of art for the sake of money or fame, one can
recognize in its half wisdom, knowing the right cry to be, "Art for
truth's sake!" But when certain writers tell us that the true aim of
the author of fiction is to give the people what they want, namely, a
reflection, as in a mirror, of themselves--a mirror not such as will
show them to themselves as they are, but as they seem to each other,
some of us feel that we stand on the verge of an abyss of falsehood.
The people--in whose favour they seem to live and move and have their
being--desire, they say, no admixture of further object, nothing to
indicate they ought not to be what they are, or show them what they
ought to be: they acknowledge no relations with the ideal, only with
that which is--themselves, namely, and what they think and do. Such
writers do not understand that nothing does or can exist except the
ideal; nor is their art-philosophy other than "procuress to the lords
of hell." Whoever has an ideal and is making no struggle toward it, is
sinking into the outer darkness. The ideal is the end, and must be the
object of life. Attained, or but truly conceived, we must think of it
as the indispensable.

It is, then, a great fact of the age that, such low ends being
advocated, and men everywhere insisting on a miserable origin and
miserable prospects for humanity, there should yet appear in it a man
with artistic conception of a lofty ideal, and such artistic expression
of the same as makes it to us not conceivable only, but humanly
credible. For an ideal that is impossible is no ideal; it is a fancy,
no imagination. Our author keeps his narrative entirely consistent with
human nature--not, indeed, human nature as degraded, disjointed, and
unworthy, neither human nature as ideally perfect, but human nature as
reaching after the perfection of doing the duty that is plainly
perceived. In none of its details is the story unlikely. We may doubt
if such a man as Taras ever lived; but alas for him who has no hope
that such a man will ever be!

The reader must not suppose I would have everything the man did
regarded as _right_. On the contrary, the man becomes bitterly aware of
his errors--errors of knowledge, however, of judgment and of belief, be
it understood--not of conduct as required by that belief, knowledge,
and judgment. His head is at a loss rather than in fault; heart and
will are pure. A good man may do the most mistaken things with such
conviction of their rectitude as to be even bound to do them. How far
he might be to blame for not knowing or judging better, God only could
tell. If he could not have known better or judged better, he may have
to bear some of the consequences of his mistakes, but he will not have
to bear any blame; while his doing of what he believed to be right will
result in his both being and knowing what is right. The rare thing is
not the man who knows what is right, but the man who actually, with all
the power in him, with his very being, sets himself to _do_ that right
thing, however unpleasant or painful, irksome or heartrending to him.
Such a man, and such only, is a hero.

At the same time, the deepest instruction lies in the very mistakes of
the man. The purity of his motive and object confessed, not merely were
the means he took to reach his end beyond his administration, but the
end itself was imperfect. There are multitudes who imagine they hate
injustice when they but hate injury to themselves. They will boil with
rage at that, but hear of wrong even to a friend with much equanimity.
How many would not rather do a small wrong than endure a great one! Do
such men love justice? No man is a lover of justice who would not
rather endure the greatest wrong than commit the least. Here we have a
man who, to revenge no wrong done to himself, but out of pure reverence
for justice, feeling bound in his very being to do what in him lies for
justice, gives up everything, wife even and children, and openly
defying the emperor, betakes himself an outlaw to the hills, to serve
that Justice whose ministers have forsaken her. He will do with what
power he has, the thing so many fancy they would do if they had the
power they have not--put down injustice with the strong hand. There is
a place for this in the order of things; but were the judges of the
earth absolutely righteous, the world would never thus be cleansed of
injustice. The justest judge will do more for the coming of the kingdom
of righteousness by being himself a true man, than by innumerable
righteous judgments. The first and longest step a man can take toward
redress of all wrong, is _to be righteous_, not in the avenging of
wrong, but in the doing of the right thing, in the working of
righteousness. He who could have put down evil with the strong hand had
he so pleased, was he who less than any cared to do so. He saw that men
might be kept from injustice and be not a whit the more just, or the
more ready to do justice when the hand was withdrawn. What alone he
thought worth his labour was that a man should love justice as he loved
it, and be ready to die for it as he himself died. This man in his
ignorance set out to do the thing his Master had declined to do; his
end itself was inadequate.

Nor was the man himself adequate to the end. The very means he
possessed he was unable to control; and wrong followed as terrible as
unavoidable. Vengeance must be left with the Most High; for the
administration of punishment, to be just, demands not merely an
unselfishness perfect as God's, but an insight and knowledge equal to
his. Besides all this, to administer justice a man must have power
beyond his own, and must, therefore, largely depend on others, while
yet he can with no certainty determine who are fit for his purpose and
who are not. In brief, the justest man cannot but fail in executing
justice. He may be pure, but his work will not.

One thing I must beg of the reader--not to come to a conclusion before
he has come to the end; not to imagine that now or now he may condemn,
but to wait until the drama is played out.

It was indeed a bold undertaking when our author chose for his hero a
man who could not read or write, who had no special inclination, no
personal aptitude for social or public affairs, and would present him
attempting the noblest impossibility, from a divine sense of wrong done
to others than himself, and duty owed by him to all men and to God--a
duty become his because he alone was left to do it.

I have seldom, if ever, read a work of fiction that moved me with so
much admiration.

The failures of some will be found eternities beyond the successes of
others.

                                          George Mac Donald.




                               CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

       I. To the Front.

      II. The Stuff he was Made of.

     III. The Right Wronged.

      IV. Taking up the Battle.

       V. The Wrong Victorious.

      VI. Appealing unto Caesar.

     VII. Put not your Trust in Princes.

     VIII. Despair.

      IX. The Passion of Justice.

       X. To the Mountains.

      XI. Outlawed.

     XII. Flourishing like a Bay-Tree.

    XIII. The Banner Unfurled.

     XIV. Gathering Strength.

      XV. An Eye for an Eye.

     XVI. The Avenger to the Rescue.

    XVII. Signs of Failure.

   XVIII. The Approaching Doom

     XIX. For the Right--In the Wrong.

      XX. The Banner Soiled.

     XXI. "Vengeance is Mine".

    XXII. Paying the Penalty.




                             FOR THE RIGHT.




                               CHAPTER I.

                             TO THE FRONT.


Let the reader's imagination carry him eastward. Let him suppose he
were travelling at railway speed between Lemberg and Czernowitz, in a
south-easterly direction, towards the sedgy shores of the river Pruth
and the beech forests of the Bukowina, and the scenery to his left will
appear changeless. His eye for miles will rest on a boundless plain, of
which the seasons can influence the colouring only, but never a feature
of the landscape. White and dazzling in the winter, it rises to
something of a yellow brightness in the summer, wearing a neutral tint
both in the autumn and spring. But on his right-hand each turn of the
wheel will disclose a new picture to his eyes. He is fast approaching
the towering heights of the Carpathians. Mere phantoms at first, they
assume shape and substance like gathering clouds on the horizon, the
mountain chain with deepening contours advancing through the violet and
purple vapours of distance. And if the traveller now were able to fix
his gaze a while on the monotonous plain, with its grey cottages, its
poverty-stricken fields, and dreary heathlands, his would be a grand
surprise in turning once more to the right. The heights have closed
in--giants they, proud and solemn in fir-clad majesty. The wind,
sweeping along the mountain-sides, is laden with the odours of
pinewood; the air is filled with the roar of cataracts dashing through
the gullies and foaming along the rocky channel by the side of the
railway cutting; and athwart the narrow bands of azure, which seem the
bluer for the deep-rent glens beneath, may be seen wheeling the
bloodthirsty kite of the Carpathians. The very heart of the mountain
chain, silent and beautiful, lies open to view. A moment only, and it
will have vanished. The railroad, starting off in a sharp curve to the
east, leaves nothing to the beholder but to the right and to the left
the self-same monotonous plain. A sudden bend of the lawless Pruth had
rendered it necessary for the line to cut the landscape at the very
point where mountain and plain stand facing each other--abrupt and
unblending--like hatred and love in the heart of man.

The spot in question--half-way between Colomea, the hill-crowned
capital of the district, and Zablotow, a poor Jewish townlet of the
plain--is within the parish boundary of Zulawce, a village not,
however, visible from the railway, its cottages, a couple of miles
beyond, covering an eastern slope of the magnificent mountain range.
The thatched dwellings are as poor as anywhere in that part of Galicia,
not even the church or the manor house commanding any attention. But
all the more charming is the neighbourhood. Approaching the village
from the Pruth, you reach its first outlying cottages without the
effort of climbing, but by the time you have ascended to the
farthermost dwellings you have a splendid lowland landscape at your
feet--spreading fields of gold, verdant woods and heath-covered tracts,
skirted by the Pruth as with a broad silver ribbon, the glittering
rivulet of the Czerniawa winding between. And your eye will carry you
farther still, to the natural horizon, northward. But the eastern view
is altogether different, and incomparably bewitching, the gloriously
wooded hill-country of the Bukowina rising gradually, terrace upon
terrace, from the deep-sunk valley of the Czeremosz. Indeed, this
prospect, as seen from the village, is wondrously grand, a succession
of gigantic steps, as it were, leading from earth toward heaven, the
highest mountain-tops melting away in the ethereal blue. To the west
and south the view is bounded by the "Welyki Lys," a gigantic mountain
forest which separates Galicia from Hungary--dark and dreary, and
unutterably monotonous. Nowhere in the lower Carpathians is there a
spot to equal Zulawce for Nature's variety, looking upon the village as
a centre.

But this is not all for which the place is noteworthy. Life there, on
the whole, is regulated after the ways of the lowlands; but the people
themselves approach the Huzul type--a peculiar race, inhabiting the
mountains, and which, on account of the common language, is generally
classed with the Ruthens, but being of a different origin and of
different conditions of life is distinct from them, as in appearance so
in habit and in character. The Huzul is a hybrid, uniting the Slavonic
blood of the Ruthen with the Mongolian blood of the Uzen, his speech
betraying the former while his name testifies to the latter; so also
does the defiant dauntlessness of his bearing, hidden beneath an
appearance of proud restraint, but apt to burst out suddenly, like a
hot spring through the covering snow. The Ruthens of the lowlands, on
the contrary, are purely Slavonic; industrious therefore, enduring and
very patient, not easily roused, but once the fire is kindled it will
go on burning with a steady glow. These virtues, however, have sad
vices for a reverse--a bluntness which is both dull and coarse, and an
abject humility, bending the neck of the conquered man even lower than
need be. An unfair load of hardships may be pleaded in their excuse.
The Ruthen for centuries bore the chains of serfdom, and these broken
he continued the subject of some Polish nobleman, no law protecting his
body, still less his goods, no mental culture reaching him whose soul
received the barest crumbs of spiritual teaching. In this respect
things, to be sure, went as ill with the Huzuls, but for the rest
theirs was a life of liberty on the mountains, acknowledging no
nobleman and no officer of the crown. Poorly enough they lived in the
forest wilds, their sheep yielding milk and cheese, the barren soil a
few oats for scarcely eatable bread, while meat was within reach of him
only who would stake his own life in killing a bear. To this day there
are glens where no money has ever been seen; for which reason it has
never been thought worth while to levy taxes, the great lords remaining
in the lowlands where the soil was fruitful and he who tilled it a
slave. "Within those mountains there are but bears to be found and a
wild people called Uzels," thus wrote a German explorer in the
seventeenth century. He might have written it yesterday, for with the
bear only does the Huzul share the sovereignty of the mountains, and
his very freedom is no better than the liberty of the bear--yet liberty
it is! Thus the difference between the Ruthens of the uplands and the
Ruthens of the plain is immense, and scarcely to be bridged over--free
huntsmen up yonder, yoke-bearing bondmen below.

"No falcon can lived caged, no Huzul in bondage," says the proverb. The
village of Zulawce appeared to give the lie to this saying, but only at
first sight. The people there tilled the soil; they went to church,
paid tithes, and yielded forced labour; but for the rest they were
Huzuls, and cousins-german to the bear-hunters of the Welyki Lys. They
never forgot that they were _men_; they chose to govern themselves, and
did not hesitate to meet injustice with a bullet or a blow of the axe.
The lord of the manor, old Count Henryk Borecki, knew this well enough,
and though he might groan he never attempted to treat the peasants of
Zulawce as he would treat the churls on his lowland property. Not that
he was a gracious lord, but he was prudent; and being a passionate
huntsman himself, he loved to spend the season on that borderland of
the great forest, which led to many a scuffle, but open rupture there
was none while he lived.

When he had departed, matters grew worse. His son, Count George, never
troubled the people with his presence, for he lived in Paris. He was a
famous cavalier, devoting himself to the rising generation, so far as
it was of the feminine gender, and given to dancing at Mabille. His
far-off estates he only bore in mind when his purse was low; for which
reason, indeed, he thought of them as often and as anxiously as any
pattern landlord, keeping up a lively correspondence with his stewards
in Podolia--money they must send him, or dismissed his service they
should be. These unfortunate "mandatars" had a hard time of it; but
they did their best, fleecing the peasants to the utmost, and keeping
their stewardships. Now, the mandatar of Zulawce also, Mr. Severin
Gonta, for all that can be told to the contrary, might have wished to
adopt this plan; but having lived for twenty years in the village, and
knowing the people and their knock-down propensities, he preferred
having recourse to the cutting of my lord's timber instead, sending the
proceeds to Paris. Count George, however, in the pursuit of his noble
passions, enlarged his friendships, admitting even usurers to the
benefit of his private acquaintance.

Thus it came about that Mr. Severin one day received the youthful
landlord's ultimatum: "Send me another thousand florins a year, or go
to the devil." Mr. Severin was soon resolved. He knew he had cut the
timber till never a tree remained, and he preferred his bodily safety
to the stewardship he held. So he quitted his post, being succeeded by
the young Count's private secretary, a certain Mr. Wenceslas Hajek.

Mr. Wenceslas at the time--it was in the year of Grace 1835--was a
young man of eight-and-twenty, with an experience far beyond his years.
A Bohemian by birth, he soon rose to the dignity of an imperial
detective, and in recognition of his peculiar talents was sent to Italy
as a spy. He had acquired a knowledge of French, and was known to have
committed a daring robbery upon a privy councillor of Milan, for which
achievement he was not, like an ordinary mortal, sent to prison as a
thief, but to Paris on a secret mission for Prince Metternich. He duly
reported to his government; but his was a sympathetic temperament, and,
pitying the refugees, he failed not to report to them as well. For a
while he flourished, receiving pay from both sides; but being found out
he was dismissed ignominiously. Thereupon he took a distaste for
politics, establishing a private agency for nondescript transactions,
the least doubtful of which were the arrangements he brought about
between spendthrift nobles and their friends who lent upon usury. In
this capacity he came to be introduced to Count George, who found him
simply invaluable, appointing him his private secretary before long.
Now, Mr. Wenceslas might thus have lived happily ever after, had his
natural disposition not again played him the fool. He loved money, and
took of his master's what he could. Count George was helpless, since
the rascal knew his every secret; it was plain he could not dismiss
him, but he promoted him to the stewardship of Zulawce. "I don't care
how much of a blackguard he is, so long as he forwards my revenues,"
this distinguished nobleman thought within himself, continuing his
pursuits in Paris.

It was in the month of May, 1835, that Wenceslas Hajek made his entry
at Zulawce. He had scarcely an eye for the vernal splendour of the
grand scenery which surrounded him; but he certainly felt impressed on
seeing the peasantry on horseback ready to receive him into their
village. It was with a queer look of surprise that he gazed upon those
giant figures with their piercing eagle eyes. They were clothed in
their best, wearing brown woollen riding-coats, dark red breeches,
black sandals, and high felt hats with waving plumes, sitting their
small spirited steeds as though they had grown together with them.
Among mountaineers the Huzuls are the only equestrian people, and none
of their Slavonic neighbours go armed, as they do, with the gun slung
behind them, the pistol in the belt, and the battle-axe to hand. Mr.
Wenceslas knew he trembled when these well-accoutred peasants
approached his vehicle. He had intended to treat them to his most
gracious smile, and smile he did, but it cost him an effort ending in a
grin.

Only one of the peasants bared his head--an old man, white-haired and
of commanding stature, who lifted a proud face to the newcomer. He had
pulled up by the carriage door, and his clear, undaunted eyes examined
the features of the steward. That was Stephen Woronka, the village
judge. "Newly-appointed mandatar," he said, "you are sent by our lord;
therefore we greet you. You come from afar, and we are not known to
you; therefore, I say, we men of Zulawce do our duty by the Count,
expecting him to do the same by us. Neither more nor less! We greet
you."

Mr. Hajek understood the import, for a Slavonic dialect had been the
language of his childhood, and on the long journey through Galicia he
had had opportunity to pickup some of the country's speech. But, more
than the words, it was the spirit which impressed him, and he framed
his answer accordingly. "I shall be just," he said; "neither more nor
less! I greet you."

The old judge waved his hat, and "Urrahah!" cried the peasants, the
shrill; crisp sound rising from two hundred throats. They discharged
their pistols, and once more an exultant "Urrahah!" filled the air. It
sounded like a war cry; but peacefully they turned their horses' heads,
and, together with the travelling carriage, proceeded to the village
inn.

There, on an open space beneath a mighty linden tree, the rest of the
people stood waiting--old folk and lads, women and children--all
wearing their Sunday best. When the carriage had stopped, and Mr.
Hajek, still smiling, had alighted, he was met by the village priest,
or pope, with a bow. The Reverend Martin Sustenkowicz was loyally
inclined, and anxious to express his feelings in a proper speech, but
somehow his intention often was beyond him; and in the present
instance, attempting his salutation with unsteady feet, he bowed lower
than he meant to, and speech there was none. Hajek took the will for
the deed, and turned to an aged woman who offered bread and salt. He
affably swallowed a mouthful, and thereupon ordered the innkeeper,
Avrumko, in a stage whisper, to tap two casks of his schnaps.

He fully believed thereby to please the people, and was not a little
surprised at the judge's deprecating gesture. "With your leave, new
mandatar, we decline it," said the latter. "It may be all very well in
the lowlands, but not with us. We men of Zulawce do not object to
schnaps, but only when we have paid for it ourselves!"

There was something akin to scorn in the mandatar's face, though he
smiled again, saying: "But my good people, I am here to represent Count
George, your gracious lord. Is not he your little father? and you are
the children who may well receive his bounty."

The old judge shook his head. "It may be so in the lowlands," he
repeated, "but we are no children, with your leave, and the Count is
nowise our father. We are peasants, and he is lord of the manor; we
expect justice, and will do our duty, that is all!"

"But my good judge, Mr. Stephen----"

"Begging your pardon," interrupted the latter yet again. "This also is
of the lowlands, where they 'Mister' one another. I am plain Stephen[1]
up here. And how should you know that I am good? We would rather not be
beholden to you. We will drink the Count's health, paying for it
ourselves."

He beckoned to the innkeeper; great cans full of the beverage were
brought speedily, and the people sitting or standing about were nowise
loth to fall to. Hajek felt posed, but once more he recovered himself,
and went about among the villagers, smiling right and left. But the
more he smiled, the darker he grew within. He really began to feel
afraid of these proud, gaunt creatures, with their undaunted eyes. And
he did _not_ like the look of their arms. Why, every one of these
'subjects,' as the Galician peasant in those days was styled in
official language, carried a small arsenal on his body.

"Why do you go about with pistols?" he inquired of the judge.

"We like it, and may require it," was the curt reply.

"Require it!" said the mandatar, with the smile of innocence. "Why,
what for?"

"You may find that out for yourself some day," said old Stephen, and
turned away.

Hajek shivered, but overcame the feeling, passing a benevolent look
over the assembly. They were engaged with their schnaps now and heeded
him not. One of them only--a tall, lean fellow with shaggy red
hair--stared at him with an expression of unmitigated dislike.

The mandatar went up to him, inquiring mildly, "Who are you, my
friend?"

"The devil may be your friend," retorted the man grimly. "I am Schymko
Trudak--'Red Schymko;' but what is that to you?"

"Well, am I not one of yourselves now?" returned Hajek still anxious to
conciliate. But he began to see it was no easy matter, and he cast a
disconcerted look about him.

His eye alighted on a man who carried no arms, and otherwise appeared
of a different stamp. Tall and powerful like the rest of them, his
expression was gentle; he was fair-haired, and his eyes were blue. He
wore a white fur coat with gay-coloured broidered facings, a black fur
cap, and high boots--the holiday garb of the Podolian peasant. Hajek
went up to him. The man took off his cap and bowed.

