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The Deluge: An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. Vol. 2

by Henryk Sienkiewicz · English · Gutenberg #37308 · 1,461,064 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Deluge: An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. Vol. 2

Author: Henryk Sienkiewicz

Translator: Jeremiah Curtin


        
Release date: September 3, 2011 [eBook #37308]
                Most recently updated: May 23, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37308

Credits: Charles Bowen


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DELUGE: AN HISTORICAL NOVEL OF POLAND, SWEDEN, AND RUSSIA. VOL. 2 ***




THE DELUGE.

Vol. II.

THE DELUGE.

An Historical Novel

OF

POLAND, SWEDEN, AND RUSSIA.

A SEQUEL TO

“WITH FIRE AND SWORD.”

BY

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.

_AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM
THE POLISH BY_

JEREMIAH CURTIN.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

Vol. II.

BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1915.

_Copyright, 1891_, by Jeremiah Curtin.




Printers
S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A.




THE DELUGE




CHAPTER I.


The war with cannon was no bar to negotiations, which the fathers
determined to use at every opportunity. They wished to delude the enemy
and procrastinate till aid came, or at least severe winter. But Miller
did not cease to believe that the monks wished merely to extort the
best terms.

In the evening, therefore, after that cannonading, he sent Colonel
Kuklinovski again with a summons to surrender. The prior showed
Kuklinovski the safeguard of the king, which closed his mouth at once.
But Miller had a later command of the king to occupy Boleslav,
Vyelunie, Kjepits, and Chenstohova.

“Take this order to them,” said he to Kuklinovski; “for I think that
they will lack means of evasion when it is shown them.” But he was
deceived.

The prior answered: “If the command includes Chenstohova, let the
general occupy the place with good fortune. He may be sure that the
cloister will make no opposition; but Chenstohova is not Yasna Gora, of
which no mention is made in the order.”

When Miller heard this answer he saw that he had to deal with diplomats
more adroit than himself; reasons were just what he lacked,—and there
remained only cannon.

A truce lasted through the night. The Swedes worked with vigor at
making better trenches; and on Yasna Gora they looked for the damages
of the previous day, and saw with astonishment that there were none.
Here and there roofs and rafters were broken, here and there plaster
had dropped from the walls,—that was all. Of the men, none had fallen,
no one was even maimed. The prior, going around on the walls, said with
a smile to the soldiers,—

“But see, this enemy with his bombarding is not so terrible as
reported. After a festival there is often more harm done. God’s care is
guarding you; God’s hand protects you; only let us endure, and we shall
see greater wonders.”

Sunday came, the festival of the offering of the Holy Lady. There was
no hindrance to services, since Miller was waiting for the final
answer, which the monks had promised to send after midday.

Mindful meanwhile of the words of Scripture, how Israel bore the ark of
God around the camp to terrify the Philistines, they went again in
procession with the monstrance.

The letter was sent about one o’clock, not to surrender; but to repeat
the answer given Kuklinovski, that the church and the cloister are
called Yasna Gora, and that the town Chenstohova does not belong to the
cloister at all. “Therefore we implore earnestly his worthiness,” wrote
the prior Kordetski, “to be pleased to leave in peace our Congregation
and the church consecrated to God and His Most Holy Mother, so that God
may be honored therein during future times. In this church also we
shall implore the Majesty of God for the health and success of the Most
Serene King of Sweden. Meanwhile we, unworthy men, while preferring our
request, commend ourselves most earnestly to the kindly consideration
of your worthiness, confiding in your goodness, from which we promise
much to ourselves in the future.”

There were present at the reading of the letter, Sadovski; Count
Veyhard; Horn, governor of Kjepitsi; De Fossis, a famous engineer; and
the Prince of Hesse, a man young and very haughty, who though
subordinate to Miller, was willing to show his own importance. He
laughed therefore maliciously, and repeated the conclusion of the
letter with emphasis,—

“They promise much to themselves from your kindness; General, that is a
hint for a contribution. I put one question, gentlemen: Are the monks
better beggars or better gunners?”

“True,” said Horn, “during these first days we have lost so many men
that a good battle would not have taken more.”

“As for me,” continued the Prince of Hesse, “I do not want money; I am
not seeking for glory, and I shall freeze off my feet in these huts.
What a pity that we did not go to Prussia, a rich country, pleasant,
one town excelling another.”

Miller, who acted quickly but thought slowly, now first understood the
sense of the letter; he grew purple and said,—

“The monks are jeering at us, gracious gentlemen.”

“They had not the intention of doing so, but it comes out all the
same,” answered Horn.

“To the trenches, then! Yesterday the fire was weak, the balls few.”

The orders given flew swiftly from end to end of the Swedish line. The
trenches were covered with blue clouds; the cloister answered quickly
with all its energy. But this time the Swedish guns were better
planted, and began to cause greater damage. Bombs, loaded with powder,
were scattered, each drawing behind it a curl of flame. Lighted torches
were hurled too, and rolls of hemp steeped in rosin.

As sometimes flocks of passing cranes, tired from long flying, besiege
a high cliff, so swarms of these fiery messengers fell on the summit of
the church and on the wooden roofs of the buildings. Whoso was not
taking part in the struggle, was near a cannon, was sitting on a roof.
Some dipped water from wells, others drew up the buckets with ropes,
while third parties put out fire with wet cloths. Balls crashing
rafters and beams fell into garrets, and soon smoke and the odor of
burning filled all the interior of buildings. But in garrets, too,
defenders were watching with buckets of water. The heaviest bombs burst
even through ceilings. In spite of efforts more than human, in spite of
wakefulness, it seemed that, early or late, flames would embrace the
whole cloister. Torches and bundles of hemp pushed with hooks from the
roofs formed burning piles at the foot of the walls. Windows were
bursting from heat, and women and children confined in rooms were
stifling from smoke and exhalations. Hardly were some missiles
extinguished, hardly was the water flowing in broken places, when there
came new flocks of burning balls, flaming cloths, sparks, living fire.
The whole cloister was seized with it. You would have said that heaven
had opened on the place, and that a shower of thunders was falling;
still it burned, but was not consumed; it was flaming, but did not fall
into fragments; what was more, the besieged began to sing like those
youths in the fiery furnace; for, as the day previous, a song was now
heard from the tower, accompanied by trumpets. To the men standing on
the walls and working at the guns, who at each moment might think that
all was blazing and falling to ruins behind their shoulders, that song
was like healing balsam, announcing continually that the church was
standing, that the cloister was standing, that so far flames had not
vanquished the efforts of men. Hence it became a custom to sweeten with
such harmony the suffering of the siege, and to keep removed from the
ears of women the terrible shouts of raging soldiery.