"What is your name?"

"Taras Barabola."

"Do you live in this village?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not in service, surely?"

"No!" and as modestly as though he were but a farm labourer, the young
peasant added: "I own the largest farm but one of the place."

"But you are from the lowlands?"

"Yes; I came from Ridowa."

"Then what made you settle here?"

"I--I--loved--I mean, I married into the farm," he said with a blush.

"Do you approve of these people?"

The young man reddened again, but replied: "They are different from
those we are used to in the plain, but not therefore bad."

"I wish they were more like you!" said the mandatar fervently, and
passed on. He would, indeed, have liked them to be different; more
humble, and not carrying arms for possible requirements--more like this
Taras in short!

And presently, looking from the window of his comfortable room in the
manor house, he examined with a queer smile the thickness of its walls.
"A stout building," he muttered; "who knows what it may be good for?
Still, this were but poor comfort if things came to the worst. As for
playing the hero, I have never done it; but the son of my mother is no
fool! I must act warily, I see; but I'll teach these blockheads what a
'subject' is, and I shall take care of myself!"




                              CHAPTER II.

                       THE STUFF HE WAS MADE OF.


The ensuing weeks passed quietly. The people gave their turns of
work[2] for the Count as they had always done, but the mandatar did not
appear to take much notice. For days he would be absent in the district
town, or in the villages round about, amusing himself with the officers
of the Imperial service. The peasants hardly ever saw him, but they
spoke of him the more frequently. On the day of his entry they had made
up their minds that the new bailiff was a sneak, "but we shall be up to
his tricks;" yet, somehow he rose in their estimation. True, there were
those--the old judge to begin with--who continued in their distrust,
but a more generous spirit prevailed with many as the days wore on.
"Let us be just," they said; "he has done us no harm so far." And being
laughed at by the less confident they would add: "Well, Taras thinks so
too, so we cannot be far wrong!" This appeared to be a vantage ground
of defence which the opponents knew not how to assail; old Stephen only
would retort, angrily, "It is past understanding how this lamb of the
lowlands should have got the better of every bear among us up here. But
you will be the worse for it one of these days, you will see!"

The judge spoke truth; it was a marvellous influence which the young
stranger had acquired in the village, and well-nigh incredible
considering the people he had to deal with. But if a miracle it was, it
had come about by means of the rarest of charms, by the spell emanating
from a heart, the wondrous honesty of which was equalled only by its
wondrous strength--a heart which had but grown in goodness and true
courage because its lot had been cast amid sorrows which would have
brought most men to ruin or despair.

Taras Barabola was born at Ridowa, a village near Barnow, the son of a
poor servant girl whose lover had been carried off as a recruit and
remained in the army, preferring the gay life of a soldier to hard
labour at home. Amid the hot tears of affliction the deserted mother
brought up her child, and not only trouble, but shame, stood by his
cradle. For the Podolian peasant does not judge lightly of the erring
one, and his sense of wrong can be such that Mercy herself would plead
with him in vain. It was long before the unhappy girl found shelter for
pity's sake, and little Taras, from his earliest days, had to suffer
for no other reason but that his father was a scoundrel. It appeared to
be meritorious with the people of Ridowa to scold and buffet the
frightened child, as though that were indeed a means of proving their
own respectability and combating the growth of sin. None but themselves
would have been to blame if, by such treatment of the boy, they had
reared a criminal in him, to be the disgrace and scourge of the
village. But it was not so with Taras, because amid all his trouble a
rare good fortune had been given him. The poor servant girl that bore
him was possessed of a heroic spirit. And when the little boy followed
his mother to church, she standing humbly in the porch, whilst he,
childlike, would steal forward till the sexton flung him back as though
his very breath defiled the sacred precincts; or when attempting to
join other children in their play about the streets he was kicked away
like a rabid dog, and nothing seemed left but to take his grief to the
one heart beating for him in a cruel world;--that heart would grew
strong in the suffering woman, lending her words so generous, so wise,
that one could have believed in inspiration were not a mother's love in
itself grand enough to be the fount of things noble and true. Many a
one in her position would have bewailed her child--would have taught
him to lay the blame upon others, sowing the seeds of cowardliness and
revenge. But she--well, she did cry; no child ever was more bitterly
wept over; but this is what she said: "Taras, grow up good! Do not hate
them because of their unkindness, for it is deserved! Nay, my child, if
you suffer, it is because your father and I have wronged them; they
think ill of you for fear you should become what we were! Yet you are
but a child, knowing neither good nor evil, and all they can say
against you is that you are the child of your parents; that is why they
ill-treat you! But one day you will show them what you are yourself,
and they will then treat you accordingly, after your own deserts! And,
therefore, oh, my child, do not repay them with evil: be good and do
the right, and they will love you!"

Thus she wept, thus she entreated him, and, young as he was, her words
were engraven on his brain and sunk deep into his soul. It was not in
vain that, in order to save her child, she had staked the one thing
left to her in life--the love of that child. Her own great love for him
was her safeguard that his hatred for others, which she strove against,
should not fall back upon her, who owned herself guilty, and for whom
she said he suffered. Taras continued to love his mother; and when he
inquired what it could have been whereby she had wronged all the
righteous people, and she told him he was too young to understand, he
was satisfied. But her words lived in his heart, laying the foundation
of a marvellous development of character, teaching him, at an age when
other children think but of eating and playing, that he must believe
the world to be just, and that his own act must be the umpire of reward
or punishment to follow. Thus he suffered ill-will without bitterness,
but also, knowing he had not himself deserved it, without humiliation;
and when, having reached his tenth year, he was chosen to be the
gooseherd of the village--not, indeed, with the goodwill of all, but
simply because no other serviceable lad had offered--he burned with a
desire to gain for himself commendation and approval. And he did gain
it, because he worked for it bravely, but also because of a fearful
experience which happened to him about a twelvemonth later, shaking his
young soul to its inmost depth.

It was an autumnal morning; he had driven forth his geese with the grey
dawn as usual. They fed on a lonely common; a cross stood there by the
side of a pond, but not a cottage within hail, and the foot-path which
traversed it was rarely used. The boy had his favourite seat on a stone
by the water, at the foot of the cross; he was sitting there now
contentedly eating some of the bread which his mother had given him,
and whistling between whiles on a reed-pipe he had made for himself.

He was startled by a heavy footfall, and, turning, grew pale, for he
that approached him was a spiteful, wicked old man, Waleri Kostarenko
by name, one of the worst of those who delighted in bullying him. "You
are but a cur!" he would call out when the lad passed his farm, and
more than once he had set his dogs at him. And one day, finding him at
play with his own grandchildren, he beat him so mercilessly that the
little fellow could scarcely limp home for bruises. Nor was it any
regard for morality he could plead in wretched excuse. Taras's mother
had been a servant on his farm, and had been proof against his wiles,
so he was the first to cry shame when trouble overtook her, and like a
fiend he delighted in ill-using her child. Taras got out of his way
whenever he could, and on the present occasion took to his sturdy
little legs, as though pursued by the caitiff's dogs. It was not merely
the loneliness of the place which made it advisable to seek refuge in
flight, but the fact that the old man, as the boy had seen in spite of
his terror, was in a worse condition than usual. There had been a
merry-making the day before in a neighbouring village, and his unsteady
feet showed plainly that the power of drink was upon him.

"Is it you, little toad?" he roared, "I'll catch you!" But the boy was
too fleet for him, and he knew pursuit was vain. "Lord's sake," he
cried, suddenly, "I have sprained my foot! Taras, for pity's sake, help
me to yon stone!"

The boy turned and looked; the old man had sunk to his knee, a picture
of suffering, and the boy did pity him, coming back accordingly. "What
is it?" he said, "what can I do for you?" At which Waleri, bursting upon
him, caught him exultingly. "Have I got you?" he shrieked, clutching
his hair and treating him mercilessly.

"For heaven's sake," cried Taras, "spare me!" But pity there was none
with the old wretch; beside himself with hatred, he held the boy with
one arm, ill-using him with the other wherever his fist could fall.
Taras struggled vainly for awhile, but with a wrench of despair he got
free at last. He escaped. Waleri ran after him for a step or two. The
geese were wild with terror, and one of the creatures had got between
the man's feet; he fell heavily, knocking his head against the stone by
the cross. The boy heard a piercing cry; he saw that his enemy was on
the ground, but not till he had reached the further end of the common
did he turn once more to look back. The old man lay motionless by the
stone, the geese pressed about him, stretching their necks with a noisy
cackle. He felt tolerably safe now from his enemy, for even if it were
but another trick of his meanness he could scarcely overtake him at
that distance; but as he stood and gazed a wild fear fell upon the boy,
his heart beating violently.

"He is dead!" The thought flashed through him as a shock of lightning,
and he felt dragged back to the scene helplessly. He retraced his steps
towards the cross, and stood still within ten yards or so. A cry burst
from him of pure horror--he saw the blood trickling over the upturned
face. He pressed together his lips, and went close--slowly,
tremblingly--quite close. The man was evidently unconscious, his face
corpse-like and fearful to look at; there was a deep cut on the
forehead, and the purple blood flowed copiously over the distorted
face, trickling to the ground.

The boy stood still with labouring breath, as though spellbound. Horror
and disgust, joy, scorn, revenge, and yet again compassion, went
through him, the good rising uppermost in the great conflict that shook
his soul. He thought of his mother, and bending down to the water he
bathed the forehead of the unconscious man. The blood kept flowing. He
tore off the sleeve of his shirt, and, making a bandage, pressed it
upon the wound. Walen groaned, but did not open his eyes. "He is
dying!" thought Taras, but strove as best he could to stop the
bleeding, crying for help at the same time with all his might.

A young peasant, the son-in-law of the village judge, riding by at some
distance, heard his calling--the wind lengthening out the sound. He
came dashing up, and what he saw might well fill him with surprise.
"And you, Taras--you trying to save him!" he cried, when the boy had
told his story simply and truthfully. It was more than he could
understand. But he turned to the sufferer, sending Taras to the village
for assistance. The boy returned with the judge himself, together with
Waleri's son and some of his servants.

They took up the wounded man and carried him to his home, the judge
looking at the boy repeatedly with unfeigned wonder. "Taras," he said
at last, "I think if He whom they call the Christ were alive, He would
just be proud of you, I do indeed! That is to say, we are told He _is_
alive, and I daresay He will repay you for this!" At which the boy
blushed crimson, remembering what a struggle it had cost him; he did
not deserve any praise, he thought.

But from this hour the people thought well of him in the village; all
were anxious to show their approval, and those that had spoken kindly
of him before were quite proud of their discriminating wisdom. Waleri
recovered, continuing to hate him; but this utter ingratitude made
others the more anxious to befriend him. The judge especially,
henceforth, stood by the lad, giving him a place as under-servant on
his own farm; and, he being looked upon as the chief authority of the
village, his example told naturally. But of far more consequence than
these things was the influence of that occurrence upon the inner growth
of the boy. So far, he had simply believed his mother, that one must
deserve kindness by being good; now he knew it by his own experience.
"Yes," he said to himself, "justice is the foundation of things;" and
more than ever he tried to fulfil his every duty to the utmost. But the
golden opinions he gathered were his gain in a double sense; for there
is no greater help toward well-doing than the knowledge that one is
believed in, and all the clearer grew that fair creed within him which
his mother had taught him concerning the world and its retribution.
What at first had been only a sort of childish self-interest, grew to
be the very backbone of his character: he could not but try and be
good, just, and helpful. It could be said of him, without a shade of
flattery, that no servant-lad ever had been so well behaved as he; and
when his mother died, the fifteen-year-old youth had as many comforters
and friends as there were people in the village. The stain on his birth
even grew to be cause of praise. "Why, look you," the judge would say,
"this boy is really no proper child at all; anyhow he is quite
unfathered, and could be as rascally as he pleased, for there's none to
cast it up to him. I might give him a box on the ear at times, but that
could not make up for a father's thrashing. And, in the face of all
this, this Taras is just the best boy in the village. He will be a
great man one of these days, I tell you! My prophecies always come
true--you will find out what stuff he is made of before you have done
with him, and then please remember I said so."

And the time came when the young man gave evidence of the stuff
within him, but that which brought it out was a sore trial to the
brave-hearted youth. He was barely eighteen, and had come to be a
ploughman on the judge's farm, when one day the Imperial constables
brought an old soldier into the village, Hritzko Stankiewicz by name, a
wretched creature with a worn-out body and a rotten soul. Begging and
stealing, he had found his way from Italy to Galicia, where the police
had picked him up, and now he was being delivered over to his own
parish of Ridowa. It wad Taras's father. The judge, in well-meant pity,
was for concealing this from the young man, but the latter had heard
the name often enough from his mother, and he went at once to the gaol
where the vagabond had been located. The wretched man quaked when his
son stood before him, and fearing he had come to take vengeance for his
mother, the miserable coward took refuge in denial, insulting the woman
he had ruined in her grave. Pale as death, and trembling, Taras went
out from him, and for several days he went about the village mute and
like one demented.

The following Sunday after church the men of the parish gathered
beneath the linden tree in front of the village inn, after the usage of
times immemorial, the day's question being what had best be done with
the returned vagabond. "It seems plain," said the judge, "that we
cannot keep the thieving beggar in our midst. Let us send him to
Lemberg, paying for his maintenance. He won't like it; but it is a
great deal more than he has deserved. It is the best device, I
warrant." The men agreed. "It is," they cried, lifting their right hand
in token of assent.

At this moment Taras stepped forth. His face was ghastly, as though he
had risen from a sickbed. "Ye men," he cried, with choked voice,
folding his hands, "pity me; listen to me!" But tears drowned what
further he had to say, and he sank to his knees.

"Don't, don't!" they all cried, full of compassion, "you need not mind,
we all know what a good fellow you are."

But Taras shook his head, and with a great effort stood upright among
them. "I have to mind," he cried, "and in my mother's behalf I am here,
speaking because she no longer can speak! He is my father though he
denies it! Only him she trusted, because he was her affianced lover,
and never another! If I were silent in this matter, it might be thought
of her that after all she was a bad woman, and her son does not know
his own father. Therefore, I say, listen to me: I do know! and as my
mother's son I take it upon me to provide for my father. Do not put him
into the workhouse, he cannot work. And if I take care of him, he will
not be a burden to the village. For God's sake, then, have pity on
me--and leave him here!"

There was a long pause of silence, and then the judge said, addressing
the men: "We should be worse than hard-hearted if we refused him. But
we will not be gainers thereby; the parish shall pay for Hritzko what
it would cost us did we send him to Lemberg. It shall be as this good
son desires; and God's blessing be upon him!"

For eight years after, the miserable wretch lived in the village. It
was a time of continued suffering for Taras. Every joy of youth he
renounced, striving day and night to meet the old man's exactions; and
all the reward he ever had was hatred and scorn: but he never tired of
his voluntary work of love. "My mother has borne more than that for
me," he would say, when others praised him. "One could not have
believed how good a fellow can be!" said the people of Ridowa, some
adding in coarse, if real pity, "'Twere a kindness if some one killed
the old beggar!" But the suggested "kindness" came about by his own
doing--he drank himself to death. At the age of six-and-twenty Taras
was free.

"Now you must get yourself into a snug farm by marriage," advised the
judge. "You understand your business, you are a well-favoured fellow,
and, concerning your character, my Lord Golochowski himself might say
to you: 'Here is my daughter, Taras, and if you take her it will be an
honour to the family!' There is that buxom Marinia, for instance, the
sexton's girl; or that pretty creature, Kasia----"

But Taras shook his head, and his blue eyes looked gloomy. "Life here
has gone too hard with me," he said, "for me to seek happiness in this
place! A thousand thanks for all your kindness; but go I must!" And
they could not get him to change his mind; he looked about for a
situation elsewhere.

Two places offered--the one with the peasant, Iwan Woronka, at Zulawce,
the brother of Judge Stephen; the other with a parish priest on the
frontier. Pay and work in both places was the same. He would be
head-servant in both, and pretty independent; the latter for the same
sad reason--that both the peasant and the priest were given to drink.
Nor could he come to any decision in the matter by a personal
inspection of the farms, for really there was no preference either way.
So he resolved to submit his fate to that most innocent kind of
guidance which, with those people, decides many a step in life. He
would take the priest's offer if it rained on the following Sunday, and
he would go to Iwan if it were fine. But the day of his fate poured
such floods of sunshine about him that doubt there could be none, and
he went to Zulawce.

It was no easy beginning for the stranger. The people laughed at him
freely, his garb and his ways differing so entirely from their own;
they even called him a coward because he carried no arms and spoke
respectfully of Count Borecki as the lord of the manor. The fact was
that Taras just continued to be the man he had always been, taking
their sneers quietly, and the management of the farm entrusted to him
was his only care. Iwan Woronka was old and enfeebled, his tottering
steps carrying him a little way only, to the village inn, his constant
resort. It was natural, therefore, that the farm had been doing badly.
His only son had died, and Anusia, his daughter, had striven vainly
to save the property from ruin. She blessed the day when the new
head-servant took matters in hand, if no one else did; for not many
weeks passed before the traces of his honest diligence grew apparent
everywhere. "He understands his business," even Iwan must own, though
over his tipple he kept muttering that the sneaking stranger was too
much for him. But that Taras was neither a coward nor a sneak all the
village soon had proof of, when on a bear hunt, with not a little
danger to himself, he saved the old judge's life, killing a maddened
brute by a splendid shot in close encounter. This and his evident
ability in the fulfilment of his duties gained him most hearts before
long. "You are a good fellow, Podolian," the people would say; and not
a year had passed before they swore behind his back that there was no
mistake about his being a real acquisition to the village.

Anusia said nothing. She was a handsome girl of the true Huzul type,
tall, shapely, lissom, with dark, fiery eyes. High-spirited and
passionate in all things, her partiality for the silent stranger made
her shy and diffident. She went out of his way, addressing him only
when business required. He saw it, could not understand, and felt sad.
Now, strange to say--at least it took him by surprise--by reason of
this very sadness he discovered that Anusia was pleasant to behold. It
quite startled him, and it made him shy in his turn when he had to
speak to her. But one day, riding about the farm, he without any
palpable reason caught himself whispering her name. That was more
startling still, and he felt inclined to box his own ears, calling
himself a fool for his pains. "You idiot!" he said, "your master's
daughter, and she hating you moreover!" And having mused awhile, he
added philosophically--"Love is only a sort of feeling for folk that
have nothing to do. Some drink by way of a pastime, and some fall in
love." He really believed it; his life had been so sunless hitherto,
that no flower for him could grow.

Well, love may be a sort of feeling, but Taras found that he could do
nothing but just give in. Then it happened, one bright spring morning,
that he was walking on a narrow footpath over the sprouting cornfields,
Anusia coming along from the other end.

"How shall I turn aside?" they both thought; et neither quite liked to
strike off through the budding grain.

"'Twere a pity to trample upon the growing blades," murmured he, and
proceeded slowly.

"It is father's cornfield," whispered she, and her feet carried her
toward him.

Presently they came to a standstill, face to face.

"Why don't you move out of my way?" she said, angrily.

He felt taken aback, and was silent.

"I have been looking over the fields--the wheat by the river might be
better," continued the damsel.

"It might," owned he, "but it is not my fault."

"Is it mine?" cried she.

"No, the field was flooded."

"That is your excuse!" retorted the maiden. "I think the seed was bad.
You are growing careless!"

"Oh!" said he, standing erect, "I can look for another place, if that
is all." He quite trembled. "I believe I hate her," he said to himself.

"Yes, go! go!" she cried, her bosom heaving, and the hot tears starting
to her eyes. Another moment, and they had caught one another, heart to
heart and lip to lip. How it could happen so quickly they never knew.
But the occurrence is not supposed to be unprecedented in the history
of this planet.

It was a happy hour amid the sun-flooded fields. They both believed
they had to make up for no end of past unkindness. But, being sensible,
they soon took a matter-of-fact view.

"You will just have to marry me, now," said Anusia; "it is the one
thing to be done. I will at once tell my father."

And so she did; but Iwan Woronka unfortunately did not consider her
marrying his head-servant the one thing to be done. She was his only
child and his heiress to boot, and he had long decided she should marry
his nephew Harasim, Judge Stephen's son--a young man who might have
been well enough but for his repellent countenance and his love for
drink. But Iwan argued, "Good looks are no merit, and drinking no harm;"
and therewith he turned Taras off his farm.

The poor fellow went his way without venturing to say good-bye to
Anusia, or letting her know where he could be heard of. It cost him a
hard battle with himself; but he knew the girl's passionate temper, and
he wanted to act honestly by his master. But the victory was not thus
easily got.

It was some two months later, a splendid summer night. The moon was
weaving her mellow charm about the heathlands, lighting up the old
tin-plated tower of the castle at Hankowce with a mysterious light,
till it sparkled and shone like a silver column. It was the abode of
Baron Alfred Zborowski, and Taras had found service there as coachman
and groom. He did not sleep in the stables at this time of the year,
but on the open heath, where the remains of a watchfire glowed like a
heap of gold amid the silvery sheen. A number of horses were at large
about him.

The night was pleasantly cool, but the poor fellow had a terrible
burning at the heart as he lay wakeful by the glowing embers, thinking
of her who was far away. There was a sound of hoofs suddenly breaking
upon the night, and a figure on horseback appeared with long hair
streaming on the wind. "Good heavens!" cried the young man trembling;
"is it you, Anusia?"

"Taras!" was the answer, and no more.

She glided from her horse, and his arms were about her.

"Here I am, and here I shall stay," she said at last. "I have scarcely
left the saddle since yesterday. It was Jacek, the fiddler, that told
me where I should find you. I shall not return to my father--not
without you. And if you will not go back with me you must just keep me
here. I cannot live without you, and I will not--do you hear? I will
not! I want to be happy!"

She talked madly--laughing, crying on his neck. And then she slid to
the ground, clasping his knees. But he stood trembling. He felt as
though he were surrounded by a flood of waters, the ground being taken
from under his feet. His fingers closed convulsively, till the nails
entered the quick--he shut his eyes and set his teeth. Thus he stood
silent, but breathing heavily, and then a shiver went through him; he
opened his eyes and lifted up the girl at his feet. "Anusia," he said,
gently but firmly, "I love you more than I love myself! and therefore I
say I shall take you back to-morrow as far as the Pruth, where we can
see your father's house, and then I shall leave you. But till then"--he
drew a deep breath, and continued with sinking voice, "till then you
must stay with an old widow I know in this village. I will show you the
way now; she will see to your wants."

The girl gazed at him helplessly, passing her hand across her forehead
once, twice; and then she groaned, "It is beyond me--do you despise
me?--turn me from you?"

"No!" he cried; "but I will not drag you down to misery and disgrace.
If you stayed here, Anusia, you could only be a servant-girl in the
village where I work. We should suffer--but that is nothing! Marry one
another we cannot; not while your father lives, for the Church requires
his consent. You could only be my--my----. Anusia, I dare not!"

Whereupon she drew herself tip proudly, looking him full in the face.
"I am a girl of unblemished name," she said. "If I am satisfied to be
near you----"

"You! you!" he gasped, "what do you know about it? You are an honest
girl! But I--good God, my mother----. Go! go!" And there was a cry of
despair; then he recovered himself "God help me, Anusia, it must be.
The woman that will take care of you now lives next door to the church,
the old sexton's widow, Anna Paulicz--this way!"

The girl probably but half understood him. As in a dream she moved
toward her horse, seized the bridle, and turned back to Taras
mechanically.

She stood before him. Her face was white as death; she opened her
colourless lips once, twice, as though to speak, but sound there was
none. At last, with an effort, a hoarse whisper broke from her, "I hate
you!"

"Anusia!" he cried, staggering. But answer there was none--the
thundering footfall of a horse only dying away in the night.


Harvest had come and the harvest-home. The Jewish fiddlers played their
merry tunes in the courtyard of the castle at Hankowce, and far into
the evening continued the dancing and jumping and huzzaing of the
reapers. The baron and his coachman were perhaps the only two of all
the village who took no pleasure in the revelry--the one because he had
to provide the schnaps and mead that were being consumed, the other
because his heart was nowise attuned to it.

Dreary weeks had passed since that impassioned meeting on the heath,
but the girl's parting words kept ringing in poor Taras's ear. "It is
all at an end," he said, "and no use in worrying." But he kept
worrying, and that she should hate him was an undying grief to his
heart. It was little comfort that he could say to himself, "You have
done well, Taras; it is better to be unhappy than to be a villain."

Comfort? nay, there was none! for what self-conscious approval could
lessen the wild longings, the deep grief of his love? And so he went
his way sadly, doing his duty and feeling more lonely than ever. He did
not grudge others their merry-heartedness, but the noisy expression of
it hurt him. For this reason he kept aloof on that day, busying himself
about his horses, plaiting their manes with coloured ribands, but
anxious to take no personal part in the feast. But the shouts of
delight would reach him, clashing sorely with his sorrowing heart. Then
the poor fellow shut the stables, and, going up to his favourite horse,
a fine chestnut, he pressed his forehead against the creature's neck,
sobbing like a forsaken child.

He was yet standing in this position when a well-known voice reached
his ear--a man's voice, but it sent the blood to his face. Could he be
dreaming? but no, there it was again, and a ponderous knocking against
the door, which he had locked. He made haste to open--it was Stephen
Woronka, the judge.

Taras was unable to speak, and the old man on his part could only nod.
He looked mournful. "Come!" he said, after a brief pause that seemed
filled with pain.

"Where to?" faltered Taras.

The judge appeared to consider explanation needless. "I have already
spoken with your master; he allows you to go on the spot. Your things
can come after you. My horses are ready to start."

"I cannot," murmured Taras, turning a step aside.

Old Stephen nodded, as though this were just the answer he expected.
"But you must," he said, "we cannot let the girl die, Iwan and me. It
is no light thing for us, to let her marry you, for you have just
nothing--a poor stranger--and," he added, with a sigh, "my Harasim
might be saved by a good wife. However, we have no choice now and
neither have you!"

"Then she is ill?" shrieked Taras.

"Yes--very; come at once." And such was Stephen's hurry that he barely
allowed Taras to take his leave of the baron. The judge drove, and so
little he spared his horses, that the vehicle shot along the moon-lit
roads like a thing demented.

"Let me take the reins," said Taras, after a while.

"No!" returned the judge sharply, adding more gently, as though in
excuse: "Anxiety would kill me if I were at leisure."

"Then she is dying!" groaned the young man in despair.

"The Lord knows!" replied old Stephen huskily. "We can but do our duty
in fetching you. Though she will not see you, she says, raving
continually that she will kill you or kill herself if ever you come
near her.... What is it that took place between you?" he cried, raising
his voice suddenly and turning a menacing countenance upon Taras.

"That I must not tell," returned the latter firmly.

The judge gazed at him angrily, but nodded again, "I am a fool to ask
you," he murmured. "You have either been a great villain to her,
or--or--just very good.... Whatever it was, it is between you two, and
you must settle it with her."

Nothing more was spoken that night. In the early morning, when the
horses where having a most needful rest, they only exchanged some
indifferent remarks. And starting once more, they hastened towards the
purple hills, as fast as the panting creatures could carry them. But it
was evening before they crossed the Pruth and approached the village.
The air was sultry; clouds hung low in the heavens, hiding the moon.

The judge pulled up before they reached Iwan's farm. Taras dismounted.
"I thank you!" he cried, seeking to grasp the old man's hand.

But Stephen withdrew it, shaking his head. "I cannot be wroth with
you," he said, "but there are things that go hard with a man.... You
don't owe me any thanks, however. I have now repaid you for that shot
of yours which saved my life. We are quits."

"But I shall thank you while I live," cried Taras, walking away quickly
in the direction of Iwan's farm. He stood by the door with bated
breath; it was opened for him before he could put his hand on the
latch, by Iwan Woronka.

"She--she is alive?" faltered Taras.

"Yes, but only that. Step in softly, she knows nothing of your coming."

He did step in softly, but his heart laboured wildly. The room was lit
with a subdued light, and he could barely distinguish the figure of the
stricken girl.

"Who is coming?" she cried, with trembling accents. "Who is it?" once
more, with awe-burdened voice.

But answer she needed none. A terrible cry burst from her, and darting
like a wraith from her couch she flew past him, vanishing in the night.

He followed her; but the hiding darkness without was such that he could
scarcely keep in sight the white glimmer of her figure, although she
was but a few yards ahead of him, on her way to the river. His hair
stood on end when he knew the direction she took, and his every limb
felt paralysed. It was but a few seconds, but she gained on him, and he
saw he could not reach her in time.

"For God's sake, stop!" he cried, with the voice of horror; "you shall
never see me again."

But it was too late. He saw the white figure sink, and rise again
mid-stream. He was in after her, and reaching her, caught her by a
tress of her floating hair. She struggled violently to free herself
from his hand, and it could only have been the maddest despair that
gave her the power. But he kept fast his hold--it was all he could do;
and thus they were carried awhile, side by side, on the bosom of the
icy mountain stream. Taras felt his grasp grow weaker in his two-fold
struggle against the river and against the girl. A fearful picture
flashed through his brain; he saw himself and his loved one two corpses
washed ashore, old Stephen bending over them in sorrow. The pangs of
death seemed upon him, but he held fast the tress of hair, and with his
arm strove to keep himself and her afloat.

She yielded at last, her body floating as he pulled her; the power of
life seemed to have left her, and with a mighty effort he brought her
to land.

They were fearful days that followed. A burning fever ran its course in
the girl's body, but the sickness of her soul seemed more devouring
still. "I am dying--dying for shame!" she kept crying. "I love him--I
hate him!" But as the fever spent itself, the struggle of her heart
grew weaker. And at last she lay still, weary unto death, but saved,
and her mind was clear. She wept blessed tears, and suffered him to
touch her.

She suffered it, but did not return his caresses. "Taras!" she sobbed,
"do you despise me?"

"Despise you? Good God!" he cried, covering her hand with kisses.

"Ah, yes--but you might--you ought!" she wept. "No only, because----,"
a burning blush overspread her pallor. "But do you know why I struggled
so desperately when your hand was upon me in the river? I knew you
would hold fast, and I wanted to drag you down with me in death. Can
you forgive it?"

"Yes!" he cried, and his face shone.

"As sure as you wish your mother to be at peace in her grave?"

"Yes, Anusia!" he cried again.

"Then I may kiss you," she said, twining her arms about him.

That was their troth plight; and soon after they were married.

Thus the stranger had become the owner of the largest farm but one in
the village. Yet no one grudged him his good fortune; even Harasim
appeared to have submitted to his fate. And but rarely was there an
attempt at making fun of his garb; he had acquired their mode of
address, saying "thou" to young and old, but he could not be prevailed
upon to adopt the Huzul's dress. But no one disliked him for it, the
people had ample proof apart from this how faithfully he had adopted
the interests of his new home, and even if they did not openly confess
as much to themselves it was very evident he was benefiting them
largely. Without in the least thrusting himself upon them, or pushing
his views, this blue-eyed, quiet stranger in the course of a few years
had become the most influential man, even a reformer of the parish; in
the first place because of his ever helpful goodness, in the second
place because of the rare wisdom governing his every act.

But it was not without a struggle with himself that he came to feel at
home in his adopted village; everything here seemed strange at first,
and some things unheard of--their dress, their speech, their mode of
life, their food, the way they reared the cattle and tilled their
fields; nay, every domestic arrangement. A farmer should be able
to move his limbs freely; but these men did their ploughing and
threshing in tight-fitting breeches, in doublets that were the veriest
straight-waistcoats; and the breeches, moreover, were scarlet--perhaps
to delight the bulls they ploughed with. They wore their hair flowing,
and their beards were long; and no man of them was ever seen without
his array of arms. It quite frightened him to see them go tending the
cattle with the gun on their backs, or discourse with a next-door
neighbour axe in hand. "What on earth is this dangerous nonsense for,
with a passionate, easily-roused people?" Taras would ask himself. And
that such was their temper was shown by their very speech. In the
lowlands people, as a rule, speak measuredly, in well-ordered
sentences; but these men flung their notions at each other as though
every statement must leave a bump or cut upon the other's head.

Nor was this all: their ways in some things appeared to him past
conception. They seemed like grown children for carelessness, sending
their sheep or cattle into the mountains miles away, with only a lad or
two to mind them--was it in consideration of the prowling wolf and
bear? These visitors, indeed, were not slow in carrying off what
pleased them, whilst others of the scared cattle strayed into hopeless
wilds or came to grief in some rocky solitude. Less startling than this
manner of cattle-keeping was their agriculture; yet even this raised
Taras's wonder. Their ploughs were peculiar, and their seasons of
sowing, harvesting, threshing, all differed from his every experience.

A man of poorer quality would simply have shrugged his shoulders,
saying it was no concern of his. But Taras began to consider and to
compare, and it was quite a relief to his mind--nay, a joy to his
heart--to discover that, though much with them was peculiar, his new
neighbours must not just be looked down upon as fools. He understood
that the people of Zulawce had a good reason for setting about their
various field labours at other times than did the farmers of the plain.
It was because their seasons differed. And he perceived that the
Podolian plough, broad and shovel-like, was fit for the rich, soft
earth of the lowlands, but not for the stony, upland soil of Zulawce.
The people there, then, were right in substituting a strong, digging
wedge of a ploughshare, being unreasonable only in this--that they
would use this same plough for their low-lying fields by the Pruth,
where the earth was rich and yielding. It was much the same with their
manner of feeding. The Podolians have rye and beef; the Huzuls up in
their mountain haunts must be satisfied with oats and sheep. Now the
people of Zulawce just followed the Huzuls' example, although they
reared cattle, and could grow both wheat and rye. And, again, their
clothing was ill-adapted to their needs, and their carrying arms
uncalled-for and foolish, but it was neither more nor less with them
than simply preserving the habit of their upland neighbours. The Huzul
must carry his gun, for his life is a constant warfare with bears or
bandits. Now, at Zulawce things went more peaceably, but the
belligerent habit remained. This mixture of the reasonable and
unreasonable was most apparent in their ways with the cattle. It was
natural that they should keep their live stock on the hills, utilising
the land round about their village to its utmost agricultural
possibilities; but it was stupidly careless to provide neither fold nor
capable herdsmen. The Huzuls had no choice but to leave their flocks at
large for want of hands, an excuse which could not be pleaded at
Zulawce.

Now Taras was fully aware that these things could, and must, be mended,
but he also knew it would be hopeless to attempt convincing his new
neighbours of anything by the power of speech. On the contrary, advice,
however excellent, which cast a slur on their habits would be the
surest means of rousing both their anger and their opposition. So he
strove to teach them by the force of example, letting his fields be a
sort of model farm in their midst. And his strongest ally in this
silent labour of love was their own self-interest waking a desire of
emulating his gain. They watched him in the spring, they came to borrow
his plough in the autumn, and by the next season they had provided
themselves with a ploughshare like his. It was the same with other
things. They began to perceive it might be an advantage to see to the
safety of their grazing cattle, without much inquiring into their own
reasons for adopting a plan they had neglected or despised so far. And
Taras was the very last to remind them that they owed him any thanks,
it being to this man the fairest of rewards that his silent endeavour
should bear fruit.

But the recompense he coveted was not his in all things; he would find
himself baffled, yet he renewed his quiet conflict unwearyingly,
seeking to overcome that savage spirit of contention, that love of
avenging themselves, prevailing with the men of Zulawce. If two had
cause of quarrel it was a rare proof of moderation to allow the village
judge a voice in the matter. And whatever the object of contest might
be, a strip of land or a fowl, the stronger took possession. If the
other succeeded in ousting him, or if the judge managed to arbitrate,
it was well; if not, the stronger just kept his booty, and that, too,
was considered well. As for appealing to law, it appeared out of the
question; the far-off Emperor was welcome to his crown, but that any
appointed authority in his name should dispense justice at Colomea they
simply ignored. They would, indeed, have thought it an insult to have
to do with any magistrate--their very thieves were too good for that;
they would thrash the rascals and let them go. And as for their
relations with their count, it was a natural state of warfare, if not
with him personally, then with his steward or mandatar, old Gonta; and
shouts, of victory filled the air whenever they succeeded in wresting
from him the smallest tittle of his claims. That any mandatar ever
should attempt to worst them they had little fear, for did they not
carry axe and gun? But this state of things seemed utterly horrible to
Taras, whose course of life had taught him to look upon Justice as the
lode-star and centre of all things. He could not understand these men,
till he perceived that concerning their personal character also he must
seek explanation in the fact that they clung to the peculiarities of
the mountain tribe, be it in virtue or in vice.

The more he grew acquainted with the upland forest, and the more he saw
of the Huzuls, the better he learned to judge of his neighbours in the
village. Neither wealth, nor extreme poverty are known in those
pine-covered haunts; envy, therefore, in these solitudes has no power
to separate the hearts of men. Life goes hard with each and all
alike--privation, the inclemency of the weather, the wild beast, being
the common foes of all. The individual man makes a mark only in so far
as he has power to overcome these foes; hence a feeling of equality and
oneness, based upon the similarity of all. And whereas the people of
the lowlands once a week only, on Sundays and in their churches, are
taught to look upon men as equals in the sight of God, these
highlanders know of no other church but their own wide forest, in which
they bow the knee to no man, if ever they bow it to Him of whom they
vaguely believe that He dwelleth above. It is natural, therefore, that
they know of no difference of rank in men, using the simple "thou" to
each and all alike. Now the men of Zulawce were not so circumstanced;
some of them were masters, and some of them were serving-men; some knew
poverty and some knew wealth; but the spirit of the tribe continued
with them. A little envy, a little respect for riches, had found a
footing with them; but, nevertheless, a strong feeling of equality
survived, and they were too proud to cringe before any man; the rich
peasant was addressed as familiarly as the beggar. Their speech was
rough; but the feeling whence such roughness sprang was not in itself
despicable. And it was the one point in which Taras yielded his habit
to theirs, adopting their ways in this, at least, that he also said
"thou" to everybody, and was satisfied that from the judge to the
meanest of his own farm labourers all should say "thou" to him.

But it was not merely the pride of freedom, it was that inveterate
habit of avenging themselves in matters of right and wrong which had
come to them from the parent tribe. The Huzul is bound to fight for
himself. A man who any moment may meet some desperate outlaw in the
mountain wilds must be prepared to defend himself or perish. And not
merely in such cases the Huzul must be his own protector. Supposing two
men far up in the mountains, a hundred or more miles away from the
nearest magistrate, fall a-quarrelling over a strip of pasture-ground,
shall he who is wronged appeal to law? Granted he were willing to
undertake the tedious journey, it might be a year or more before some
law officer could put in an appearance up there for taking evidence on
the spot. Justice from her appointed centres cannot easily reach such
outlying regions. But supposing even a magistrate's verdict had been
obtained, what power on earth can force the loser to abide by it? The
Emperor's authority?--he barely knows his name, and the far-off majesty
is little enough to him--or coercion? But who is to take a body of
armed constables on impossible roads to the very heart of the
mountain-range, merely to make sure that a slip of pasture-ground for
the feeding of a score of sheep shall belong to Sfasko and not to
Wasko! Why, even if it could be done what were the gain? Sfasko,
indeed, might rejoice if the servants of the law had got there, for
Wasko would have the keeping of them, and Wasko must give up the
contested land. But no sooner than their backs were turned, Wasko, by
right of the stronger, would pay him out for it, turning Sfasko's
victory to defeat. Under such circumstances, then, and because no law
can be enforced there, it is natural that the children of the forest
should manage their own justice, each man for himself. But to Taras it
appeared a deplorable state of things that the more civilised peasants
of Zulawce should also require to fight for themselves. So he set about
an all but forlorn hope of reforming their minds, striving earnestly,
and making little impression save on his own suffering soul. Twice he
succeeded in persuading the quarrellers to submit their suit to Judge
Stephen's decision, and this only because the men in question had
benefited by his generous kindness and did not like to lose it. In most
cases he failed entirely; the people still anxious, perhaps, of
retaining his goodwill, would listen to him with some show of patience,
but took matters into their own hands nevertheless, calling him an
innocent lamb of the lowlands for not knowing that a bear had his paws
to use them.