But in the Swedish camp that singing and music made no small
impression. The soldiers in the trenches heard it at first with wonder,
then with superstitious dread.

“How is it,” said they to one another, “we have cast so much fire and
iron at that hen-house that more than one powerful fortress would have
flown away in smoke and ashes, but they are playing joyously? What does
this mean?”

“Enchantment!” said others.

“Balls do not harm those walls. Bombs roll down from the roofs as if
they were empty kegs! Enchantment, enchantment!” repeated they.
“Nothing good will meet us in this place.”

The officers in fact were ready to ascribe some mysterious meaning to
those sounds. But others interpreted differently, and Sadovski said
aloud, so that Miller might hear: “They must feel well there, since
they rejoice; or are they glad because we have spent so much powder for
nothing?”

“Of which we have not too much,” added the Prince of Hesse.

“But we have as leader Poliorcetes,” said Sadovski, in such a tone that
it could not be understood whether he was ridiculing or flattering
Miller. But the latter evidently took it as ridicule, for he bit his
mustache.

“We shall see whether they will be playing an hour later,” said he,
turning to his staff.

Miller gave orders to double the fire, but these orders were carried
out over-zealously. In their hurry, the gunners pointed the cannons too
high, and the result was they carried too far. Some of the balls,
soaring above the church and the cloister, went to the Swedish trenches
on the opposite side, smashing timber works, scattering baskets,
killing men.

An hour passed; then a second. From the church tower came solemn music
unbroken.

Miller stood with his glass turned on Chenstohova. He looked a long
time. Those present noticed that the hand with which he held the glass
to his eyes trembled more and more; at last he turned and cried,—

“The shots do not injure the church one whit!” And anger, unrestrained,
mad, seized the old warrior. He hurled the glass to the earth, and it
broke into pieces. “I shall go wild from this music!” roared he.

At that moment De Fossis, the engineer, galloped up. “General,” said
he, “it is impossible to make a mine. Under a layer of earth lies rock.
There miners are needed.”

Miller used an oath. But he had not finished the imprecation when
another officer came with a rush from the Chenstohova entrenchment, and
saluting, said,—

“Our largest gun has burst. Shall we bring others from Lgota?”

Fire had slackened somewhat; the music was heard with more and more
solemnity. Miller rode off to his quarters without saying a word. But
he gave no orders to slacken the struggle; he determined to worry the
besieged. They had in the fortress barely two hundred men as garrison;
he had continual relays of fresh soldiers.

Night came, the guns thundered unceasingly; but the cloister guns
answered actively,—more actively indeed than during the day, for the
Swedish camp-fires showed them ready work. More than once it happened
that soldiers had barely sat around the fire and the kettle hanging
over it, when a ball from the cloister flew to them out of the
darkness, like an angel of death. The fire was scattered to splinters
and sparks, the soldiers ran apart with unearthly cries, and either
sought refuge with other comrades, or wandered through the night,
chilled, hungry, and frightened.

About midnight the fire from the cloister increased to such force that
within reach of a cannon not a stick could be kindled. The besieged
seemed to speak in the language of cannons the following words: “You
wish to wear us out,—try it! We challenge you!”

One o’clock struck, and two. A fine rain began to fall in the form of
cold mist, but piercing, and in places thickened as if into pillars,
columns and bridges seeming red from the light of the fire. Through
these fantastic arcades and pillars were seen at times the threatening
outlines of the cloister, which changed before the eye; at one time it
seemed higher than usual, then again it fell away as if in an abyss.
From the trenches to its walls stretched as it were ill-omened arches
and corridors formed of darkness and mist, and through those corridors
flew balls bearing death; at times all the air above the cloister
seemed clear as if illumined by a lightning flash; the walls, the lofty
works, and the towers were all outlined in brightness, then again they
were quenched. The soldiers looked before them with superstitious and
gloomy dread. Time after time one pushed another and whispered,—

“Hast seen it? This cloister appears and vanishes in turn. That is a
power not human.”

“I saw something better than that,” answered the other. “We were aiming
with that gun that burst, when in a moment the whole fortress began to
jump and quiver, as if some one were raising and lowering it. Fire at
such a fortress; hit it!”

The soldier then threw aside the cannon brush, and after a while
added,—

“We can win nothing here! We shall never smell their treasures. Brr, it
is cold! Have you the tar-bucket there? Set fire to it; we can even
warm our hands.”

One of the soldiers started to light the tar by means of a sulphured
thread. He ignited the sulphur first, then began to let it down slowly.

“Put out that light!” sounded the voice of an officer. But almost the
same instant was heard the noise of a ball; then a short cry, and the
light was put out.

The night brought the Swedes heavy losses. A multitude of men perished
at the camp-fires; in places regiments fell into such disorder that
they could not form line before morning. The besieged, as if wishing to
show that they needed no sleep, fired with increasing rapidity.

The dawn lighted tired faces on the walls, pale, sleepless, but
enlivened by feverishness. Kordetski had lain in the form of a cross in
the church all night; with daylight he appeared on the walls, and his
pleasant voice was heard at the cannon, in the curtains, and near the
gates.

“God is forming the day, my children,” said he. “Blessed be His light.
There is no damage in the church, none in the buildings. The fire is
put out, no one has lost his life. Pan Mosinski, a fiery ball fell
under the cradle of your little child, and was quenched, causing no
harm. Give thanks to the Most Holy Lady; repay her.”