But for all that, these contentious creatures had found out that the
"innocent lamb" was nowise wanting in manliness. They liked to take his
advice on general things, and elected him to the civil eldership as
years went on, which greatly added to his influence; and with might and
main he continued to strive for love of peace in the parish. Somehow or
other, the men by degrees did not fly to arms quite so readily,
perceiving that in most cases they did better to submit to Judge
Stephen, abiding by his decision, or rather by that of Taras; for the
judge, himself prone to wrath, would pass them over to the younger man
in order to save his own temper.

"You have introduced this nonsense here," he would say; "it is meet,
therefore, you should have the bother of it. 'Twere easier to settle if
they had come to blows first."

But Taras was only too glad to be thus "bothered," sparing neither
time, nor trouble, nor patience; and at such cost it was given him more
and more to convince the contending parties of the justness of his
judgments.

But so far he had succeeded only in little things. In matters of more
importance he was unable to prevent the shedding of blood--as, for
instance, when he that went by the name of Red Schymko fell out with
his brother Waleri concerning the right of pasturage on a certain
field. That was considered a great matter; and not till Schymko had
been maimed by a blow from Waleri's axe, in return for which he lodged
a bullet in his brother's thigh, did they permit the judge and elders
to have any voice in the matter. Judge Stephen and his coadjutors were
most anxious to pass righteous judgment, examining matters carefully;
but as their verdict could not otherwise than be in favour of the said
Waleri, it resulted in Schymko's marching his armed labourers to the
contested field by way of maintaining his claim. And the matter ended
in Waleri's yielding, leaving Red Schymko in possession after all.

It was concerning this business that Taras very nearly lost his
eldership by reason of a word of sensible advice. It was just before
the yearly election, when Schymko, with his labourers, had taken
possession of the field, that Taras said to him, "If you will not abide
by the judge's verdict, you can but appeal to the magistrates of the
district." "Go to law!" roared Schymko. "Go to law!" echoed the people,
as though Taras had advised the direst folly ever heard of. But they
took it seriously, and when, a few days later, it was a question of
readmitting him to the eldership, the general opinion was to the effect
that being honest and good was a recommendation certainly, but an elder
had need to be no fool! He was chosen, nevertheless; but even his
friend Simeon, to whose strenuous exertions his re-election was partly
due, could only say, "You see, he _is_ a lowlander--how should he know
any better?"

Such experiences made Taras more careful, but they could not discourage
him. He saw that even at best it would take the work of a lifetime to
lay a foundation of better things with these people. They must be
taught in the first place that the authority of their own judge should
be unquestioned. He took great care never again to hint at the
existence of law-courts, but to educate them up to the lesser point. He
gained ground, though very slowly. He could work for it patiently, for
had not good fortune smiled on him in all things besides, making his
own life pleasant at last and happy beyond many! His homestead seemed a
cradle of success, and the children his wife had borne him grew like
olive branches round about his table. There was not a cloud in his
heavens, and every good seed he had sown was like the grain on his own
fields, bearing fruit, some thirty, some sixty fold; surely this one
thing for which he laboured would yet come to be added to his golden
sheaf!

Returning home in the evening he would rest by the side of his faithful
wife, his little boy Wassilj upon his knee, and there was no greater
joy to him at such times than to glance back to his own early years and
to follow with the inward eye the growth of his life's happiness--a
struggling thing at first, but a strong tree now with spreading
branches, beneath which he and his might safely dwell. "It is no puny
seedling," he would say, looking about him with happy pride, "but even
like the strong pine that strikes root the deeper for having chanced
upon the hard and rocky soil where no man's favour helped to rear it,
and the sun of God's justice only yielded the light towards which it
grew!" And his prayer in those days was something after this fashion:
"Thou righteous One in the heavens who hast given me many things, if so
be that Thou wilt let me keep them, I have just nothing left to ask for
but this one thing: that I might teach these people, whom I have come
to look upon as my brothers, that Thy will is very beautiful because it
is just. There is this foolish old priest of ours always telling them
of Thy grace and never a word of Thy justice--how should they
understand their duties aright!" ... For himself in those days Taras
had nothing to ask for.

Such was Taras Barabola at the time when Mr. Wenceslas Hajek made his
entry at Zulawce--one of the happiest and most upright of men.




                              CHAPTER III.

                           THE RIGHT WRONGED.


It is often asserted that on meeting any one for the first time a voice
within will warn us of the good or evil to be the outcome of such
meeting. Now Taras had no such foreboding. The new mandatar had
impressed him rather favourably; but apart from this, his sense of
justice would oppose Judge Stephen's disparagement of the new bailiff.
"Our Count," he would say, "has come into his possessions by
inheritance, just as the Emperor has got his crown: and it is God who
gave them power, for there must be rulers upon earth. It is hard that
we should have to yield forced labour, but such is our lot, and it were
wrong of us to hate the mandatar because he looks after his master's
interest in claiming that portion of our work. He is but doing his
duty; let us do ours." The peasants did not gainsay him, especially as
Hajek on the coming round of the harvest expected neither more nor less
of them than his predecessor, Gonta, had done. The judge had gone to
him misgivingly, fully determined to fight his exactions; but there was
no need, and to his own surprise matters were arranged in a moment.

Not till the autumn, six months after Hajek's arrival, did a cause of
conflict present itself, when the tribute of the live stock fell due,
the arrangement being that on the day of St. Mary the Virgin each
peasant, according to his wealth, had to bring a foal, or a calf, or a
goose. Now the former steward had never exacted this tax to the day,
but was willing to receive it when the cattle had increase. The judge
and the elders would go to him and state when each villager might hope
to bring his due, and therewith the mandatar was satisfied. In
accordance with this, old Stephen, with Taras, and Simeon Pomenko, his
fellow elder, repaired to the manor house, the judge making his
statement.

Mr. Hajek listened quietly and blandly, and then he said, "On St.
Mary's day the tribute is due; if there were any arrears I should be
constrained to levy them forcibly."

"Mandatar," cried Stephen, flushing, "have a care how you interfere
with old usage!"

"It is an ill-usage."

"Ill-usage to go by the times of nature?"

"You should see that you are prepared."

"I see _you_ are prepared to give good advice," retorted the judge with
wrathful sarcasm; "perhaps you speak from experience! In your country
the cows may calve at a mandatar's pleasure, they don't do so here!"

Hajek changed colour, but not his mind. "It behoves me to watch over
the Count's interests," he said, slipping away to the safety of his
inner chamber.

The men went home in a state of excitement, the ill news spreading
rapidly through the village. Before long all the community had gathered
beneath the linden, angry speeches flying while old Stephen delivered
his report. "We must stand up for the time-honoured usage," he cried;
"and as to any forcible interference, let him try it! We have guns, and
bullets too, thank God!"

"Urrahah!" cried the men, brandishing their weapons. One only remained
quiet, one of the elders--Taras. He allowed the commotion to subside,
and then he begged for the word. "It comes hard upon us I own," he
said, "for it finds us unprepared! The old usage was reasonable and
fair, no doubt; but whatever of hardship any change may involve, we
must consider which way the right inclines--the written right I mean,
and I fear in this case it will speak for the Count."

"And who has settled that right," cried Stephen, hotly, "but the
Emperor's law-makers. What do they understand about cattle!"

"Little enough, no doubt," owned Taras, "but these same law-makers have
also made it a matter of writ that serfdom with us is abolished, and
that we peasants have rights which the Count shall not touch. If we
would enjoy the law's benefits, we must put up with its hardships."

"But where shall we get foals and calves all of a sudden?"

"Well, that we must see. I can provide some, and perhaps others of the
larger farmers are willing to do the same. Or I will lend the money to
any respectable man of ours that may need it if he can buy his foal or
calf elsewhere. This can be managed. The chief point is the right, and
that must be upheld for our own sakes, even where it goes against us."

He spoke quietly, firmly, and failed not to make an impression. The men
began to weigh the question more soberly, Taras's offer of assistance
going a long way with the less wealthy. There was none but Judge
Stephen holding out in the end. "You are sheep, all of you," he cried,
"following this great lamb, and you will be shorn, I tell you!" But
since the majority outvoted him even the judge had to yield.

And thus the tribute was delivered on the very day, at a heavy tax to
Taras's generosity; for while many could not have made it possible
without his proffered help, there were others who improved the
opportunity gratuitously, since he was so willing to step into the
breach. It was simply his doing, then, that by St. Mary's Day not a man
was in arrears.

Mr. Hajek was prepared to own this when Taras appeared with a foal on
his own behalf. "That was good of you, Podolian; I see it is you who
brought them to reason," said the mandatar, adding approvingly, "I
liked the look of you on our first meeting. I am glad I was not
mistaken!" Whereupon Taras bowed, but his answer was anything but a
humble acknowledgment of praise. "The right must be upheld," he said,
solemnly.

That was in September. About a month later Hajek sent for the judge and
elders, receiving them with his blandest smile. "After All Souls', and
throughout the winter, you owe me eight labourers a day for forest
work, do you not?" he said. "Well, then, make your arrangements and let
me have a list of the men I am to expect. On the morning after All
Souls' I shall look for the first eight to make their appearance."

"The forest labour certainly is due," replied the judge, "that is to
say, it was; but since all the timber has been cut, the obligation
dropped. Or are we expected to make new plantations now that winter is
upon us?"

"Certainly not," said Hajek, "but if the men are due to me, I may
employ them as I think fit. I have sold their labour to the forester of
Prinkowce."

"That is unjust!" exclaimed Stephen. "We owe forest labour to our own
count, and in his own forests only!"

Mr. Wenceslas pretended not to hear, picking up his papers and
preparing to retire. "So I shall look for the men on the morning after
All Souls'," he said and vanished.

"There will be bloodshed if you insist," cried Stephen after him, but
the mandatar was gone.

The men went their way perturbed.

"Well, Judge," said Taras, as they walked along, "this is hard. We must
try and advise the people justly, but to do so we must first examine
the documents in your keeping--I dare say his reverence will help us."

"Podolian!" cried Stephen, angrily, "leave us alone with your
suggestions! We want no documents to be looked into. It is a glaring
wrong, and if proof be needed"--he snatched at his pistol--"here it
is!"

Taras mused sadly. "Will you take any bloodshed upon your conscience?"
he asked quietly.

"Will your conscience answer for the wrong?" retorted the judge.

"Certainly not!" exclaimed Taras. "But in the first place there is but
one just means of redress if we suffer--the authority of the appointed
magistrates; and in the second place we must make sure which way the
right lies--we shall find out by examining the papers."

Stephen resisted to his utmost, but as Simeon also agreed with Taras he
was obliged to yield; he fetched the deeds, and the men called upon
their parish priest.

Now Father Martin was an amiable man, glad to leave things alone in
life--his favourite schnaps always excepted, with which he meddled
freely. And he was always ready to express his views, but his opinion
was apt to be that of his latest interlocutor. For both these reasons
he could after all throw no great light upon the matter, which was the
more to be regretted as the question left room for doubt, the
information contained in the documents amounting to this only: "The men
of Zulawce owe forest labour to their count."

"There you see!" cried Stephen, triumphantly, "to their count. What
could be plainer--and not to the forester of Prinkowce!"

"Of course not," assented his reverence, "how could the mandatar think
of selling your labour?--ridiculous!"

"Owe forest labour to their count," said Taras, meditatively. "If there
is no clause to limit the place, the Count _may_ be within the law if
he says: 'Having no forest at Zulawce of my own now, I sell the labour
which is due to me.'"

"Of course," cried the pope, "he has lost his forest, poor man, shall
he lose his profit besides?--ridiculous!"

"If he has no forest, he cannot expect us to work in it," objected
Stephen, doggedly.

"Naturally not," affirmed his reverence; "even a child can see that!
Where is the forest you are to work in?--ridiculous!"

"There is no lack of forest at Prinkowce," said Taras.

"No, no, plenty of it," declared the pope; "why, the place is covered
with woods, partly beech, partly pine. And, after all, I suppose it may
be pretty equal to you whether you do the work here or----"

"All honour to your reverence," broke in the judge, angrily; "but this
is just nonsense; your judgment, I fear, is awry with your schnaps."

And the amiable man adopted even this opinion, owning humbly "it was
Avrumko, that miserable Jew, with his tempting supply ..."

But the men went their way none the wiser for their shepherd's
willingness to solve their difficulty. Simeon upon this attempted to
reason with the judge, suggesting their applying to the magistrates for
decision. It was not without a real struggle with himself that old
Stephen at last gave in.

"To stand up for his right, and knock down the man who wrongs him, this
is the true Huzul way," he cried, passionately, "but if you will try
the law, like a coward, see what you get by it."

But here Taras held out. "No man can appeal to the law," he said, "but
he who is sure of his right. I am not! I cannot tell whether the right
in this case is on our side or not. And, therefore--God forgive me if
it is wrong, but I cannot otherwise--I shall propose to the people to
yield the forest labour at Prinkowce."

"You shall not, brother!" cried Simeon, urgently. "You shall not!
Remember that you are no longer a man of the lowlands. We men of
Zulawce love not to bend our necks."

Taras flushed. "Your taunt is not altogether just," he said, gently,
yet firmly. "True, we of Podolia are more peace-loving, even more
humble than you. It is because we have borne the yoke. But the feeling
of right and wrong is as strong with us as with most men, perhaps all
the stronger for the wrong we have suffered. You determine between
right and wrong with your reason only, we feel it with the heart. And
the right is very sacred to us."

"Then why not stand up for it now?"

"I would if I saw it. But my understanding is at a loss, and the voice
of my heart is silent. Therefore I cannot appeal to a decision by law,
but must counsel a giving in."

And so he did on the following Sunday, when the community assembled
beneath the linden. The men listened to him in silence, none dissenting
nor assenting. After him Simeon arose to propound his views; but when
the word "magistrate" had fallen from his lips their scornful shouting
interrupted him. "No lawsuit for us!" cried the men of Zulawce. At this
point the judge made up his mind to come forward with his opinion,
battling down his resentment at having been defeated before. Some
applauded, but most shook their heads. "Taras," they cried, "tell us
yet again _why_ you would have us give in." He repeated his reasons
slowly and distinctly. Again there was silence. It appeared uncertain
what decision the men would arrive at.

The judge prepared to put the question to the vote. "Men of Zulawce,"
he said, "it is your first duty to reject anything that must be to the
disadvantage of the community. Whoever of you agrees with Taras, let
him lift his hand." The majority did so. The judge did not believe his
eyes. This result was indeed surprising; not only had these men voted
against their own interest, but they denied the very character they
bore. The fact was that Taras's opinion had come to be gospel truth to
the village ever since his stepping so generously into the breach on
St. Mary's Day.

The old judge positively shed tears of vexation when he had to pass the
resolution arrived at, and at once declared his intention to retire
from office. It was the men's united entreaty only that prevailed with
him not to do so; but as for that rascally mandatar, he would not cross
his threshold again, he swore.

For this reason it fell to Taras to arrange with Mr. Wenceslas, and
give him a list of the men. Hajek made it an opportunity of patting
Taras on the back, saying approvingly, "Once again you have shown
yourself a capital subject." But this time Taras forbore bowing. He
retreated a step, fixing the mandatar with a look, and said, slowly,
"We are keeping our conscience clean; I hope you can say as much for
yourself, sir."

Winter wore on, and the forest labour at Prinkowce was yielded quietly
day after day; but the good understanding between old Stephen and Taras
seemed at an end. Their relations had steadily improved in those eight
years, since Taras had lived in the village as the husband of Anusia.
The old man by degrees had conquered his offended pride and the
disappointment of his dearest wishes. He had even learned to entertain
as warm a regard for the stranger as did most of the villagers. But his
friendship yielded to a renewed feeling of coldness after that public
voting. He never spoke to him now except on matters of business, and
then in the most cutting way he could command; it seemed hopeless to
attempt a reconciliation. "Taras is a good man," he would say, "and I
myself am answerable for his being among us. But he is wrong if he
expects us, bears as we are, to be as lamb-like as he is--very wrong,
for it is against our nature."

And the old man stuck to his opinion. Taras actually was not invited
when, about the middle of December, the men of Zulawce, headed by their
old judge, went hunting the bear in order to procure their Christmas
dinners. "Either he or I," Stephen had said, and Taras was excluded.
That hunting expedition is a regular high day and festival with the
Huzuls, in spite of, or rather on account of the danger it involves. It
generally spreads over three days, but on the present occasion the men
returned on the second day, sad and silent. They brought two giant
bears with them, it is true, but also a dying man. Judge Stephen, with
his wonted impetuosity, had pushed ahead too recklessly, his gun had
missed fire, and an infuriated brute had grappled with him. The bear
was shot, but not till the brave old man had received his death wound
in the bear's embrace, and it was a question whether he would reach the
village alive. "Make haste," he was heard moaning, as they carried him
home; "I must hot die on the road; I have yet a duty to perform in the
village."

They knew not what he meant, but understood when he begged them to stop
before the house of Taras, who came rushing from his door, and sank to
his knees, sobbing.

"Weep not," whispered the dying man; "but listen to me. You once saved
my life, you are the most upright man in the village, you have been the
best of husbands to my brother's child, and yet I have been wroth with
you. Not because you supplanted my hopes, I swear it; but because I
have at heart the welfare of this village. In this sacred cause I now
would speak to you. You will be made judge when I am gone--I cannot
hinder it, or indeed I would! Not because I hate you, but for love of
the village, and, ay, for your own sake, Taras! For it must end ill if
the judge, the leader of all, is of another caste than the men he
rules. It cannot be helped now. They will choose you, and you will
accept. But let me tell you one thing--be sure that among men in this
world it is exactly the same as with the beasts of the forest. The
stronger will eat up the weaker, the evil one will destroy him that is
good, the only question being that of strength. Whoever cannot fight
for himself is lost.... But you--you _will_ not understand--you cannot
believe it! I must be satisfied with that which you can understand, and
one thing you can promise. Hold fast by our rights; guard them against
the oppressor, and suffer not that the necks of free men be bowed to
the yoke. Give me your word that you will yield up peace rather than
the right, if it must be fought for."

He lifted his hand with a great effort, and Taras clasped it in his
own.

"It is well," said the dying man. "You will keep your word."

With a burst of wailing they earned the dead judge into his house. On
his face rested an expression of great assurance, born of the good
faith in which he had died. For never has promise been kept more truly
than that which was pledged to him as the shadows fell.




                              CHAPTER IV.

                         TAKING UP THE BATTLE.


Spring had returned upon the mountains. Some of the higher summits, it
is true, still wore their crown of snow, glittering now in the sunshine
of April; but the little village gardens of Zulawce were looking bright
with early flowers, and on the slope toward Prinkowce the graveyard had
burst into bloom where they had laid Judge Stephen to his rest. The
spot was carefully tended, and marked with a well-wrought stone cross,
as Taras had ordered, who was judge in his stead; for Harasim,
Stephen's only son, had not troubled himself about it: drink was doing
its work with him, and if his farm was kept in tolerable order it was
due simply to the care of his cousins, Anusia and her husband. Taras
had taken this burden also upon himself, though life pressed heavily on
his shoulders; for it grew more evident to him, day after day, that it
was no light thing to be judge of Zulawce while Wenceslas Hajek, as
Count Borecki's land steward, had power in the village. Again and again
the dying speech of Stephen rang in his ears.

As for the mandatar, he had rejoiced on learning that Taras had
succeeded the old judge; this gentle Podolian, who had always been on
the yielding side, seemed the very man for his plans. His fury
naturally was all the greater on discovering his mistake. The 'capital
subject' certainly never lost his temper or threatened violence, but
every unfair demand he opposed with an inflexible "No," which was all
the more effective for being given calmly, almost humbly, and fully
substantiated with good reasons. On one occasion, however, his
imperturbation was in imminent danger; Hajek had patted him on the
shoulder, saying, with a knowing wink: "Well, my good fellow, suppose
you allow me two labourers more; it shall not be your loss." Taras upon
this gave the rascal a look which took the colour out of his face, and
made him turn back a step, trembling.

From that hour there seemed enmity between the two, and the more the
one strove to encroach, the more the other met him with refusal. But
while Taras succeeded in maintaining a stern calm, the mandatar again
and again was seen foaming with rage. It was so upon a certain occasion
early in April, and for a trivial cause. Hajek was making a plantation,
and wanted the villagers to allow him a quantity of young trees from
their forest.

"We are not bound to yield that," said Taras, quietly.

The mandatar paced his floor, apparently beyond himself; but a
discriminating observer might have doubted the sincerity of his rage.

"Don't force me to take high measures," he roared. "Why should you
refuse me a few wretched saplings? I shall just take them, if you hold
out."

"You will do no such thing," returned Taras, as quietly as before.

"Do you think I am afraid of your guns and axes?" Hajek's words rose to
a shriek, as though he were half-suffocated with passion, but his eye
was fixed on the peasant's face with a watchful glance.

"No," said the latter, "I am thinking that there are magistrates in the
district. We shall never have recourse to violence, even if you should
make the beginning."

"This is palaver."

"I mean what I say," said Taras, drawing himself up proudly. "While I
am judge here, the men of Zulawce shall not take the law into their own
hands on whatever provocation.... But why speak of such things? The
trees you cannot have, so let me take my leave, sir."

"Go!" growled the mandatar, but a queer light transformed his features
no sooner than Taras's back was turned. "That is useful to know," he
said to himself with an approving smile. "This man is quite a jewel of
a judge.... No, there is no need to be wroth with you, my good Taras!
So, after all, my first impression of you was the right one!... Old
Stephen could never have had a better successor!"

But Taras, the judge, went home with a heavy heart. He had no thanks
for his battling, save in his own conscience; the men of Zulawce had
scarcely a word of acknowledgment. On the contrary, they considered him
far too yielding on many points; and, as they viewed matters, there was
truth in their charge. Severin Gonta and the late Count, for the sake
of peace, had not made good every claim to the very letter; but Hajek
demanded every tittle that was his by right of institution, granting
not an hour of respite, and foregoing not a peck of wheat; and Taras as
a matter of duty never opposed him in this. It was quite correct, then,
if the people said that the new judge insisted on their yielding all
dues far more strictly than any of his predecessors ever had done.
Indeed, it was only the love and respect he had won for himself in the
village that kept under any real distrust or open accusation. For he
was all alone in his work, no one helped him by explaining things to
the people, not even that shepherd of his flock whose duty it fairly
might have been. The reverend Martin sat on his glebe as on an isle of
content, all because of that strange man, Avrumko, who kept supplying
him so freely; and any sympathy he might have given was thus drowned.

But Taras continued bravely and hopefully, comforting his wife when her
courage failed. "The right must conquer," he would tell her; "and for
the rest, have we not an Emperor at Vienna, and God above?"

"But Vienna is far, and God in heaven seems further," said she,
disheartened.

"Not so far," cried he, "but that both will hear us if we must call for
redress. But things will not come to such a pass; even a mandatar will
scarcely dare to subvert the right and do violence."

He was mistaken. Hajek dared both. It was about a month after that
conversation concerning the trees. Taras in the early morning was in
his yard, giving orders to his two servants, Sefko and Jemilian,
concerning the sowing of the wheat, when he was startled by a dull
report, which quivered through the air, a second and a third clap
succeeding.

"Gunshots!" he gasped.

"Some one out hunting," said Sefko.

"No!" cried Jemilian; "it is near the river. Could it be 'Green Giorgi'
with his band?" referring to a notorious outlaw of those days, a
deserter, George Czumaka by name, who wore a green jerkin.

"No!" cried Taras, in his turn, and making for the road. "In broad
daylight he would never dare.... What has happened?" he interrupted
himself, changing colour. A young farm labourer, Wassilj Soklewicz,
came dashing along wild with terror.

"Help! help!" he shrieked. His clothes were torn, and he looked white
as death.

"What is it?" repeated Taras, seizing him by the arm.

"Help!" groaned the poor fellow. "They have just killed my brother
Dimitri!"

"Where? Who?"

"The mandatar ... on the parish field!" said Wassilj; continuing
brokenly: "We had gone there early this morning, my brother and I,
together with the two sons of Dubko, to work on the field as you told
us. We had taken our guns with us, intending to have a shot in the
afternoon. We had just put the oxen to the ploughs when the mandatar
arrived with a number of men, all armed. 'Get ye gone,' he cried; 'you
are trespassing on the Count's property.'"

"'Begone yourselves!' returned my brother Dimitri, seizing hold of his
gun, which he had laid down, we doing likewise. 'This field has been
parish ground time out of mind; I shall shoot any one that says the
contrary.'

"The mandatar at this fell back, but urged on his men from behind, and
they attacked us with guns and scythes. We sent our bullets amongst
them, and the foremost of the party, Red Hritzko, turned a somersault
and lay still on his face. One of us had hit him. But they also fired
their guns, and my brother fell, shot through the heart!... They were
too many for us, and they turned upon as with their butt ends. But we
got away!..."

The poor youth told his tale amid gasps and sobs, and before he had
finished a crowd of villagers had gathered. From their houses, from
their fields round about, the men came running, gathering about their
judge. Most were fully armed, and all were wildly excited; for the
parish field is sacred ground with every Slavonic community; he who
dares touch it is not merely an offender against their property, but
against their very affections; it is all but sacrilege in the eyes of
these men.

Taras also felt his soul upheave, but he conquered his wrath, knowing
the people. "If I lose self-possession," he said to himself, "blood
will flow in streams to-day!" So he faced the men, who were for
pressing on to the scene of the outrage. "Stop!" he cried, "we shall go
in a body! Call the elders and the rest of the men."

The command was scarcely needed, for they were coming, every man of
them, and the wives and the children. Wrathful cries filled the air,
the women wailed, and children shrieked with an unknown fear. The
mother of the young man who had been shot, a widow named Xenia, came
rushing along; she had torn the kerchief from her head, and her grey
hair fell in tangled masses round her grief-filled face. "Avenge my
child!" she implored the judge, clasping his knees.

He lifted her, speaking to her gently; and turning to Simeon and his
fellow-elder he ordered them to let the men fall in. "The heads of
families only," he said; "let the women and young men stay here!"

"Stay here!" shrieked Xenia.

"Yes, why?" shouted the excited people. "Let every one follow who is
able to lift a gun."

"My orders shall be obeyed," cried Taras, drawing himself up in their
midst. "I pledge my head that I shall do my duty!" These words of his
were like magic, the people yielded, and the procession formed.

But at this juncture Anusia pressed through the crowd, her youngest
child on her left arm, her right hand brandishing a musket. "Take it!"
she cried, offering it to her husband; "it is my father's gun and never
yet missed fire!"

"Go home, wife," said Taras, "this is not woman's business, I go
unarmed."

"Why? why?" yelled the people; but she caught him by the shoulder in
wildest excitement. "Taras!" she screamed, "let me not regret that I
was saved from the river! It is a man to whom I yielded, and not to a
coward!"

"For heaven's sake, woman," cried Simeon, aghast, "you know not what
you are saying!"

But she continued: "He who would have peace, since blood has been shed,
disgraces his manhood. Will you allow yourself to be killed without
striking a blow, lamb that you are?"

Taras stood proudly upright, but his face was livid, his eyes were
sunk. His breast heaved with the tumult within, but not a word passed
his lips. Thus silently he held out his hand, motioning the woman
aside, and she obeyed, confounded.

"Men of Zulawce," he said at last, slowly and distinctly, but with a
voice which, from its strange huskiness, no one would have recognised
as his, "I speak not now of the dishonour my wife has put upon me; I
shall do that by-and-by, in your presence likewise. But now I ask you,
will you obey me as your judge, or will you not? Once again, I pledge
my head that I shall do my duty!"

"We will," they cried unanimously.

"Then let us go." And the procession started, some sixty men, heads of
families, following Taras, who led the way with the two elders, Simeon
and Alexa Sembrow, his own successor.

The field in question, the common property of the community, was an
irregular square, sloping towards the river, its upper boundary being a
coppice which also belonged to the parish. A large black cross rose in
the centre.

On stepping from the coppice, through which their road lay, the
peasants could overlook the field at a glance. The mandatar with his
men had established himself by the cross; he evidently had hired
reinforcements, for they numbered some forty. At the lower end of the
field, by the river, two of his labourers were seen ploughing with a
yoke of oxen; another team stood ready for use by the cross. On the
upper part, near the coppice, lay the body of the slain youth,
evidently dragged thither by Hajek's men. But when the peasants beheld
the corpse, and the armed band below, their fury knew no bounds; a
thundering "Urrahah!" burst from them, and they pressed forward.

But Taras was before them, snatching at Simeon's pistol and turning it
against his own forehead. "Stop!" he cried with a voice that could not
but be listened to. "Another step, and I shall kill myself before your
eyes."

They fell back, hesitating; but they obeyed.

The mandatar's men meanwhile prepared for fight, Mr. Wenceslas himself
hiding behind them. He let his under-steward be spokesman in his stead,
a huge fellow from Bochnia, Boleslaw Stipinski, by name.

"What do you want?" roared this giant; "are you for fighting or for
peaceful speech?"

"We have come to defend our right," shouted Taras.

"Your wrong, you mean," retained Boleslaw. "But no matter, we stand on
our master's soil, and shall yield it only with our lives. Mr. Hajek is
prepared to affirm this to the judge and elders, if they will step
forward."

Taras was ready to parley, being followed by Simeon and Alexa. They
found the mandatar crouching on a stone, some of his men lifting their
guns behind him.

"Tell them to put away their firelocks," said Taras, quietly; "you need
not tremble like that; if it were for fight, we had been here sooner."

"Then you are peaceably inclined?" inquired Hajek.

"If you will own yourself in the wrong, offering some atonement for the
crime committed."

"And if not?"

"Then we must refer the matter to the court of the district."

The mandatar recovered himself; he even smiled. "Perhaps that will not
be necessary," he said. "You are a sensible law-abiding man, Taras, and
I daresay you will understand my view of the case quickly enough. You
know that in the days of the Emperor Joseph a survey of the property
was taken. I have the papers, and therein it is plainly put down: 'The
boundary of the parish field is marked by the coppice on the one side,
by the black cross on the other; beyond the cross as far as the river
the soil belongs to the Count.' So you see I am entitled to claim for
my master that part of this field which beyond a doubt is his."

"No," cried Taras; "for when the survey was taken, and until fifteen
years ago, the black cross stood close by the river, leaving a footpath
for the Count who has always had the fishing in the Pruth. When the old
cross was weatherworn the parish erected a new one in the centre of the
field. That, sir, is the plain truth."

"May be," returned Hajek, smiling. "I suppose that would be a question
for the magistrates to look into; in the meantime, I shall act upon the
evidence of my own eyes. It was natural that I should request the men I
found ploughing here to take themselves off. They fired their guns and
killed one of my men; what could we do but fire ours? and I shall keep
the two yoke of oxen to indemnify the Count for his loss. There, I have
done."

"But we have not," said Taras, solemnly, baring his head. "I call the
Almighty to witness that we are grievously wronged! And I protest that
we could never own you in the right! It is in obedience to our Lord the
Emperor, and in obedience to the law of God that we have refrained from
violence. But both the Emperor and the Almighty will see us righted!"

"Well done!" said the mandatar, with a sneer. "This is a finer flourish
than ever fell from the lips of Father Martin; the pope might fairly be
jealous of you!"

Taras felt outraged; but he repressed the reproof that rose to his
lips, and moved away in silence.

"Well!" cried the peasants when their leaders returned to them; "does
he yield? or will you permit us now to offer him proof of our right
after our own fashion?"

"No!" said Taras, "you shall follow me back to the village; we must
convene a public meeting. But, first, we must carry the dead man into
his mother's house, and you, Simeon, meanwhile, ask his reverence to
join us with the Host."

"But what if I find him incapable?" objected the elder.

"No matter, it will not affect that which is holy."

Within an hour the community had assembled under the shade of the lime
tree, outside the village inn. Father Martin, too, had arrived in full
vestments, carrying the pix. It being yet early in the day, the elder
was fortunate in finding him in his right mind.

But before Taras opened the meeting he had a domestic matter to settle.
His wife lay at his feet, and her repentance was as passionate as her
wrath had been.

"Trample upon me," she wept; "cast me from you, I have fully deserved
it!"

But Taras lifted her up--kissed her. "I forgive it," he said, "but not
again!"

And then he went to speak to the people: "There is not a shadow of a
doubt as to our right," he said, "and therefore the district court will
be on our side. Self-avenging yields tears and bloodshed only, and is
likely to leave us in the wrong. I shall start this very day for
Colomea to demand justice against the mandatar, and you shall swear to
me now that you will keep the peace while I am gone."

Father Martin elevated the Host, and the men, kneeling, took the oath.

By noon Taras had set out on his way. He had taken his best horse and
borrowed another on the road, but the distance being a good fifty miles
he could not reach the town before noon the following day. A courier
from the mandatar had forestalled him.

The district governor, therefore, Herr Ferdinand von Bauer, a
comfortable elderly gentleman, was not exactly pleased to see the
village judge, and would have none of his statements. "I know all about
it already," he said, "there is no need to repeat it." But Taras
insisted on substantiating his charge with fall particulars, which
appeared to differ from the account that had been rendered to the
governor. Anyhow this comfortable gentleman began to shake his head,
and to pace the floor of his office. At last he pulled up in front of
the peasant, examining his face. "Is this the truth you are giving me?"
he demanded gruffly.

Taras met his glance fully. "It is the truth," he said solemnly, "so
help me God!"

"Humph! humph!" was all the answer vouchsafed, and the governor again
fell to pacing the floor, till after a while he once more stood still
in front of Taras. "Be hanged, both of you!" he said amiably. "I mean
both lord of the manor and peasantry. Can't you ever keep the peace! A
nice thing to have to arbitrate between you by way of resting one's old
bones!" To be a district governor in Galicia, to his idea, plainly was
not a bed of roses. "Go back to your people," he continued more gently,
"I am unable to decide from a distance, but will send a commissioner to
take evidence on the spot. Meanwhile, you can bury your dead, since we
cannot bring them back to life, whatever we finally decide."

The judge returned quieted. The peace of the village had been kept, in
spite of the towering rage of the peasants at having to stand by and
let the mandatar till the field that was not his. The part beyond the
cross, which Hajek left to the villagers, was ploughed and sown
presently by Taras's men. "A man of the law will soon be here," he
comforted himself and others, "and then we shall be righted."

A fortnight had elapsed when the expected official made his appearance;
but this, unfortunately, did not mend matters. It was a certain
district commissioner, Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, called the "snake" by
his colleagues, which appellation fitted both his character and his
gait, for in the presence of a superior this man never did anything but
wriggle. He may have owed his advancement either to this peculiarity or
to the number of his years, since preferment went by seniority, but
never to his merits; for, whatever might be said of his cringing and
deceitful nature, it was impossible to say aught for his capability, or
even his desire of doing well. And having, moreover, a reputation for
being frightened at the shadow of a hen, not to say at the sight of an
infuriated peasantry, this commissioner plainly was the man for his
mission!

And he did not belie his fame. The question of murder he disposed of in
an off-hand way. "Both sides have had a man killed,"  he said, "let us
suppose that they are quits. I may presume they killed each other, and
since they are dead we cannot punish them; so that is settled." After a
similar fashion he decided the question concerning the field. "I find
the mandatar in possession for the Count," he said, "and he can prove
his claim from the title-deeds. I must, therefore, give judgment in his
favour."

"And if we had ejected him forcibly," cried Taras, bitterly; "if we had
not refrained from righting ourselves by means of bloodshed, _we_
should have found that possession is law?"

"Well, well," said Mr. Kapronski, trembling at this outburst, "I am
sure it is very praiseworthy that you did not have recourse to
violence. And I did not say that possession was law; indeed, it is not
always. The field may really be yours; in that case, you must just file
a suit and fight it out against the lord of the manor, leaving him in
possession meanwhile."

The peasants demurred, but Taras urged silence. "Is that all you have
come to tell us?" he inquired of the commissioner.

"Well, yes--certainly.... No, stop; there is something else. You shall
see how anxious I am to judge fairly. The two yoke of oxen which the
mandatar has seized shall be returned to you this very day. I have so
ordered it, for justice shall be done. But be sure and leave the Count
in possession; now do, or you will offend grievously."

He had jumped back into his vehicle, in a great hurry to be gone. He
considered he had done his duty, and drove away, greatly relieved to
see the last of these people with their battle-axes and guns.

Taras for some hours was disconsolate, but his faith in justice
restored him. He called together the people. "The right will right
itself," he cried. "I trust in God and believe in the Emperor. We must
go to law!"

But his influence seemed gone. "It is your fault," they exclaimed, "and
you must bear the consequence! We men of Zulawce carry a cause with gun
and axe, and not pen-and-inkwise. It is just your tardiness that lost
us half the field, we will not lose the other half by a law-suit. Or,
at least, if you will try the law, do so at your own expense."

"I am ready for that," said Taras. "A man standing up for the right
must not stop short of victory, even though he should be ruined in the
attempt."

Again he went to Colomea and called upon the district governor. But
Herr von Bauer turned on his heel. "We have done our part," he said
curtly; "if you are not satisfied there is an attorney in the place."

"I do not understand," replied Taras, modestly but firmly. "I want the
law to see us righted and is it not you who, in the Emperor's stead,
are here to dispense it?"

"You great baby!" snorted the governor. But good nature supervened; he
came close to Taras, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "Let me make it
plain to you," he said. "If you go and kill the mandatar, or if he
kills you, it will be my business to come down upon you with the law,
even if no complaint has been urged, for that is a crime. But if you
and your peasants assert that a field is yours, which the steward of
the manor has possession of we can only interfere if you bring an
action, preferring your complaint through an attorney, for that is a
matter in dispute. Now do you understand? if so, go and instruct your
lawyer. Do you take it in?"

"No," said Taras; "the right surely must be upheld, whether life or
property be touched; and to the men of Zulawce that field is as sacred
as my life is to me. Is not justice in all things the world's
foundation? and does not he who disregards it wrong the very law of
life! Can it be the Emperor's will that such wrongdoing is not your
business?"

"Dear! dear!" groaned the magistrate; "have I not always said, it's a
precious business to be a district governor in Galicia? Why, you are
just savages here--no notion of how the law works! But you don't seem a
man to be angry with, so begone in peace."

Taras quitted the office, standing still outside. Disappointment and a
sense of personal injury surged up within him with a pain so vivid,
that he had to wrestle with it for fear he should burst into a shriek
like some wounded animal.

But he recovered himself and went to seek the lawyer. He soon found
him--Dr. Eugene Starkowski--a sharp-witted attorney, who at once caught
the gist of the matter. He shook his head. "It was foolish," he said,
"to move a landmark! But I will see what I can do for you."

"How soon can we expect a decision?"

"Some time in the autumn."

"Not before!" exclaimed Taras.

"No, and you will be lucky if more of your patience is not required. It
will not be my fault, but you see the gentlemen of the court like to
take it easy."

"Take it easy!" echoed Taras, as one in a dream, staring at the lawyer
in helpless wonder. "Take it easy!" he repeated wildly. "Oh, sir, this
is not right! Justice should flow like a well which all can reach, for
it is hard to be athirst for it."

Starkowski looked at the peasant, first with a kind of professional
interest only, but with human sympathy before long. He smiled--"I will
really do my best for you," he said, and his voice was that of a man
comforting a grieving child.

And he did his best, using his every influence to expedite the matter.
In most lawsuits at that time in Galicia six months would slip away
before even a writ was served upon the defendant, but Mr. Hajek, in the
present case, received his within a week. To be sure, he was entitled
to a three months' delay to get up his defence, and he availed himself
of it to the day--for what purpose, the poor peasants presently had
reason to suspect. On the very last day of the term allowed to him he
sent in his reply, pleading in exculpation the reasons he had given to
Taras, and demanding in his turn that a commission should be appointed
for the examining of witnesses on the spot.

Taras's counsel was not a little surprised. To examine the peasants
upon their oath was the one means within the reach of the law for
arriving at the truth concerning the alleged removing of the cross
which marked the boundary. It plainly was in the mandatar's interest to
prevent this if possible, and to take his stand on the ocular evidence
in his favour, as given in the title deeds. Strange that he should
propose the very means of settling the contest which of all was most
likely to go against him! Dr. Starkowski could not make it out. "He is
a fool," he thought, "unless, after all, he is sure of his claim, or,
indeed, has bribed his witnesses." And both conjectures appeared to him
equally unlikely, the former because of the solemn soul-stirring manner
with which Taras had invoked his help; the latter because of the good
opinion Mr. Wenceslas enjoyed in the district town. For his Parisian
antecedents were not known there, and society had admitted him to its
bosom as an amiable gentleman of irreproachable character.