“May Her name be blessed,” said Mosinski; “I serve as I can.”

The prior went farther.

It had become bright day when he stood near Charnyetski and Kmita. He
did not see Kmita; for he had crawled to the other side to examine the
woodwork, which a Swedish ball had harmed somewhat. The prior asked
straightway,—

“But where is Babinich? Is he not sleeping?”

“I, sleep in such a night as this!” answered Pan Andrei, climbing up on
the wall. “I should have no conscience. Better watch as an orderly of
the Most Holy Lady.”

“Better, better, faithful servant!” answered Kordetski.

Pan Andrei saw at that moment a faint Swedish light gleaming, and
immediately he cried,—

“Fire, there, fire! Aim! higher! at the dog-brothers!”

Kordetski smiled, seeing such zeal, and returned to the cloister to
send to the wearied men a drink made of beer with pieces of cheese
broken in it.

Half an hour later appeared women, priests, and old men of the church,
bringing steaming pots and jugs. The soldiers seized these with
alacrity, and soon was heard along all the walls eager drinking. They
praised the drink, saying,—

“We are not forgotten in the service of the Most Holy Lady. We have
good food.”

“It is worse for the Swedes,” added others. “It was hard for them to
cook food the past night; it will be worse the night coming.”

“They have enough, the dog-faiths. They will surely give themselves and
us rest during the day. Their poor guns must be hoarse by this time
from roaring continually.”

But the soldiers were mistaken, for the day was not to bring rest.
When, in the morning, officers coming with the reports informed Miller
that the result of the night’s cannonading was nothing, that in fact
the night had brought the Swedes a considerable loss in men, the
general was stubborn and gave command to continue cannonading. “They
will grow tired at last,” said he to the Prince of Hesse.

“This is an immense outlay of powder,” answered that officer.

“But they burn powder too?”

“They must have endless supplies of saltpetre and sulphur, and we shall
give them charcoal ourselves, if we are able to burn even one booth. In
the night I went near the walls, and in spite of the thunder, I heard a
mill clearly, that must be a powder-mill.”

“I will give orders to cannonade as fiercely as yesterday, till sunset.
We will rest for the night. We shall see if an embassy does not come
out.”

“Your worthiness knows that they have sent one to Wittemberg?”

“I know; I will send too for the largest cannons. If it is impossible
to frighten the monks or to raise a fire inside the fortress, we must
make a breach.”

“I hope, your worthiness, that the field-marshal will approve the
siege.”

“The field-marshal knows of my intention, and he has said nothing,”
replied Miller, dryly. “If failure pursues me still farther, the
field-marshal will give censure instead of approval, and will not fail
to lay all the blame at my door. The king will say he is right,—I know
that. I have suffered not a little from the field-marshal’s sullen
humor, just as if ’tis my fault that he, as the Italians state, is
consumed by _mal francese_.”

“That they will throw the blame on you I doubt not, especially when it
appears that Sadovich is right.”

“How right? Sadovich speaks for those monks as if he were hired by
them. What does he say?”

“He says that these shots will be heard through the whole country, from
the Carpathians to the Baltic.”

“Let the king command in such case to tear the skin from Count Veyhard
and send it as an offering to the cloister; for he it is who instigated
to this siege.”

Here Miller seized his head.

“But it is necessary to finish at a blow. It seems to me, something
tells me, that in the night they will send some one to negotiate;
meanwhile fire after fire!”

The day passed then as the day previous, full of thunder, smoke, and
flames. Many such were to pass yet over Yasna Gora. But the defenders
quenched the conflagrations and cannonaded no less bravely. One half
the soldiers went to rest, the other half were on the walls at the
guns.

The people began to grow accustomed to the unbroken roar, especially
when convinced that no great damage was done. Faith strengthened the
less experienced; but among them were old soldiers, acquainted with
war, who performed their service as a trade. These gave comfort to the
villagers.

Soroka acquired much consideration among them; for, having spent a
great part of his life in war, he was as indifferent to its uproar as
an old innkeeper to the shouts of carousers. In the evening when the
guns had grown silent he told his comrades of the siege of Zbaraj. He
had not been there in person, but he knew of it minutely from soldiers
who had gone through that siege and had told him.

“There rolled on Cossacks, Tartars, and Turks, so many that there were
more under-cooks there than all the Swedes that are here. And still our
people did not yield to them. Besides, evil spirits have no power here;
but there it was only Friday, Saturday, and Sunday that the devils did
not help the ruffians; the rest of the time they terrified our people
whole nights. They sent Death to the breastworks to appear to the
soldiers and take from them courage for battle. I know this from a man
who saw Death himself.”

“Did he see her?” asked with curiosity peasants gathering around the
sergeant.

“With his own eyes. He was going from digging a well; for water was
lacking, and what was in the ponds smelt badly. He was going, going,
till he saw walking in front of him some kind of figure in a black
mantle.”

“In a black, not in a white one?”

“In black; in war Death dresses in black. It was growing dark, the
soldier came up. ‘Who is here?’ inquired he—no answer. Then he pulled
the mantle, looked, and saw a skeleton. ‘But what art thou here for?’
asked the soldier. ‘I am Death,’ was the answer; ‘and I am coming for
thee in a week.’ The soldier thought that was bad. ‘Why,’ asked he, ‘in
a week, and not sooner? Art thou not free to come sooner?’ The other
said: ‘I can do nothing before a week, for such is the order.’”

“The soldier thought to himself: ‘That is hard; but if she can do
nothing to me now, I’ll pay her what I owe.’ Winding Death up in the
mantle, he began to beat her bones on the pebbles; but she cried and
begged: ‘I’ll come in two weeks!’ ‘Impossible.’ ‘In three, four, ten,
when the siege is over; a year, two, fifteen—’ ‘Impossible.’ ‘I’ll come
in fifty years.’ The soldier was pleased, for he was then fifty, and
thought: ‘A hundred years is enough; I’ll let her go.’ The man is
living this minute, and well; he goes to a battle as to a dance, for
what does he care?”