But since both parties were ready to be put upon their oath, there was
nothing else to be done. And the same genius of justice who in the
spring had so capably decided that there was no one to be accused of
murder, was despatched in the autumn to act for the civil law.

"Examine matters carefully, Mr. Kapronski," said the district governor;
"take the depositions of every individual witness, impressing them with
the sanctity of the oath. Go into the case thoroughly--there is no
danger to yourself--and be sure not to hurry it over."

The commissioner, with an obsequious wriggle, departed on his mission.
"The old fool," he said, when seated in his vehicle, "as though it did
not depend on a man's sagacity much more than on his taking time! I'll
see through the business in less than two hours, I will."

He was expected at Zulawce, and all the community had turned out to
receive him--men, women, children, not to forget Father Martin, who,
let it be said of him, for once had eschewed his favourite solace, and
was perfectly sober. Mr. Hajek, too, had arrived, followed by the
gigantic Boleslaw and a number of labourers on the estate. The
commissioner drew up amongst them, and alighting beneath the village
linden, called for a table from the inn.

"That is the first of my requirements," he said to the mandatar; "the
second I have brought with me," pointing at a puffing clerk, who was
seen descending from his seat by the coachman, with a huge parcel of
red-taped foolscap and an inkstand large enough to bespeak the
importance of the proceedings. "The third requisite," continued the
commissioner, "a crucifix, no doubt these good people can provide."

They procured one from the nearest house. It was placed upon the table.

"To add to the solemnity," whispered the clerk, "two burning candles
..."

"No need," interrupted the commissioner. "I myself will be a light to
their understanding." But his voice, as he turned to the people,
quivered with anxiety. "I have come," he said, "to find out where the
black cross, now in the centre of the so-called parish field, may have
stood sixteen years ago. This is all the evidence I care for. So
whoever of you has no testimony to offer on this head may take himself
off--have the goodness to retire, I mean!"

A few labourers from the lowlands only obeyed this injunction, no one
else moving. All eyes were fixed on him, such proceedings, indeed, not
being an every-day spectacle.

"It is alleged," resumed Mr. Kapronski, "that the cross in question was
removed from its formed position fifteen years ago. Now, those only can
affirm or deny this who were not children at the time. I will listen to
no one, therefore, who has not passed his thirtieth year. I mean, all
that are younger, I will ask them kindly to retire."

No one stirred. Kapronski looked about with an uncertain gaze. Happily,
Taras came to the rescue.

"Have you not understood?" he cried, with far-reaching voice. "Whoever
has not reached his thirtieth year is not wanted."

It sufficed. First the girls ran away, followed by the women and
children, the young men leaving reluctantly. Some two hundred of the
villagers were left, forming a dense crowd round the table.

"And now, listen," continued the commissioner. "Whoever has no clear
personal recollection where the cross stood sixteen years ago, let him
lift his right hand."

Only two hands were lifted--those of the leaders of the contending
parties. "I came to the village eighteen months ago," said the
mandatar. "And I ten years ago," said the judge.

"Never mind!" cried Kapronski, hastily. "Please stay; these men
might----" he surveyed the stalwart assembly with evident
embarrassment, and then added, "you have a right to watch the
proceedings! Please, Mr. Mandatar, step to the right of the table; and
you, Mr. Taras, to the left."

"Now then, listen!" he repeated, addressing himself once more to the
people. "Whoever of you remembers for a certainty that sixteen years
ago the black cross stood where it now stands, in the centre of the
field, let him step to the right, taking his place beside Mr. Hajek.
But whoever, on the contrary, is sure of recollecting that the cross
sixteen years ago stood by the river and was removed thence to its
present place a twelvemonth later, let him step to the left side,
joining your judge."

The division took place amid ominous growls, which broke into
exclamations of unbounded wrath and indignant imprecations when the
opposing parties stood facing each other. "You curs!" cried the
peasants, brandishing their axes. For not only was the mandatar
supported by the labourers and farmers of the manorial estate, but,
contrary to all expectation, some of the villagers had gone to his
side--drunkards and others of low character. Now, whatever these might
be thought capable of, no one had given them credit for such open
treason against the community--the very worst of crimes in the eyes of
those people, to whom no bond is more sacred than that between man and
man for the common weal. And what carried their disgust to its height
was the fact that the son of their own old judge had joined the enemy.
Harasim Woronka, too, had taken his place beside the mandatar, not won
over by bribery like the rest of them, but by his own thirst for
revenge: it seemed an opportunity for crushing the hated stranger.
Harasim was fast going to ruin, and in his fuddled brain the thought
kept burning: "If it were not for Taras I might be judge this day,
besides being Anusia's husband and the richest man of the village." And
whatever benefit he had received at the hands of the noble-hearted
stranger had been like oil to the fire of his hatred. Too cowardly for
an open act of revenge, he had lent a willing ear to the tempter coming
to him in the guise of Boleslaw; but what little good was left in his
degraded soul must have pleaded with his conscience even now, for he
stood trembling visibly.

"You miserable woman of a man!" roared the insulted peasants; "you
disgrace your father in his very grave!" Harasim grew white, his hands
clutching the air like a drowning man, for not a more terrible reproach
can be offered to a child of that race. Indeed, he would have owned his
wickedness there and then by returning to the ranks of those to whom he
belonged by kinship and destiny, had not Boleslaw interfered, seizing
the wavering object with his huge hand and holding him tight.

"Murder!" roared the peasants, making an onslaught against the giant.
It seemed as though the fury of bloodshed were let loose.

The three men by the table looked upon this scene with greatly
differing sensations. The commissioner had grown ashy, being ready to
swoon. Mr. Hajek, on the contrary, quivered with elation, but strove to
hide his sense of victory beneath a mask of aggrieved consternation,
saying to the representative of the law: "There, now, is it not almost
impossible to maintain one's right with such people?" The virtuous
creature would have felt doubly elated had one of the uplifted axes
silenced Harasim for ever.

But that, to his disappointment, was prevented by the resolute and
magnanimous courage of Taras, the judge. The treachery of Harasim had
hurt him more than any of the others; but for a moment only did he
yield to his feelings, duty coming to his rescue and making him strong.
"Forbear!" he cried, with powerful voice. "Forbear," echoed the elders,
and with them he faced the enraged peasants. They fell back, leaving a
space between the two parties.

Kapronski kept shaking and quaking; his blanched lips opened and shut,
but they framed not a sound. Luckily for him, an incident--partly
ludicrous, but in truth most sad--at this juncture diverted attention
from his own miserable self; for, when the parties once more stood
facing each other, they perceived what had escaped their infuriated
senses before, that one man had not joined either side, but was left
standing in the middle--the village pope, Martin Sustenkowicz. Nor did
the shepherd of Zulawce at this moment look like the happy peacemaker
between his belligerent parishioners, being too plainly of a divided
mind, and dolefully unsettled.

"Why, your reverence," cried the under-steward, "what are you about!
Did you not swear to me yesterday that the mandatar was in the right?"

"Ah--hm--yes--yesterday!" stammered the pope, with a dazed look at the
peasants, and taking an uncertain step to the other side.

"Stop! not this way, little father!" broke in Alexa, seizing him by his
caftan; "did not you tell me this very morning: 'The field is yours
most certainly, for with my own hands I consecrated the new cross
fifteen years ago'?"

"Hm--ah--yes--consecrated!" groaned the poor man helplessly, a
distracted figure in their midst. The mandatar took pity on him.

"Move this way," he said, with wicked sarcasm, "there is room behind
the table right away from the contending parties. We have no candles to
solemnise the scene, let the light of your countenance make up for it,
illumining this crowd of witnesses."

The commissioner meanwhile had partly recovered, and had found his
voice, though a husky one. "I must administer the oath," he said, "for
you have given evidence by taking your position either on this side or
on that. Let any one who cannot swear to his deposition show it by
lifting his hand."

Not a finger moved.

Kapronski gasped. He was anxious to get over the business, but this
state of things seemed to force from him some kind of exhortation. "My
good people," he cried, "why, perjury is no joke! There's a Judge in
heaven you know, and--hm--I mean--_we_ punish any one convicted of
swearing falsely. And--it seems plain--only one of the parties can take
their oath honestly. So do consider, I entreat you! Now then--which of
you cannot--hm--ought not, to swear?"

But his well-meant speech fell flat. The only witness whose hand seemed
to make an upward movement, Harasim Woronka, let drop his arm when the
overpowering Boleslaw whispered in his ear: "Wretched coward, shall
Taras rejoice after all?"

The commissioner wiped his brow--this was more than he dared report to
his superiors. "Unheard of case!" he groaned, turning to the mandatar.
"Hadn't we better get the priest to speak to the people?"

"By all means," replied Mr. Hajek, with his most pious mien; "I have no
doubt he will vastly influence the sleeping conscience."

But Taras shook his head. "Mr. Kapronski," he said, "it is a sad thing
for people to be shepherded as we are. You see with your own eyes what
manner of man he is. But we poor peasants have no voice in the matter,
we can only strive to reverence the holy things, if we cannot reverence
him who dispenses them. Therefore we try to avoid anything that must
lower him in our eyes, for it is not well when the people are given
cause of mockery. Nay, it is not well, God knows! Judge for yourself,
sir, would it be fit to let him speak to the people at this solemn
moment? For is not an oath an awful thing, terribly awful?"

Kapronski breathed, relieved. Were not the peasants the accusers in
this matter? If they, then, were satisfied to have no further
exhortation, he was not accountable for any consequences. He stepped
forward. "I put you all upon your oath," he said, baring his head, and
every one present followed his example. And having once again stated
the matter to be sworn, the peasants, one after another, passed in
front of the crucifix, giving their names and lifting three fingers of
their right hand, saying: "I swear." But the mandatar's party after
them, to a man, took the oath likewise. It was done quietly and
quickly.

The commissioner pulled out his watch. "An hour and forty minutes," he
said, triumphantly. His vehicle had stood by in readiness. He mounted
at once, and quitted the village with all possible speed.




                               CHAPTER V.

                         THE WRONG VICTORIOUS.


Autumn, as a rule, is by far the most pleasant season in the Galician
highlands. The winter there is long, dreary, and trying; the spring
cool, and all too short; the summer exceedingly hot, and liable to
thunderstorms almost daily. But in the autumn Nature wears a genial
face in the uplands, with a delicious continuance of sunshine, when the
airy dome is scarcely ruffled by the breeze, and wondrously clear; day
succeeding day of this gentle splendour till late in November
sometimes. Not so, however, in the year we are speaking of. In that
season the birds had left early for their southern haunts, the earth
looking bare and cheerless all of a sudden; the sun had hidden within
heavy clouds, and the whirling snowflakes were at their chill play
before September was well out. Brighter days once more supervened, but
they were bitterly cold, ushering in a fresh fall of snow and a dismal
twilight of the heavens, which seemed determined to last.

The people sat gloomily by their firesides, growing the more alarmed at
this early show of winter as they listened to the tales of the old folk
among them, who remembered a similar season in their youth--the winter
of 1792--which was a terrible visitation in that country, beginning as
early as the present one. In that year the cold grew so intense that
men scarcely ventured outside their cottages, because every breath they
drew went like daggers to their lungs, and their limbs were benumbed in
the space of a few minutes, so that even in trying to get from one end
of the village to the other some had been frozen to death. And the snow
drifted in such masses that the dwellers in the glens were hopelessly
shut up, some actually dying of starvation. Thus ran the terrible tale;
but the old folk at Zulawce were like old people everywhere, and the
dread experience of their youth grew in horror with the receding years.
The spectres of fear roused by these memories kept glaring at men and
women within the lowly cottages.

Distress and suffering seemed at hand; and the poor were the poorer for
the loss of the common field, the produce of which would have yielded
them a welcome share. But more than this, the harvest had failed in
part, and the cold overtaking the land so early threatened to destroy
the winter crop. Thus the future was as clouded as the present, and
want might be looked for. Had such trouble befallen the men of the
lowlands they would have borne it sadly and meekly, bowing their heads
before the Lord of the seasons. But not so the defiant natures at
Zulawce, questioning their fate indignantly, and looking about for one
who might bear the brunt of their anger; for, with the strong,
affliction is apt to blaze forth in wrath. Their scapegoat was easily
found; for who else should be to blame for the loss of that field if
not Taras, their long-suffering judge!

Grievous days had come to him, and he would not have known how to bear
his burden, but for the conviction upholding him that the decision of
the court could not long be delayed now. This alone gave him the
strength to continue his sorrowful duty day after day. The mandatar
pitilessly went on grasping at every pound of flesh he might claim; the
community either could or would not yield it. If Taras tried to reason
with them to submit to the forest labour, which again had been sold,
they retorted it was not their duty, and even he might know now what
came of being too docile towards a rascally land-steward! Besides they
had not the strength for it now, they said, half-starving as they were;
and but for him the produce of that field by the river might now be
safely stored in their granaries. And on his replying that, in that
case, he must discontinue his office, they said scornfully their little
father Stephen had been a judge for fair days as well as foul; it was a
pity that he was gone, since his successor evidently was not like him
in this. And Taras felt this taunt far more deeply than even the
passionate appeals of his wife. He resolved to see the matter to its
end; and, since there seemed no other means, he had the required forest
labour done by his own men, or by others willing to work for his pay.

"We can afford it," he consoled his more prudent wife, "and if I thus
step into the breach for the parish it is not as though I took it from
the property which you have brought to me, since I have added to it
honestly by my own diligence. And I shall have a right to expect
indemnification when better days shall have come round. God surely will
see to our being righted, and He will lessen the burden we now have to
bear. Besides, a verdict must reach us before long, and there cannot be
any doubt but that the court will see that the village has been
wronged."

The verdict, however, was still delayed. Week after week passed amid
suffering and dejection, and Christmas to the villagers brought nothing
of its own good cheer. For the grim snowstorms continued, and if at
intervals the skies would brighten, it was only to usher in still
sharper frosts.

It was on the Epiphany of 1837 that the rigorous cold unexpectedly came
to an end. Quite early on that day the people had been waked from their
sleep by strange noises in the air, and rushing from their houses, were
met by an unwonted warmth. It was the south wind so ardently longed
for. It did not blow long enough to bring about any melting of the
snow, folding its merciful wings all too soon; but the terrible cold
nevertheless appeared to have received its death blow, the temperature
not again sinking much below freezing point.

And in happy mood old and young that morning went to church; men even
who had been sworn enemies for years would look at each other
pleasantly at the welcome change. Taras also beheld brighter faces, and
heard kinder words than had fallen on his ear since the sorrowful
springtime. Indeed, so strong and general was the feeling of relief and
of gratitude due to the Almighty, that even the pope was seized by the
wave and carried to a shore of contrition he had not reached for many a
year. Mass had been read, and the people were about to depart, quite
accustomed to the fact that Father Martin, on account of his own sad
failing, would excuse the sermon; but they were startled by his request
to resume their seats, and he actually mounted his pulpit. Poor man, he
could not give them much of a discourse, but such as it was it lent
expression to their own feelings, and could not fail to touch their
hearts.

The people, who were in a good frame of mind, after church gathered in
groups outside. There was the weather to be talked about, and the
sermon, and the lawsuit; concerning the latter, some of those even who
bore Taras the deepest grudge were heard to say, "Who can tell but that
it may end well after all."

And the most cheerful was Taras himself. He moved about from group to
group, kindly words passing to and fro. "Let us trust God," he kept
saying; "He has dispelled the fearful cold; at His touch the wrong,
too, will vanish. My heart tells me so! The verdict cannot be delayed
much longer, we may even hear of it before the day is out."

These words had scarcely fallen from his lips, when that happened
which, however frequent in fiction, is rare enough in actual life--his
expectation was realised there and then. Up the road from the river a
sledge was seen advancing, driven by a peasant and carrying, it
appeared, a large bundle of fur-rugs. No human occupant was visible
when the vehicle stopped amid the staring peasantry, but the rug-bundle
began to move, throwing off its outer covering, a bear-skin; a
good-sized sheep-skin peeling off next, revealing as its kernel a funny
little hunchbacked figure, an elderly townsman rather shabbily clad. He
rose to his feet, inquiring, with a great deal of condescension: "My
good people, is the judge of this village anywhere among you?"

The stalwart peasants laughed at the puny creature, and even Taras,
moving up to the sledge, could not repress a smile. "And what do you
want with him?"

The stranger pursed his mouth; his hand dived into his pocket and
produced an alarming pair of spectacles, which he put upon his
shrivelled nose, plainly desirous of adding dignity to that feature,
and then he said slowly, almost solemnly, "A man like you should say
'your worship' to me! I am Mr. Michael Stupka, head clerk of Dr. Eugene
Starkowski."

Taras shook from head to foot, and clutching the man, he stammered,
"You have come to tell as the verdict! you have got a letter for me!"

And all the peasants pressed round them. "Ah!" they cried, "we have got
the field back, no doubt!... Long live Taras, the judge; he was right
after all.... But do read us your letter."

The terrified clerk all this time endeavoured to free himself from the
iron grasp that held him as in a vice. "Stand off!" he groaned. "I have
brought you the verdict--yes; but ..." He faltered.

Taras grew white. Hardly knowing what he did, he, with his strong arm,
lifted the little man right out of the sledge, putting him down on the
ground before him. "No," he said hoarsely, "it cannot be! The verdict
surely is in our favour?"

"Why, dear me, can _I_ help it?" wailed the dwarfish creature. "Are you
savages here, or what! Ah, you are strangling me ... it is not _my_
fault, I am only a clerk and of no consequence whatever ... I assure
you! And Dr. Starkowski tried his best. Moreover, the matter need not
rest here; don't you know that there is such a thing as an appeal?"

But Taras evidently did not take in this hint any more than he had
understood the preceding words. One thought only had laid hold of him,
and he reeled like a stricken man. "Lost!" he groaned hoarsely, the
ominous syllable being taken up more shrilly by the peasants, who
pressed closer still.

The clerk, meanwhile, had produced the documents of which he was the
bearer, the one being a writ of the court, the other a letter of Dr.
Starkowski's. "There!" he cried, thrusting them under Taras's nose.

Taras was striving to regain his composure. "We are usable to read
writing," he said, gasping. "You must tell us what the lawyers have got
to say. To whom have they adjudged the field?"

But Mr. Stupka did not feel it prudent to answer this question right
out. He broke the official seal, putting on a look of the greatest
importance. "With pleasure, good people," he said condescendingly,
"with pleasure! I'll read it to you, and translate it presently into
plain language. The legal style, you know ..."

But Taras interrupted him. "To _whom_?" he repeated, more emphatically.

"Well, I should say," stammered the luckless clerk, "I should say ...
to the lord of the manor, so to speak."

"It is a lie," shrieked Taras; "it cannot be!" But the peasantry
veering round, cried scornfully: "Did we not tell you that going to law
is a folly? You have done it now!"

Utterly beside himself with the passion of his disappointment, the
judge clenched his fists and set his teeth in the face of the mocking
crowd, but the two elders laid their hands on him gently. "Do not give
way," begged the faithful Simeon, "try and bear the blow; let us hear
the verdict first, and then we will consider what next can be done."

The clerk spread out the document. "In the name of the Emperor!" he
began, translating the somewhat lengthy preamble. The villagers loyally
had pulled off their caps; Taras only thought not of baring his head.
Simeon endeavoured to remind him, but the judge shook him off. The
honest man looked at him doubtfully, and receded a step. The others did
not notice it, too intent upon the verdict.

It was a long piece of legal rhetoric, substantiating every statement
with a flourish of evidential reasoning, in the German language, which
in those days was the medium for judicial transactions throughout that
conglomerate of Babel-tongued countries going by the name of Austria.
It was no easy undertaking to translate the strangely intricate periods
of official verbosity into the simple vernacular of the listeners; but
Mr. Stupka, being as clever as he was small, contrived to make himself
understood. The verdict amounted to a dismissal of the case, because
the plaintiffs could not bring forward sufficient proof to uphold their
claim. The description of the field in the title deeds, it said, was in
favour of the party in present possession, and if a number of witnesses
upon their oath had given contrary evidence, their testimony was
invalidated by counter-evidence upon oath likewise. It was not the
court's business in civil cases to start an inquiry whether false
witness possibly had been tendered; it was rather the duty of the court
to decide which evidence weighed heavier in the scale, and the balance
had inclined in favour of manorial rights. It seemed strange, also,
that the village judge, as had been reported, should have opposed the
exhortation of the witnesses by means of the pope....