“But if he had been frightened, it would have been all over with him?”

“The worst is to fear Death,” said Soroka, with importance. “This
soldier did good to others too; for after he had beaten Death, he hurt
her so that she was fainting for three days, and during that time no
one fell in camp, though sorties were made.”

“But we never go out at night against the Swedes.”

“We haven’t the head for it,” answered Soroka.

The last question and answer were heard by Kmita, who was standing not
far away, and he struck his head. Then he looked at the Swedish
trenches. It was already night. At the trenches for an hour past deep
silence had reigned. The wearied soldiers were seemingly sleeping at
the guns.

At two cannon-shots’ distance gleamed a number of fires; but at the
trenches themselves was thick darkness.

“That will not enter their heads, nor the suspicion of it, and they
cannot suppose it,” whispered Kmita to himself.

He went straight to Charnyetski, who, sitting at the gun-carriage, was
reading his rosary, and striking one foot against the other, for both
feet were cold.

“Cold,” said he, seeing Kmita; “and my head is heavy from the thunder
of two days and one night. In my ears there is continual ringing.”

“In whose head would it not ring from such uproars? But to-day we shall
rest. They have gone to sleep for good. It would be possible to
surprise them like a bear in a den; I know not whether guns would rouse
them.”

“Oh,” said Charnyetski, raising his head, “of what are you thinking?”

“I am thinking of Zbaraj, how the besieged inflicted with sorties more
than one great defeat on the ruffians.”

“You are thinking of blood, like a wolf in the night.”

“By the living God and his wounds, let us make a sortie! We will cut
down men, spike guns! They expect no attack.”

Charnyetski sprang to his feet.

“And in the morning they will go wild. They imagine, perhaps, that they
have frightened us enough and we are thinking of surrender; they will
get their answer. As I love God, ’tis a splendid idea, a real knightly
deed! That should have come to my head too. But it is needful to tell
all to Kordetski, for he is commander.”

They went.

Kordetski was taking counsel in the chamber with Zamoyski. When he
heard steps, he raised his voice and pushing a candle to one side,
inquired,—

“Who is coming? Is there anything new?”

“It is I, Charnyetski,” replied Pan Pyotr, “with me is Babinich;
neither of us can sleep. We have a terrible odor of the Swedes. This
Babinich, father, has a restless head and cannot stay in one place. He
is boring me, boring; for he wants terribly to go to the Swedes beyond
the walls to ask them if they will fire to-morrow also, or give us and
themselves time to breathe.”

“How is that?” inquired the prior, not concealing his astonishment
“Babinich wants to make a sortie from the fortress?”

“In company, in company,” answered Charnyetski, hurriedly, “with me and
some others. They, it seems, are sleeping like dead men at the
trenches; there is no fire visible, no sentries to be seen. They trust
over much in our weakness.”

“We will spike the guns,” said Kmita.

“Give that Babinich this way!” exclaimed Zamoyski; “let me embrace him!
The sting is itching, O hornet! thou wouldst gladly sting even at
night. This is a great undertaking, which may have the finest results.
God gave us only one Lithuanian, but that one an enraged and biting
beast. I applaud the design; no one here will find fault with it. I am
ready to go myself.”

Kordetski at first was alarmed, for he feared bloodshed, especially
when his own life was not exposed; after he had examined the idea more
closely, he recognized it as worthy of the defenders.

“Let me pray,” said he. And kneeling before the image of the Mother of
God, he prayed a while, with outspread arms, and then rose with serene
face.

“Pray you as well,” said he; “and then go.”

A quarter of an hour later the four went out and repaired to the walls.
The trenches in the distance were sleeping. The night was very dark.

“How many men will you take?” asked Kordetski of Kmita.

“I?” answered Pan Andrei, in surprise. “I am not leader, and I do not
know the place so well as Pan Charnyetski. I will go with my sabre, but
let Charnyetski lead the men, and me with the others; I only wish to
have my Soroka go, for he can hew terribly.”

This answer pleased both Charnyetski and the prior, for they saw in it
clear proof of submission. They set about the affair briskly. Men were
selected, the greatest silence was enjoined, and they began to remove
the beams, stones, and brick from the passage in the wall.

This labor lasted about an hour. At length the opening was ready, and
the men began to dive into the narrow jaws. They had sabres, pistols,
guns, and some, namely peasants, had scythes with points downward,—a
weapon with which they were best acquainted.

When outside the wall they organized; Charnyetski stood at the head of
the party, Kmita at the flank; and they moved along the ditch silently,
restraining the breath in their breasts, like wolves stealing up to a
sheepfold.

Still, at times a scythe struck a scythe, at times a stone gritted
under a foot, and by those noises it was possible to know that they
were pushing forward unceasingly. When they had come down to the plain,
Charnyetski halted, and, not far from the enemy’s trenches, left some
of his men, under command of Yanich, a Hungarian, an old, experienced
soldier; these men he commanded to lie on the ground. Charnyetski
himself advanced somewhat to the right, and having now under foot soft
earth which gave out no echo, began to lead forward his party more
swiftly. His plan was to pass around the intrenchment, strike on the
sleeping Swedes from the rear, and push them toward the cloister
against Yanich’s men. This idea was suggested by Kmita, who now
marching near him with sabre in hand, whispered,—

“The intrenchment is extended in such fashion that between it and the
main camp there is open ground. Sentries, if there are any, are before
the trenches and not on this side of it, so that we can go behind
freely, and attack them on the side from which they least expect
attack.”

“That is well,” said Charnyetski; “not a foot of those men should
escape.”

“If any one speaks when we enter,” continued Pan Andrei, “let me
answer; I can speak German as well as Polish; they will think that some
one is coming from Miller, from the camp.”

“If only there are no sentries behind the intrenchments.”

“Even if there are, we shall spring on in a moment; before they can
understand who and what, we shall have them down.”

“It is time to turn, the end of the trench can be seen,” said
Charnyetski; and turning he called softly, “To the right, to the
right!”

The silent line began to bend. That moment the moon lighted a bank of
clouds somewhat, and it grew clearer. The advancing men saw an empty
space in the rear of the trench.

As Kmita had foreseen, there were no sentries whatever on that space;
for why should the Swedes station sentries between their trenches and
their own army, stationed in the rear of the trenches. The most
sharp-sighted leader could not suspect danger from that side.

At that moment Charnyetski said in the lowest whisper; “Tents are now
visible. And in two of them are lights. People are still awake
there,—surely officers. Entrance from the rear must be easy.”

“Evidently,” answered Kmita. “Over that road they draw cannon, and by
it troops enter. The bank is already at hand. Have a care now that arms
do not clatter.”

They had reached the elevation raised carefully with earth dug from so
many trenches. A whole line of wagons was standing there, in which
powder and balls had been brought.

But at the wagons, no man was watching; passing them, therefore, they
began to climb the embankment without trouble, as they had justly
foreseen, for it was gradual and well raised.

In this manner they went right to the tents, and with drawn weapons
stood straight in front of them. In two of the tents lights were
actually burning; therefore Kmita said to Charnyetski,—

“I will go in advance to those who are not sleeping. Wait for my
pistol, and then on the enemy!” When he had said this, he went forward.

The success of the sortie was already assured; therefore he did not try
to go in very great silence. He passed a few tents buried in darkness;
no one woke, no one inquired, “Who is there?”

The soldiers of Yasna Gora heard the squeak of his daring steps and the
beating of their own hearts. He reached the lighted tent, raised the
curtain and entered, halted at the entrance with pistol in hand and
sabre down on its strap.

He halted because the light dazzled him somewhat, for on the camp table
stood a candlestick with six arms, in which bright lights were burning.

At the table were sitting three officers, bent over plans. One of them,
sitting in the middle, was poring over these plans so intently that his
long hair lay on the white paper. Seeing some one enter, he raised his
head, and asked in a calm voice,—

“Who is there?”

“A soldier,” answered Kmita.

That moment the two other officers turned their eyes toward the
entrance.

“What soldier, where from?” asked the first, who was De Fossis, the
officer who chiefly directed the siege.

“From the cloister,” answered Kmita. But there was something terrible
in his voice.

De Fossis rose quickly and shaded his eyes with his hand. Kmita was
standing erect and motionless as an apparition; only the threatening
face, like the head of a predatory bird, announced sudden danger.

Still the thought, quick as lightning, rushed through the head of De
Fossis, that he might be a deserter from Yasna Gora; therefore he asked
again, but excitedly,—

“What do you want?”

“I want this!” cried Kmita; and he fired from a pistol into the very
breast of De Fossis.

With that a terrible shout and a salvo of shots was heard on the
trench. De Fossis fell as falls a pine-tree struck by lightning;
another officer rushed at Kmita with his sword, but the latter slashed
him between the eyes with his sabre, which gritted on the bone; the
third officer threw himself on the ground, wishing to slip out under
the side of the tent, but Kmita sprang at him, put his foot on his
shoulder, and nailed him to the earth with a thrust.

By this time the silence of night had turned into the day of judgment.
Wild shouts: “Slay, kill!” were mingled with howls and shrill calls of
Swedish soldiers for aid. Men bewildered from terror rushed out of the
tents, not knowing whither to turn, in what direction to flee. Some,
without noting at once whence the attack came, ran straight to the
enemy, and perished under sabres, scythes, and axes, before they had
time to cry “Quarter!” Some in the darkness stabbed their own comrades;
others unarmed, half-dressed, without caps, with hands raised upward,
stood motionless on one spot; some at last dropped on the earth among
the overturned tents. A small handful wished to defend themselves; but
a blinded throng bore them away, threw them down, and trampled them.

Groans of the dying and heart-rending prayers for quarter increased the
confusion.

When at last it grew clear from the cries that the attack had come, not
from the side of the cloister, but from the rear, just from the
direction of the Swedish army, then real desperation seized the
attacked. They judged evidently that some squadrons, allies of the
cloister, had struck on them suddenly.

Crowds of infantry began to spring out of the intrenchment and run
toward the cloister, as if they wished to find refuge within its walls.
But soon new shouts showed that they had come upon the party of the
Hungarian, Yanich, who finished them under the very fortress.

Meanwhile the cloister-men, slashing, thrusting, trampling, advanced
toward the cannons. Men with spikes ready, rushed at them immediately;
but others continued the work of death. Peasants, who would not have
stood before trained soldiers in the open field, rushed now a handful
at a crowd.

Valiant Colonel Horn, governor of Kjepitsi, endeavored to rally the
fleeing soldiers; springing into a corner of the trench, he shouted in
the darkness and waved his sword. The Swedes recognized him and began
at once to assemble; but in their tracks and with them rushed the
attackers, whom it was difficult to distinguish in the darkness.

At once was heard a terrible whistle of scythes, and the voice of Horn
ceased in a moment. The crowd of soldiers scattered as if driven apart
by a bomb. Kmita and Charnyetski rushed after them with a few people,
and cut them to pieces.

The trench was taken.

In the main camp of the Swedes trumpets sounded the alarm. Straightway
the guns of Yasna Gora gave answer, and fiery balls began to fly from
the cloister to light up the way for the home-coming men. They came
panting, bloody, like wolves who had made a slaughter in a sheepfold;
they were retreating before the approaching sound of musketeers.
Charnyetski led the van, Kmita brought up the rear.

In half an hour they reached the party left with Yanich; but he did not
answer their call; he alone had paid for the sortie with his life, for
when he rushed after some officer, his own soldiers shot him.

The party entered the cloister amid the thunder of cannon and the gleam
of flames. At the entrance the prior was waiting, and he counted them
in order as the heads were pushed in through the opening. No one was
missing save Yanich.

Two men went out for him at once, and half an hour later they brought
his body; for Kordetski wished to honor him with a fitting burial.