Up to this point Taras had listened in silence and motionless, but now
a shudder ran through his body, and he clenched his fists. "Ye adders,"
he panted; "ye deceitful adders!"

"Bear it," whispered Simeon, entreatingly, putting his arm round his
reeling friend. But Taras scarcely needed the admonition as far as
keeping silence was concerned, for his eyes closed; he seemed on the
point of swooning.

And moreover, the clerk continued, it was a fact that among those who
had given their oath in favour of the manorial claim had been several
heads of families of the village, men, therefore, who tendered witness
against their own interest. Such evidence could not easily be set
aside. Considering all these points, therefore, the case was dismissed,
the plaintiffs to bear the costs, as was meet and just.

"Just!" echoed the men in savage scorn, Taras alone keeping silence.
His hand went to his heart suddenly, he staggered and fell heavily, as
a man struck by lightning.

For hours he lay in a swoon. They had carried him into his house; but
neither the lamentations of his wife, nor their united endeavours to
restore animation seemed to penetrate the dead darkness that had fallen
on his soul. And when at last he opened his eyes his words appeared to
them so utterly strange that they were more frightened still. "The very
foundations are giving," he kept crying, "the holiest is being dragged
low!" And he, in whose eyes no one ever had seen a tear, was seized
with a paroxysm of weeping. He bemoaned his terrible fate, and between
his sobs he called for his children, to take leave of them, he said.
And he repeated this request so urgently that they could but humour
him. It was a pitiful scene, and one after another the neighbours went
away shudderingly, Simeon Pomenko only watching through the night by
the sufferer's couch. But in the village the news spread that the
judge, for sorrow, had gone out of his mind.

Not till the following morning did this piece of information come to
the ears of the mandatar, Mr. Hajek having spent the night at Zablotow,
playing at cards with the officers of the hussars. His under-steward,
Boleslaw, impatiently lay in wait against his return, never doubting
but that the news would fall on delighted ears, and he was not a little
surprised at the mandatar's evident dismay, Nor was this put on; for
the Count, still enlarging his acquaintances at Paris, had, through his
friends the usurers, got introduced to their solicitors, and Hajek knew
he must send him the wherewithal to stem the scandal of a prosecution,
whatever he might wish to keep back for himself. So money, more than
ever, was the need of the moment; and having succeeded in one
villainous trick, he might hope to develop his talents for the further
fleecing of the peasantry, and it was highly important, therefore, that
the community should be represented by a judge who, at the risk of
whatever loss to himself, was bent on keeping the people from offering
violence.

"Gone out of his mind? Dear me, I _am_ sorry," he said, honestly too.
"But I daresay report has exaggerated the fact. He may have had a blow,
but I do not believe he is the man to go mad. Go to his wife and tell
her, with my compliments, that I shall be pleased to send for the best
doctor at Colomea at my own expense."

The man hung back. "I am no coward," he said presently, "and I think I
could face any dozen of the peasants, if you wished it. But as for this
woman--sir, do you know she is a regular Huzul, quite a spitfire of a
temper--and a man after all has only one pair of eyes to lose!"

The mandatar did not care what risk these optics might run; the man had
to carry his message. He was relieved, however, on entering the judge's
house. The two elders, Simeon and Alexa were with the sufferer, and he
appeared to be listening to their words. The storm had not yet subsided
which tore his soul, and threatened to change the very drift of his
being. He who his life long had stood like a rock against the surges of
trouble, who had won happiness and prosperity through steadfast
endurance, was sobbing and wailing like a child, and his friends could
not but tremble for his reason as they heard his pitiful plaints. "I
have striven to pass my life in honour," he would moan, "and now it
must end in shame! And what of my poor children, since I have no choice
but to follow the dictate of my heart?"

He saw the under-steward enter cautiously, and his pale face grew
crimson at the sight. Simeon rose hastily to send away the unwelcome
visitor, but Taras interfered. "Glad to see you, friend Boleslaw!" he
cried, cuttingly. "What good news has brought you hither?"

The giant delivered his errand, stammeringly.

"Send for a doctor--indeed--at his own expense!" repeated Taras. "Well,
I did not require this proof to tell me that the mandatar is an honest
man!" And therewith he closed his eyes, lying still like a sleeping
babe.

Boleslaw paused. "Shall I----" he began presently, addressing the
elders. But at the sound Taras opened his eyes. "Leave this house!" he
cried, with a voice of thunder, and the powerful man quaked, making
good his escape.

Taras watched his retreat, smiling strangely. "This message is
something to be thankful for! You, my friends, could not help me, but
this insult brings me back to myself. I shall fight against my ghastly
destiny while yet I may!"

"What destiny?" said Simeon, soothingly. "Do look at it calmly. You
have, in a just cause, done your utmost to see us righted; and you have
failed honourably. What else could there be said?"

"What else?" reiterated Taras. "And since it is a just cause--but what
use in talking!... I daresay you thought I had lost my reason, because
I have cried and wailed like a woman--did you?" His friends endeavoured
to look unconcerned. "But, I tell you," he continued, with trembling
voice, "it will be well if you never have occasion to find out that,
though reeling, my mind was terribly clear!... I will try to spare you
the discovery. I want to see that clerk again."

"He has left," returned Simeon; "he thrust his papers into my hand when
you had fainted, and turning his horses' heads he made the utmost speed
to leave us. The poor creature was really quite frightened; never in
his life again would he carry a verdict to savages, he said."

Taras could not help smiling. "Then I must ask the pope to read me that
letter," he said. "Leave the room, I shall be ready to join you in a
few minutes."

"Do not exert yourself just yet," entreated Simeon.

But Taras looked up sternly. "Do not hinder me, man," he cried, "cannot
you see that my very fate is at stake!"

The men left him misgivingly.

"What do you think of it?" said Alexa, as they stood waiting in the
yard.

"God knows!" replied Simeon, troubled. "But I cannot forget how he
refused to uncover when the verdict was being read."

The voice of Anusia was heard, who would not let her husband go from
the house. "You will be fainting again!" she lamented. But Taras,
though white as death, stepped forth, treading firmly.

The three men walked away to call on Father Martin; but on entering the
manse his housekeeper, Praxenia, met them with a tearful face. She was
an elderly spinster from the village who had presided over his domestic
concerns since the popadja had departed this life, leaving the pope a
widower.

"God o' mercy," she sobbed, looking at Taras, "it's a blessing that
you, at least, have got back your wits. They said in the village that
you had lost them. But you are all right, I see--would I could say as
much for the poor little father. _He_ is quite off his head, I assure
you; regular mad if ever man was!"

"He will come round again, no doubt," said Taras. "I daresay he has had
a glass too much."

"Ah, no," wept the good spinster; "that were nothing since we are used
to it! He has not had a drop since yesterday, poor old man, who never
could do without his tipple; it is that which frightens me! He is lying
quite still now, staring blankly, and talking a heap of nonsense
between whiles."

"Humph," grunted Simeon, "that certainly looks alarming. I have known
him these twenty years, he never showed such symptoms."

"Didn't I say so--a very bad sign, surely! And all on account of that
sermon, would you believe it? But let me tell you how it happened. I
had gone to his room quite early yesterday morning--would I had bitten
my tongue off first! though my going in was quite innocent-like.
'Little Father,' I said, 'there's a thaw setting in, and the parish is
just beside itself with joy.' 'Beside itself? dear! dear!' he said, 'I
must go and see,' and off he trotted. But very soon he came back again,
his eyes positively shining. 'Naughty, naughty, little father,' I said,
'you have gone and been at Avrumko's--very naughty, so early in the
day, and before reading mass!' But he insisted that he had not been
near the inn, and that nothing but the common delight had so excited
him. 'Ah! Praxenia,' he said, 'what a day to have seen--all the village
is praising the Lord for His goodness. I must give them a sermon
to-day, I must, indeed!' 'Little Father,' I said, severely, 'you had
better not attempt it; you know it is beyond you now, and the people
will only laugh at you; don't you remember how it was five years ago?'
'I do,' he said, ruefully, 'but I shall do better to-day.' There was no
convincing him, he locked himself into his study, and through the door
I could hear him at his sermon--pacing his floor I mean--vigorously,
till the bells began ringing for service. I went to church, not a
little anxious, you will believe me, and when he mounted his pulpit, as
he had threatened, I said to myself: 'You'll stick fast, little father,
and be sorry that you ever went up.' But not he--well you were there
yourselves, and you know how beautifully he got through it, never once
blowing his nose or scratching his ears--the beautifullest sermon ever
spoken, though I say it, and moving all the parish to tears! I walked
home proudly to look after his dinner, poor man, and said to myself he
should have as many glasses now as he liked. But what was my surprise
on going to his room presently, to find him weeping there, shedding the
biggest tears. I ever saw. 'Ah, Praxenia,' he sobbed, 'to think of the
Lord's goodness in giving me this day. I have not deserved it,
miserable old tippler that I am!' What was I to answer? I got his
dinner ready, putting his bottle beside it; and he sat down at my
bidding, but never a morsel he touched, his eyes looking brighter and
queerer than ever. 'Have a drop, little father.' I said, 'I'm afraid
you are faint-like.' 'No,' he said, sharply, pushing the bottle from
him. Then I knew that something was wrong. And all the rest of the day,
till late in the evening, he kept walking about his room, muttering the
beautifullest words--preparing his sermon, he said, when I asked him.
Not till late at night could I get a spoonful of soup down his throat,
making him take to his bed--no great battle, for although he is hardly
more than sixty, he is just a child for weakness when the schnaps is
out of him. 'Now you must go to sleep,' I said, sternly. But not he! He
folded his hands, lying still, with his shining eyes, muttering at
times. He is going to die, I tell you!"

The men were endeavouring to dissuade her from this mournful view, but
were less certain of their own opinion when they stood by the bedside.
The poor pope's appearance had changed alarmingly since yesterday. The
face was worn and white, the wrinkles had deepened, and there was a
strange light in his eyes.

But he knew Taras. "Ah--is it you?" he murmured.... "'And he judged
Israel in the days of the Philistines twenty years.' ... The bells are
ringing.... I must preach to the people.... What is it you want?"

"I came to ask you to read a letter to me, but I am afraid you are not
well, and it is rather a closely-written epistle."

"Epistle? yes," returned the pope, catching at the word. "The first of
the Corinthians.... 'Though I speak with the tongues of angels, and
have not charity.... believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth
all things.... Charity never faileth.' ..." And on he wandered.

The men saw it was hopeless, and left him. "It is strange," said
Simeon; "our pope never spoke such edifying words while he had his wits
about him. It does seem alarming."

But Taras's thoughts ran on a different track. He started. "I must go
to Colomea," he said. "There could not be much in a mere letter, after
all. I must see the lawyer myself as soon as possible."

He appeared so fully determined that his friends could but listen in
silence, and even Anusia saw he must have his way, though she demurred.
"It were far better to leave the thing alone," she said. "If you are
bent on making a sacrifice for the parish, give them the field we
bought two years ago, it will make up for their loss, and it were
better than losing everything through the lawyers."

"You are the best of wives," he said, "but you do not understand. It is
not merely about the field which is lost: but my fate, and yours, and
the children's is at stake."

"What is this you are saying?" she cried, alarmed; but he had touched
his horse, and the sledge was flying along the road towards the
district town.

He entered the outer office of Starkowski's the following day, but no
sooner had Mr. Stupka caught sight of him than he flew from his chair,
disappearing in an inner chamber with the startled cry: "Heaven help
us! a ghost ... the dead judge!"

But the attorney came forth undaunted. "I am pleased to see you," he
said, shaking hands. "I felt pretty sure my clerk had been exaggerating
in reporting you dead. I suppose it was the painful disappointment
which stunned you?"

"More than this," said Taras, "it was the bitter consciousness that
this verdict must change all the future current of my life, unless,
indeed, it can be annulled. I have come to find out whether this is
possible. Maybe your letter said something about it--I cannot read."

"No, the letter was only to tell you the costs," explained Dr.
Starkowski, "one hundred and twelve florins. But there is no hurry
whatever, you may pay me at your convenience. I had nothing further to
tell you, for I never advise carrying a suit into a higher court unless
there be some hope of a successful----"

"Sir," interrupted Taras, speaking slowly, and his voice was hollow,
"think well before you tell me--you do not know how much there is at
stake."

The man's manner, and still more his distorted face, staggered the
lawyer. "Of course, I may be mistaken," he said; "but the examination
of the witnesses, from which I hoped everything, has proved a bad
business for us, and yet it appears the commissioner tried every
conscientious means for arriving at----"

"Conscientious means!" cried Taras; but conquering his rising anger he
described the scene which had taken place outside the village inn,
Kapronski not so much as putting up his horses; and how the peasants
had their own shrewd guesses how much had been paid by the mandatar to
every rascal who had forsworn himself. "Sir, I hope you will help me in
this trouble!" he said, in conclusion.

These simple words, breathing their own truth and sadness, went further
with the lawyer than the most urgent entreaty. He had followed the
legal profession for many a year, but the sense of the utter sacredness
of his calling had perhaps never been so strong with him, nor his
desire to see justice done more earnest, than at this present moment
when that peasant had told him his tale. He promised to forward an
appeal to the higher court at once. "There is yet another way we could
try," he said; "you could inform against the perjurers. But if we
failed in bringing the charge home to them, you would be in danger of
imprisonment for libel yourself. I do not like to risk that, so we had
better try the appeal."

"Do what seems best to you," said Taras. "I trust you implicitly. But
what a world is this if a man can be put into prison for making known
the truth! Is not truth the foundation of justice? Can the world
continue, if falsehood and wrong carry the day?"

The lawyer no doubt could have given an answer to this question--a sad,
painful answer--but somehow he felt he had better be silent. He
contented himself with assuring this man, who seemed a very child in
the ways of the world, that he would not fail in his most faithful
endeavour, and set about the matter at once, moved by a feeling he
scarcely could analyse. The appeal was on its way to the upper court at
Lemberg before Taras and his servant had reached their upland home.

They were nearing the Pruth in the evening of the following day when
the sound of bells came floating towards them, and a red glow appeared
through the dusk where the ground sloped away in the direction of
Prinkowce. "Something on fire!" cried the man, pulling up the horses.

Taras peered through the twilight, and, bowing his head, he crossed
himself piously. "Drive on," he said; "it is the torches at the
cemetery. They are burying the pope."

And it was so. Father Martin had died that morning, and they were
laying him to his rest already, as they are wont in the mountains.
There was no great show of mourning, poor Praxenia's sorrow, perhaps,
being the only honest sadness evoked. "Ah!" she kept sobbing, "if it
were not for that sermon, he might be here to conduct his own funeral!
It is the sermon he died of, and not old age, as the apothecary said."
But the peasants had their own idea concerning the cause of his death.
"It is the wretched schnaps Avrumko has introduced," they said. "If the
rascal gave us unwatered stuff, we might live a hundred years, like our
fathers before us."

Slight as the feeling of mourning was, it ye sufficed to turn the
people's thoughts into a different channel, the loss of the pope thus
acting as a palliative to the loss of the law-suit; and the question
who should be Father Martin's successor was discussed with real
interest. It was not mere curiosity which stirred them, for in the
person of the pope a good deal of a parish's fate is bound up in those
parts, and the congregation has no voice in the matter. They can but
wait and see. But the men of Zulawce were soon relieved of any anxiety,
and had every reason to be satisfied.

Not a mouth had passed when the desolate manse once more was inhabited,
and it was a young pope who had come to pitch his pastoral tent in the
upland parish, having till then been curate-in-charge of Borkowka, a
village in the plain. Leo Woronczuk was his name, and it spoke well for
him that his late parishioners accompanied him in procession as far as
the wooden bridge over the Pruth, where Taras, at the head of the
peasants, stood waiting to receive him. But what pleased his new flock
more than anything was the fact that the stalwart young shepherd did
not arrive singly, but with a blooming wife--the most good-natured of
popadjas, to all appearance--and three round-cheeked, chubby little
boys. For the Galician peasants are apt to be prejudiced against a pope
who is either a bachelor or a widower, or, worse still, a monk of the
Order of St. Basil, thinking it impossible for such a one to enter into
the every-day joys and sorrows of his people, or to understand their
more earthly needs.

Now, Father Leo had a heart for these things, and this not only because
he himself was blessed with a wife and three jolly little boys! He was
no brilliant star in the theological heavens, no paragon of superhuman
virtues; he was a simple village priest--a man among men--with
warm-hearted sympathies; and if his intellectual horizon did not extend
immeasurably beyond that of his peasants, he at any rate had a
clear-headed perception of all ordinary points and bearings within that
sphere. It was not without diffidence that he accepted his new charge,
influenced chiefly by the peremptory need of income, his late curacy
having been sadly inadequate in this respect, considering the growing
wants of his family; and, if the truth must be told, the bad reputation
of that upland parish, which might have tempted a priestly soul of more
enthusiastic ambition, only tended to discourage him; he, poor man, not
feeling himself divinely commissioned to make up for the many years'
failings of his predecessor. He would far rather have been called to
shepherd a people of a less demoralised kind than appeared to be the
case here, where a number of men, on the very face of things, were
guilty of wilful perjury. But once having accepted the charge devolved
upon him by his superiors, he had made up his mind, like a brave man,
to do his duty as best he could, be it pleasant or otherwise.

And he made it his first aim to look into the apparent want of
integrity among the people; to discover, if possible, who might be
trusted and who not. He set about it quietly, without thrusting himself
into people's confidence; nor did he think it necessary to frighten
them into a higher state of morality by firing their imagination with
grievous accounts of the punishment to come. His sermons were
peculiarly simple, suitable in every way to the hearers' daily life--"a
peasant almost could preach like that," said the people when he had
dismissed them without once thumping the pulpit. But they discovered by
degrees that, if his eloquence did not come down upon them
thunderously, there was that in his words which might cling to them
like good and sensible advice; while, on the other hand, he, not a
little to his joy, could see that these people, after all, were not so
black as they had been painted. Leaving the one vice out of the
question, which in that country is as common as air and water--the
wretched tendency to drunkenness--the worst these highlanders could be
accused of was their defiant spirit so apt to break out into violence.

The pope soon found that they were not without a conscience, and that
they had a true feeling of right and wrong, though it might be somewhat
dulled by the unpruned egotistical instincts of human nature left to
its own luxuriance. Not many weeks had passed before Father Leo was
sure in his own mind which had been the perjured party on that fatal
day in September, but he avoided individual accusation. Nor was it more
than a moral certainty with him, as though he could take his oath that
the black cross had not always stood in the centre of the contested
field. But however strongly he felt in his honest mind that a vile
wrong had been committed--robbing a poor, untaught, and easily
misguided people not only of their property but, what was worse, of
their good conscience--he yet repressed his wrath, and never by word or
look showed the mandatar how entirely he abhorred him. Nor was this
reserve the outcome of mere selfish prudence, but rather of a wise
perception that he could do more for the furthering of right and
justice and the peace of his people in thus forcing the miscreant at
the manor house to observe a show of good will.

Hajek, indeed, was deceived. He thought he had taken the measure of the
new pope in believing him to be an honest but rather blockheaded
parson, whom he treated accordingly with a certain amount of flattery,
and even of deference. The mandatar would graciously yield a point
whenever Father Leo, on behalf of the people, petitioned for a respite,
or even for the lessening of an irksome tribute, assuring him that he
was quite as anxious as himself to maintain the peace of the parish.
The fact was, that while the suit yet hung in the balance, and a
further examining of witnesses was a prospect to be dreaded, it was
important that the village priest should think of him as an honourable
man, not prone to harsh dealings, far less to open violence, or such a
thing as an instigation to perjury.

Thus Taras by degrees found an unexpected ally in the pope, nay more, a
true-hearted friend. The saddened man would not have looked for such
happiness, and when the unsought gift had come to him he met it almost
timorously. It was a good honest friendship which sprang up between
these two equally honourable, yet entirely different natures; but a
friendship which, for all its truth, left the last word unspoken,
because neither of them, whatever their mutual sympathy, was able to
enter into, the inmost depth of the other's being.

But the more the pope saw of the judge, the greater was his joy at
having met such a man upon earth, a man so guileless and spotless, in
whom selfishness was not, who seemed guided only by his own sense of
justice and duty, and whose strength was the outcome of his great faith
in the moral equity upholding this structure of a world. "A true, godly
man," the pope would say to himself; but somehow the heretical thought
would follow, "Why, this man does not even need the Christian's belief
in a future life in order to be what he is." This feeling could not but
breed certain doubts, but it did not lessen his hearty admiration of
his friend's purity of nature, nor his longing to help him. He did what
he could to ease the heavy burden of his dealings with the mandatar,
coming forward as a mediator whenever it was possible; and he never
lost an opportunity of proving to the villagers that their judge had
acted righteously throughout. Taras was Father Leo's senior, but there
was something of a parent's tenderness for his child in the pope's
constant readiness to stand by his friend. Indeed, Taras would often
appear to him in the light of a grown boy whom no evil thing had come
nigh to corrupt.

"I could understand him," the pope would say, "if he were fourteen
instead of nearly forty." And greater than his delight in the man was
his surprise sometimes that he should understand so little of human
nature and the way of the world. He took this for granted, but he was
mistaken. Taras was not wanting in the power of seeing things as they
are, but only in the capability of turning such perception to any use.
He was one of those rare beings who must ever follow their own inward
prompting, who cannot be bent in this or that direction by any outward
compulsion; but who, for this very reason, are so easily broken and
bowed to the dust. There is much sadness in life, though little of real
tragedy; but what of it the world has known has ever had for its heroes
such natures.

But neither did Taras fully understand his friend. He would have
blessed the day which brought Father Leo to the village, even if the
latter had remained a comparative stranger to him; for the late pope's
unworthy conduct had touched him far more deeply than any one else in
the village, because his instincts for everything good and holy were so
much keener. He knew well enough that many a village pope was no better
than Father Martin had been; but he had felt to the depth of his true
soul that it was a terrible perversion of what ought to be, if a
village judge out of reverence for the sanctity of the oath sees it
laid upon him to oppose an exhortation of the people by their own
priest. It was an unspeakable relief to him that things had changed in
this respect, and that the man who had come to represent the spiritual
interests in the parish was of good report and fit to be an example;
his gratitude rising to boundless devotion on perceiving that in word
and deed the honest pope was bent on sharing his burden--yet he could
not always understand his friend.

The pope, to give an instance, might endeavour to correct some black
sheep by saying: "You are not a bad man on the whole, it's just the
drink which is ruining you; it were a great thing if you could overcome
that failing!" At which Taras would think that this was an untruth,
because the man was bad in other respects besides the drink; that the
pope was quite aware of this, and how could it be right to depart from
the full truth, even with a good object in view? Or, if Father Leo
endeavoured to arbitrate between two quarrelling parishioners, he would
tell them: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the
children of God!" endeavouring to bring about a compromise even if the
one, whether erroneously or feloniously, had been coveting the other's
property; but can it be right, thought Taras, to connive even in part
at a wrongful intention for the love of peace? And if the pope was
anxious to obtain some benefit for the people, he would not only listen
patiently to the richest self-praise of the miserable mandatar, but
might even enhance it by some word of his own; yet, shall a man fawn on
an evildoer for the sake of mercy? These questions occupied the judge
seriously, and one day, when they had been at the mandatar's together,
he could not but unburden his heart to his friend.

The pope smiled, saying: "It is written, Be ye therefore wise as
serpents."

"Yes," cried Taras, "and harmless as doves!"

"Certainly," returned the pope. "It would be wrong to meet any one with
the serpent's wisdom in order to overreach him. I never do that, and to
the best of my knowledge I strive to advance the good and to fight what
is evil. But since I have to do with sinful men and not with angels, I
must be content very often to fight with human weapons."

Taras shook his head. "How could deception ever be right in order to
further a good cause?" he exclaimed.

"Nor is it," returned the pope. "But if I can keep back the wicked man
from further wickedness by speaking civilly to him, and not
contemptuously, I am not wronging nor deceiving him, but on the
contrary doing well by him."

The judge walked on in silence, saying at last, gently but firmly, "I
cannot see this; deception can never be right. I do not understand
you."

At which the pope might look up at the towering figure by his side,
saying tenderly within himself, "He is simple as a child!" But what
shadows even then were overlying Taras's soul not even Leo could know,
though a strange fear at times stole over him that this soul, so
childlike and so pure, was undergoing a conflict with the powers of
evil, and was being worsted. There were outward signs of such battling:
Taras hardly ever now smiled; he would sit for hours in moody silence,
with a stony look in his eyes, and his healthy countenance was being
marred by the furrows of anxious care. Anusia, too, would come to the
manse with her trouble, saying sorrowfully, "He hardly sleeps now, for
day and night this worry is upon him, making an old man of him before
his time."

"But what is it?" said the pope; "I am at a loss to know."

"Why, what should it be but this cursed lawsuit," sobbed the passionate
woman, clenching her fists. "Would I could strangle the mandatar and
all the tribe of lawyers along with him!"

The pope rebuked her, nor did her explanation satisfy him. "It cannot
be the lawsuit that so weighs on him," he said; "for he speaks about it
calmly, hoping for a favourable verdict from the court of appeal. I do
not see what can thus oppress him, unless it be his troubled relations
both with the mandatar and with the people, which are improving daily
though, for I am doing my best to heal the breach," he added, with some
complacency.

The honest man had not the faintest idea that, however successful he
might be, he was only lessening his friend's outward burden, that which
lay on his shoulders so to speak, and which he had strength enough to
bear, whereas there was a burden crushing his heart and leaving him
utterly helpless in his silent despair; for Taras kept his deep trouble
hidden even from the eyes of the priest, his spiritual guide, feeling,
perhaps, that the fundamental difference of their natures must keep
them apart on the soul's deepest issues. "I should only sadden him," he
said, "and make him angry; but I could never convince him, nor could he
talk me out of it. No one could, for the matter of that, not the
Almighty Himself, I fear; for if He can look on quietly when wrong is
being done here below, I do not see that even He could do away with the
consequences!"

Matters had come to an ill pass with Taras even then. He had grown calm
outwardly, but the fearful thought which had overpowered him so utterly
on his first learning that the court's decision had gone against the
parish had not left him. If it was not added to in these months of
weary waiting, while the verdict was being reconsidered, neither did it
lessen. And as he went on with his duties day after day, waiting for an
answer from the court of appeal, he was like some traveller traversing
an endless desert beneath an angry sky. The air is heavy, and the
thunderous clouds sink lower, he hastening onward through the
friendless waste; onward, though the storm will break and the flashes
of heaven are charged with death. No shelter for him anywhere; on, on,
he hastens, though his doom await him--no hope, unless a strong wind
from the healthy east be sent to drive the dark clouds asunder ... But
how should he hope for such kindly blast while the hot air is heavy
about him, and cloud draws cloud athwart the heavens? He can but bear
up and continue, a weary traveller, utterly hopeless, and conscious of
great trouble ahead!




                              CHAPTER VI.

                         APPEALING UNTO CAESAR.


Autumn had come; again the season was cold and gloomy. Taras had waited
patiently, but he had not the courage to face the long, dull twilight
of winter if he must pass it nursing the one desperate thought. So he
went to the pope and begged him to indite an inquiry to the lawyer.

Father Leo looked him in the face anxiously. The man appeared calm.
"You are thinking too much of the law-suit!" he said, nevertheless.

"Not more than need be," replied Taras. "I have long settled in my mind
all concerning that question."

The pope wrote the desired letter. The reply came at the end of a week.
He had done what he could, said the lawyer, to urge the case forward,
praying especially for a re-examination of the witnesses; but he had
received no answer so far.

Taras heaved a sigh when the pope had communicated this letter to him.
"It will go hard with me in the winter," he said sadly.

But the pope could not know the full import of these words. "You have
done your duty," he said, "and that will comfort you."

"There is no comfort in that," said Taras, "though it may help one to
be strong. A man who has laid his hand on the plough of any duty must
go on till the work is done."

The winter proved hard, indeed, for the waiting man, but the heavier
the burden weighed on his soul the more anxious he seemed to hide it.

"He has ceased groaning as he used to do," Anusia said to her friend,
the warm-hearted, fat little popadja; "and he seems to take pleasure in
a pastime, rather unusual with him; he has become a hunter for
hunting's sake."

Taras, in that winter, would be absent for weeks at a time, pursuing
the bear. But his three companions, who were devotedly attached to
him--Hritzko and Giorgi Pomenko, the two sons of his friend Simeon, and
the young man, Wassilj Soklewicz, whose brother had been shot on the
contested field--could tell little of the judge's cheer. "He is even
more silent in the forest than at home," they said; "and if he takes
any delight in the hunt it is only because he is such a good shot. He
cares nothing for the happy freedom of life up yonder, nothing for the
excitement of driving the bear; but his face will always light up when
he has well-lodged his bullet."

The winter was not yet over, and Taras was again absent hunting, when
one day--it was in March, 1838--the pope received a large letter from
the district town. The lawyer had addressed the decision of the upper
court to him, giving as his reason that he had understood from Father
Leo's inquiry in the autumn, that he also sympathised with the judge,
Barabola. "I pray you, reverend sir," wrote the lawyer, "to make known
to him the enclosed verdict as best you can; for I am afraid the poor
man will be crushed and not easily lift up his head again. The legal
means are exhausted, the lawyer can do nothing more; let the pastor,
then, come in and heal the wound."

The good pope was troubled, his apprehension nowise lessening on
hearing how the first verdict had overpowered his friend. "Poor man,"
he said; "poor dear child! how will he take it?"

With not a little trepidation, therefore, he went to see Taras upon his
return from the mountains, endeavouring to prepare him for the bad news
by a rather lengthy and well-considered speech. Taras however, behaved
otherwise than the pope had anticipated. He grew white, and the deep
furrow between his brows appeared more threatening, but his voice was
firm as he asked, "Then the upper court has upheld the first verdict?"

"Yes," said Father Leo, gently. "But you must not take it too much to
heart, you have tried honestly."

"Let me know what they say," interrupted Taras, as calm as before, but
it might have been noticed that he leant heavily on the table beside
which he was standing.

The pope produced the writ, reading and explaining. The court dismissed
the appeal, seeing no reason why the trial should be repeated, it being
fully evident that the former examination had satisfied the demands of
justice. The lower court's verdict, therefore, must be upheld.

Taras had listened to the end with the same rigid mien. "Thank you," he
said, when Father Leo had done. "But now leave me alone. You too,
Anusia; I must think it over."

"What use in farther troubling?" demurred the pope. "Dr. Starkowski
says especially that the legal means are exhausted; which means that
there is nothing further to be done. You must submit to the will of
God."

"We will come back to that presently," said Taras, with a ghastly
smile, which quite frightened the pope. "You shall not be cheated out
of your sermon, but not now ... not now!" He repeated the words almost
passionately.

Father Leo still hesitated; but Anusia interfered. She had been sitting
in a corner, weeping; but now she rose. "Stay, pope," she entreated,
taking hold of Taras's hand. "Husband," she cried, shrilly, "fly into
whatever rage you like, thrash the rascal at the manor house till he
cannot move a limb, if it will ease you; but do not hide your wrath
within yourself. Do not look so stony; it kills me, husband. I am
maddened with fear! I know why you would have us leave you--you are
going to lay hands on yourself!"

"No!" cried Taras, solemnly. "God knows, I have no such thought." But
again the smile played about his mouth. "Be at peace, wife," he added;
"I have never stood in more grievous need of health and life than now.
Leave me."

They saw they must obey, but they remained standing outside the closed
door, listening anxiously. They hoped the terrible tension of his heart
might be lessened now by the pouring forth of his sorrow, but they
heard nothing save his measured step. It ceased at length, and all was
still.

"Come!" said the poor wife, dragging the pope to a small window which
gave them a peep into the room. They saw Taras, sitting still, resting
his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He sat
motionless.

"We had better leave him to fight it out," said Father Leo, "his is a
strong heart, and he will get over it."

But Anusia could not conquer her fears. "I must watch him," she moaned,
the hot tears trickling down her face. "It is more than you think! Why,
he is like a child at other times, never hiding the thoughts that move
him; and now he cannot even speak to me or you!"

The pope endeavoured to comfort her, but it was ill trying when he was
anxious enough himself. He left her presently to visit a sick
parishioner who was waiting for him, returning in about an hour.

Anusia had not stirred from the little window. "He only moved once,"
she whispered, hoarsely, "and it was awful to behold. I watched him,
hardly daring to breathe, and saw him rise slowly and lift the fingers
of his right hand to heaven. His face was stony, never a muscle he
moved, but his eyes could not hold back the tears, and they ran heavily
down his death-like cheeks--ah, Father Leo, it must have been an awful
oath he swore to himself--and now he sits rigid as before, staring
hopelessly."

"That won't do," murmured the pope, opening the door rather noisily and
entering. He was resolved not to leave the room again, even if Taras
should dismiss him peremptorily. But there was no fear of that.

The judge rose, and met him quietly, almost serenely. "You are right,
Father Leo," he said, "it is no use to keep on troubling! I have
well-nigh worn out my brains, and am not a bit further than before!...
There is just one thing though I want to know: you told me the lawyer
had written that all the legal means were now exhausted--are you sure?
are these his very words?"

"Yes; it is quite plain."

"But I am not certain. For I remember that our own judge, at Ridowa,
when I was a boy, had a protracted law-suit with a cousin of his about
some will that was questioned. The district court decided in his
favour; but the cousin appealed, and the court at Lemberg was on his
side. The judge thereupon took the case to a supreme court at Vienna,
and there he obtained his right. So you see there must be judges at
Vienna, who are over the court at Lemberg."

"Taras," cried Anusia, "surely you are not thinking of going to law at
Vienna? Whoever could pay the costs?"

"Wife," he said solemnly, "if you knew what is at stake, you would ask
me on your knees to plead the cause at Vienna if we were beggars ever
after. However, I must first find out about it. Not that I doubt Dr.
Starkowski, for he is honest, and will have written nothing but the
truth; but I must have it from his own lips."

He was not able to set out for Colomea on the spot, having to arrange
with the mandatar first concerning the spring labour due by the
peasantry. And matters were not so easily settled as in the autumn, for
Mr. Hajek was relieved of his fears as to a possible re-examination of
witnesses, and showed his true colours. He would no longer heed Father
Leo's suggestions, but set him aside as a meddling priest who had
better not poke into mundane concerns. It was, therefore, not without
much yielding to unfair demands that Taras could come to an
understanding with the rapacious steward, after which he was free to
depart on his journey, carrying with him in a leather belt all the
ready money in his possession--the silver thalers and golden ducats he
had inherited of old Iwan, or gained by his own industry.

On his entering the lawyer's office, the enlightened Stupka no longer
took alarm; but all the more frightened was the kind-hearted attorney
himself.

"Why, man!" he cried, aghast, "you look ten years older than when last
I saw you. Is it the lawsuit which so worries you? You must not give
way like that. Remember that you have a wife and children, and not only
a parish, to live for."

"It was an evil year," said Taras; "but I have not come to make
complaints to you, sir, but only to settle two points. Firstly, what is
it I owe you?"

The lawyer brought down his ledger and named the sum--close upon two
hundred and fifty florins. "We have to bear the costs, you see," he
said in excuse.

"Never mind," said Taras, undoing his belt and counting out the money.
"Now for the second point. You have written to our Father Leo that
nothing more can be done. But are there not higher judges at Vienna?"

"Not for this matter," returned Starkowski; "there certainly is a high
court of justice at Vienna, but cases can only be taken thither when
the district court and the provincial court of appeal have differed in
their verdicts!"

"That is bad," said Taras. "But you spoke to me of another way last
year--a prosecution for perjury."

"Yes, but I did not advise it, and would not advise it now," cried the
lawyer, eagerly. "Can you not see that none of these witnesses will own
to being perjured, and you will hardly succeed in bringing the crime
home to them--for where is your evidence? And even if you had evidence,
in the case of some who may have betrayed themselves by their own
foolish talk, and could get them convicted, you will hardly escape
going to prison with them. For those whom you failed to convict would
be all the more spiteful, and would have you up for libel. And for what
good in the end?--the field would remain Count Borecki's after all!"

"It is not that I am thinking of now," replied Taras. "I do not seek
restitution, but simply the right." It was evident that he strove hard
to speak calmly. But when he opened his mouth again the words fell
stammeringly from his lips: "You tell me, then--there is--no help
left--none?"

"None whatever," said the lawyer, "unless the Emperor----"

"The Emperor!" interrupted the peasant, almost with a shriek. And
exultation broke from his eyes; he stood erect, transformed in every
feature as by magic. So sudden was the change, from dire despair to
uplifting hope, that he staggered and reeled as under a blow. "The
Emperor!" he repeated, exultingly.

"Well, yes--but in fact--you see, the Emperor----" said the lawyer,
taken aback.

But Taras paid no attention. "Oh, sir," he cried, and was not ashamed
of the tears that flowed down his face, "what a fool I have been!
People looking to me, and calling me their judge, and I never thinking
of this! And how I racked my poor brain, and suffered, and strove with
the awful future, and all for nothing! Why, of course, there is the
Emperor; but I only thought of him while there was happiness; and when
trouble came and the clouds hid the light of heaven, I forgot that the
sun is behind them. I was even angry not to see it shining, and was
wroth with the Emperor, because the men of the law, who are but his
servants, could not help me! But I know better now. I know the Emperor
will make it all right, let him but hear of it--why, it is his very
duty, laid upon him by God himself! His servants may go wrong, but he
will see the truth; they may judge ill, but he will be righteous, being
above them all.... Ah, sir, forgive my being thus beside myself and
weeping like a child! But if you knew what thoughts went through me but
a moment ago, when you told me there was no farther help!... But, thank
God, you have remembered the Emperor, while yet it was time--while yet
it was time! For even a week hence, if I had gone away in my
hopelessness, it might have been too late!"

"Too late!" repeated the lawyer, astonished. "What do you mean?"

"Ah! do not ask me, sir," cried Taras, brushing the tears from his
face. "I would rather forget all about it; it was a nightmare, an evil
dream. How foolish of me! The very darkest plans I could think of, but
never of this simple help, as simple as prayer itself. For who are our
helpers in this life but God and the Emperor? God paramount and hearing
our cry, but not reaching down with His own arm from heaven in every
instance, because He has appointed the crowned one in His stead, who is
to judge men and rule them in His name. But the Emperor is not
omniscient, like God. One must go to him and tell him one's trouble,
which I shall do now. And for his understanding me the better, I will
ask you, sir, to put it into writing, that he may have it all down on
paper what I have to tell him."

Thus sobbed and talked the peasant, running on, positively beside
himself, as though heaven had opened with a great vision of help; and,
fall of gratitude, he seized the lawyer's hand, bowing low to kiss it.
But Starkowski drew back hastily, stepping to the window. He was
startled, and almost dismayed. His mentioning the Emperor had been
rather accidental, and he could never have dreamt of thus rousing the
man. He felt morally certain that it would be quite useless to petition
the Emperor, not that _he_ doubted that the peasants really had been
wronged in the suit. But how was the Emperor to see this, in the face
of two verdicts? Every groat the judge would spend on that errand,
every effort and particle of time, would be just thrown away. "It must
not be," he said to himself. "I must get him to see it." But then the
thought would rise whether it were not a wicked thing to destroy the
poor man's hope--his last hope, to which he clung so pitifully. He
remembered the words Taras had spoken a year ago, and these were
strange hints which had fallen from his lips just now. Yet the lawyer
had not an idea what awful resolve had ripened in the despairing soul
of this man; he only perceived that he would leave no means untried, no
violence even, to get back the field the parish had been robbed of--and
this was bad enough to be prevented, if possible.

He believed he saw a way out of the difficulty. "Well, then, Taras," he
said, "we will try the Emperor. I will draw up a memorial for you, and
we can send it to Vienna. You, meanwhile, go quietly back to your
people. There is no need to leave your family and your farm and your
public duties on that account. The Emperor will see what it is all
about from the document; there is no need to plead in person." At any
rate, we shall thus gain time, the good man was hoping; he will calm
down meanwhile, and will be able to bear his disappointment when it

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