But the quiet of night, once broken, did not return till white day.
From the walls cannon were playing; in the Swedish positions the
greatest confusion continued. The enemy not knowing well their own
losses, not knowing whence the aggressor might come, fled from the
trenches nearest the cloister. Whole regiments wandered in despairing
disorder till morning, mistaking frequently their own for the enemy,
and firing at one another. Even in the main camp were soldiers and
officers who abandoned their tents and remained under the open sky,
awaiting the end of that ghastly night. Alarming news flew from mouth
to mouth. Some said that succor had come to the fortress, others
asserted that all the nearer intrenchments were captured.

Miller, Sadovski, the Prince of Hesse, Count Veyhard, and other
superior officers, made superhuman exertions to bring the terrified
regiments to order. At the same time the cannonade of the cloister was
answered by balls of fire, to scatter the darkness and enable fugitives
to assemble. One of the balls struck the roof of the chapel, but
striking only the edge of it, returned with rattling and crackling
toward the camp, casting a flood of flame through the air.

At last the night of tumult was ended. The cloister and the Swedish
camp became still. Morning had begun to whiten the summits of the
church, the roofs took on gradually a ruddy light, and day came.

In that hour Miller, at the head of his staff, rode to the captured
trench. They could, it is true, see him from the cloister and open
fire; but the old general cared not for that. He wished to see with his
own eyes all the injury, and count the slain. The staff followed him;
all were disturbed,—they had sorrow and seriousness in their faces.
When they reached the intrenchment, they dismounted and began to
ascend. Traces of the struggle were visible everywhere; lower down than
the guns were the overthrown tents; some were still open, empty,
silent. There were piles of bodies, especially among the tents;
half-naked corpses, mangled, with staring eyes, and with terror
stiffened in their dead eyeballs, presented a dreadful sight. Evidently
all these men had been surprised in deep sleep; some of them were
barefoot; it was a rare one who grasped his rapier in his dead hand;
almost no one wore a helmet or a cap. Some were lying in tents,
especially at the side of the entrance; these, it was apparent, had
barely succeeded in waking; others, at the sides of tents, were caught
by death at the moment when they were seeking safety in flight.
Everywhere there were many bodies, and in places such piles that it
might be thought some cataclysm of nature had killed those soldiers;
but the deep wounds in their faces and breasts, some faces blackened by
shots, so near that all the powder had not been burned, testified but
too plainly that the hand of man had caused the destruction.

Miller went higher, to the guns; they were standing dumb, spiked, no
more terrible now than logs of wood; across one of them lay hanging on
both sides the body of a gunner, almost cut in two by the terrible
sweep of a scythe. Blood had flowed over the carriage and formed a
broad pool beneath it. Miller observed everything minutely, in silence
and with frowning brow. No officer dared break that silence. For how
could they bring consolation to that aged general, who had been beaten
like a novice through his own want of care? That was not only defeat,
but shame; for the general himself had called that fortress a
hen-house, and promised to crush it between his fingers, for he had
nine thousand soldiers, and there were two hundred men in the garrison;
finally, that general was a soldier, blood and bone, and against him
were monks.

That day had a grievous beginning for Miller.

Now the infantry came up and began to carry out bodies. Four of them,
bearing on a stretcher a corpse, stopped before the general without
being ordered.

Miller looked at the stretcher and closed his eyes.

“De Fossis,” said he, in a hollow voice.

Scarcely had they gone aside when others came, this time Sadovski moved
toward them and called from a distance, turning to the staff,—

“They are carrying Horn!”

But Horn was alive yet, and had before him long days of atrocious
suffering. A peasant had cut him with the very point of a scythe; but
the blow was so fearful that it opened the whole framework of his
breast. Still the wounded man retained his presence of mind. Seeing
Miller and the staff, he smiled, wished to say something, but instead
of a sound there came through his lips merely rose-colored froth; then
he began to blink, and fainted.

“Carry him to my tent,” said Miller, “and let my doctor attend to him
immediately.”

Then the officers heard him say to himself,—

“Horn, Horn,—I saw him last night in a dream,—just in the evening. A
terrible thing, beyond comprehension!”

And fixing his eyes on the ground, he dropped into deep thought; all at
once he was roused from his revery by the voice of Sadovski, who cried:
“General! look there, there—the cloister!”

Miller looked and was astonished. It was broad day and clear, only fogs
were hanging over the earth; but the sky was clear and blushing from
the light of the morning. A white fog hid the summit itself of Yasna
Gora, and according to the usual order of things ought to hide the
church, but by a peculiar phenomenon the church, with the tower, was
raised, not only above the cliff, but above the fog, high,
high,—precisely as if it had separated from its foundations and was
hanging in the blue under the dome of the sky. The cries of the
soldiers announced that they too saw the phenomenon.

“That fog deceives the eye!” said Miller.

“The fog is lying under the church,” answered Sadovski.

“It is a wonderful thing; but that church is ten times higher than it
was yesterday, and hangs in the air,” said the Prince of Hesse.

“It is going yet! higher, higher!” cried the soldiers. “It will vanish
from the eye!”

In fact the fog hanging on the cliff began to rise toward the sky in
the form of an immense pillar of smoke; the church planted, as it were,
on the summit of that pillar, seemed to rise higher each instant; at
the same time when it was far up, as high as the clouds themselves, it
was veiled more and more with vapor; you would have said that it was
melting, liquefying; it became more indistinct, and at last vanished
altogether.

Miller turned to the officers, and in his eyes were depicted
astonishment and a superstitious dread.

“I acknowledge, gentlemen,” said he, “that I have never seen such a
thing in my life, altogether opposed to nature: it must be the
enchantment of papists.”

“I have heard,” said Sadovski, “soldiers crying out, ‘How can you fire
at such a fortress?’ In truth I know not how.”

“But what is there now?” cried the Prince of Hesse. “Is that church in
the fog, or is it gone?”

“Though this were an ordinary phenomenon of nature, in any event it
forebodes us no good. See, gentlemen, from the time that we came here
we have not advanced one step.”

“If,” answered Sadovski, “we had only not advanced; but to tell the
truth, we have suffered defeat after defeat, and last night was the
worst. The soldiers losing willingness lose courage, and will begin to
be negligent. You have no idea of what they say in the regiments.
Besides, wonderful things take place; for instance, for a certain time
no man can go alone, or even two men, out of the camp; whoever does so
is as if he had fallen through the earth, as if wolves were prowling
around Chenstohova. I sent myself, not long since, a banneret and three
men to Vyelunie for warm clothing, and from that day, no tidings of
them.”

“It will be worse when winter comes; even now the nights are
unendurable,” added the Prince of Hesse.

“The mist is growing thinner!” said Miller, on a sudden.

In fact a breeze rose and began to blow away the vapors. In the bundles
of fog something began to quiver; finally the sun rose and the air grew
transparent. The walls of the cloister were outlined faintly, then out
came the church and the cloister. Everything was in its old place. The
fortress was quiet and still, as if people were not living in it.

“General,” said the Prince of Hesse, with energy, “try negotiations
again, it is needful to finish at once.”

“But if negotiations lead to nothing, do you, gentlemen, advise to give
up the siege?” asked Miller, gloomily.

The officers were silent. After a while Sadovski said,—

“Your worthiness knows best that it will come to that.”

“I know,” answered Miller, haughtily, “and I say this only to you, that
I curse the day and the hour in which I came hither, as well as the
counsellor who persuaded me to this siege [here he pierced Count
Veyhard with his glance]. You know, however, after what has happened,
that I shall not withdraw until I turn this cursed fortress into a heap
of ruins, or fall myself.”

Displeasure was reflected in the face of the Prince of Hesse. He had
never respected Miller over-much; hence he considered this mere
military braggadocio ill-timed, in view of the captured trenches, the
corpses, and the spiked cannon. He turned to him then and answered with
evident sarcasm,—

“General, you are not able to promise that; for you would withdraw in
view of the first command of the king, or of Marshal Wittemberg.
Sometimes also circumstances are able to command not worse than kings
and marshals.”

Miller wrinkled his heavy brows, seeing which Count Veyhard said
hurriedly,—

“Meanwhile we will try negotiations. They will yield; it cannot be
otherwise.”

The rest of his words were drowned by the rejoicing sound of bells,
summoning to early Mass in the church of Yasna Gora. The general with
his staff rode away slowly toward Chenstohova; but had not reached
headquarters when an officer rushed up on a foaming horse.

“He is from Marshal Wittemberg!” said Miller.

The officer handed him a letter. The general broke the seal hurriedly,
and running over the letter quickly with his eyes, said with confusion
in his countenance,—

“No! This is from Poznan. Evil tidings. In Great Poland the nobles are
rising, the people are joining them. At the head of the movement is
Krishtof Jegotski, who wants to march to the aid of Chenstohova.”

“I foretold that these shots would be heard from the Carpathians to the
Baltic,” muttered Sadovski. “With this people change is sudden. You do
not know the Poles yet; you will discover them later.”

“Well! we shall know them,” answered Miller. “I prefer an open enemy to
a false ally. They yielded of their own accord, and now they are taking
arms. Well! they will know our weapons.”

“And we theirs,” blurted out Sadovski. “General, let us finish
negotiations with Chenstohova; let us agree to any capitulation. It is
not a question of the fortress, but of the rule of his Royal Grace in
this country.”

“The monks will capitulate,” said Count Veyhard. “Today or to-morrow
they will yield.”

So they conversed with one another; but in the cloister after early
Mass the joy was unbounded. Those who had not gone out in the sortie
asked those who had how everything had happened. Those who had taken
part boasted greatly, glorifying their own bravery and the defeat they
had given the enemy.

Among the priests and women curiosity became paramount. White habits
and women’s robes covered the wall. It was a beautiful and gladsome
day. The women gathered around Charnyetski, crying “Our deliverer! our
guardian!” He defended himself particularly when they wanted to kiss
his hands, and pointing to Kmita, said,—

“Thank him too. He is Babinich,[1] but no old woman. He will not let
his hands be kissed, for there is blood on them yet; but if any of the
younger would like to kiss him on the lips, I think that he would not
flinch.”

The younger women did in fact cast modest and at the same time enticing
glances at Pan Andrei, admiring his splendid beauty; but he did not
answer with his eyes to those dumb questions, for the sight of these
maidens reminded him of Olenka.

“Oh, my poor girl!” thought he, “if you only knew that in the service
of the Most Holy Lady I am opposing those enemies whom formerly I
served to my sorrow!”

And he promised himself that the moment the siege was over he would
write to her in Kyedani, and hurry off Soroka with the letter. “And I
shall send her not empty words and promises; for now deeds are behind
me, which without empty boasting, but accurately, I shall describe in
the letter. Let her know that she has done this, let her be comforted.”

And he consoled himself with this thought so much that he did not even
notice how the maidens said to one another, in departing,—

“He is a good warrior; but it is clear that he looks only to battle,
and is an unsocial grumbler.”




CHAPTER II.


According to the wish of his officers, Miller began negotiations again.
There came to the cloister from the Swedish camp a well-known Polish
noble, respected for his age and his eloquence. They received him
graciously on Yasna Gora, judging that only in seeming and through
constraint would he argue for surrender, but in reality would add to
their courage and confirm the news, which had broken through the
besieged wall, of the rising in Great Poland; of the dislike of the
quarter troops to Sweden; of the negotiations of Yan Kazimir with the
Cossacks, who, as it were, seemed willing to return to obedience;
finally, of the tremendous declaration of the Khan of the Tartars, that
he was marching with aid to the vanquished king, all of whose enemies
he would pursue with fire and sword.

But how the monks were mistaken! The personage brought indeed a large
bundle of news,—but news that was appalling, news to cool the most
fervent zeal, to crush the most invincible resolution, stagger the most
ardent faith.

The priests and the nobles gathered around him in the council chamber,
in the midst of silence and attention; from his lips sincerity itself
seemed to flow, and pain for the fate of the country. He placed his
hand frequently on his white head as if wishing to restrain an outburst
of despair; he gazed on the crucifix; he had tears in his eyes, and in
slow, broken accents, he uttered the following words:—

“Ah, what times the suffering country has lived to! All help is past:
it is incumbent to yield to the King of the Swedes. For whom in reality
have you, revered fathers, and you lords brothers, the nobles, seized
your swords? For whom are you sparing neither watching nor toil, nor
suffering nor blood? For whom, through resistance,—unfortunately
vain,—are you exposing yourselves and holy places to the terrible
vengeance of the invincible legions of Sweden? Is it for Yan Kazimir?
But he has already disregarded our kingdom. Do you not know that he has
already made his choice, and preferring wealth, joyous feasts; and
peaceful delights to a troublesome throne, has abdicated in favor of
Karl Gustav? You are not willing to leave him, but he has left you, you
are unwilling to break your oath, he has broken it; you are ready to
die for him, but he cares not for you nor for any of us. Our lawful
king now is Karl Gustav! Be careful, then, lest you draw on your heads,
not merely anger, vengeance, and ruin, but sin before heaven, the
cross, and the Most Holy Lady; for you are raising insolent hands, not
against invaders, but against your own king.”

These words were received in silence, as though death were flying
through that chamber. What could be more terrible than news of the
abdication of Yan Kazimir? It was in truth news monstrously improbable;
but that old noble gave it there in presence of the cross, in presence
of the image of Mary, and with tears in his eyes.

But if it were true, further resistance was in fact madness. The nobles
covered their eyes with their hands, the monks pulled their cowls over
their heads, and silence, as of the grave, continued unbroken; but
Kordetski, the prior, began to whisper earnest prayer with his pallid
lips, and his eyes, calm, deep, clear, and piercing, were fixed on the
speaker immovably.

The noble felt that inquiring glance, was ill at ease and oppressed by
it; he wished to preserve the marks of importance, benignity,
compassionate virtue, good wishes, but could not; he began to cast
restless glances on the other fathers, and after a while he spoke
further:—

“It is the worst thing to inflame stubbornness by a long abuse of
patience. The result of your resistance will be the destruction of this
holy church, and the infliction on you—God avert it!—of a terrible and
cruel rule, which you will be forced to obey. Aversion to the world and
avoidance of its questions are the weapons of monks. What have you to
do with the uproar of war,—you, whom the precepts of your order call to
retirement and silence? My brothers, revered and most beloved fathers!
do not take on your hearts, do not take on your consciences, such a
terrible responsibility. It was not you who built this sacred retreat,
not for you alone must it serve! Permit that it flourish, and that it
bless this land for long ages, so that our sons and grandsons may
rejoice in it.”

Here the traitor opened his arms and fell into tears. The nobles were
silent, the fathers were silent; doubt had seized all. Their hearts
were tortured, and despair was at hand; the memory of baffled and
useless endeavors weighed on their minds like lead.

“I am waiting for your answer, fathers,” said the venerable traitor,
dropping his head on his breast.

Kordetski now rose, and with a voice in which there was not the least
hesitation or doubt, spoke as if with the vision of a prophet,—

“Your statement that Yan Kazimir has abandoned us, has abdicated and
transferred his rights to Karl Gustav, is a calumny. Hope has entered
the heart of our banished king, and never has he toiled more zealously
than he is toiling at this moment to secure the salvation of the
country, to secure his throne, and bring us aid in oppression.”

The mask fell in an instant from the face of the traitor; malignity and
deceit were reflected in it as clearly as if dragons had crept out at
once from the dens of his soul, in which till that moment they had held
themselves hidden.

“Whence this intelligence, whence this certainty?” inquired he.

“Whence?” answered the prior, pointing to a great crucifix hanging on
the wall. “Go! place your finger on the pierced feet of Christ, and
repeat what you have told us.”

The traitor began to bend as if under the crushing of an iron hand, and
a new dragon, terror, crawled forth to his face.

Kordetski, the prior, stood lordly, terrible as Moses; rays seemed to
shoot from his temples.

“Go, repeat!” said he, without lowering his hand, in a voice so
powerful that the shaken arches of the council chamber trembled and
echoed as if in fear,—“Go, repeat!”

A moment of silence followed; at last the stifled voice of the visitor
was heard,—

“I wash my hands—”

“Like Pilate!” finished Kordetski.

The traitor rose and walked out of the room. He hurried through the
yard of the cloister, and when he found himself outside the gate, he
began to run, almost as if something were hunting him from the cloister
to the Swedes.

Zamoyski went to Charnyetski and Kmita, who had not been in the hall,
to tell them what had happened.

“Did that envoy bring any good?” asked Charnyetski; “he had an honest
face.”

“God guard us from such honest men!” answered Zamoyski; “he brought
doubt and temptation.”

“What did he say?” asked Kmita, raising a little the lighted match
which he was holding in his hand.

“He spoke like a hired traitor.”

“That is why he hastens so now, I suppose,” said Charnyetski. “See! he
is running with almost full speed to the Swedish camp. Oh, I would send
a ball after him!”

“A good thing!” said Kmita, and he put the match to the cannon.

The thunder of the gun was heard before Zamoyski and Charnyetski could
see what had happened. Zamoyski caught his head.

“In God’s name!” cried he, “what have you done?—he was an envoy.”

“I have done ill!” answered Kmita; “for I missed. He is on his feet
again and hastens farther. Oh! why did it go over him?” Here he turned
to Zamoyski. “Though I had hit him in the loins, they could not have
proved that we fired at him purposely, and God knows I could not hold
the match in my fingers; it came down of itself. Never should I have
fired at an envoy who was a Swede, but at sight of Polish traitors my
entrails revolt.”

“Oh, curb yourself; for there would be trouble, and they would be ready
to injure our envoys.”

But Charnyetski was content in his soul; for Kmita heard him mutter,
“At least that traitor will be sure not to come on an embassy again.”

This did not escape the ear of Zamoyski, for he answered: “If not this
one, others will be found; and do you, gentlemen, make no opposition to
their negotiations, do not interrupt them of your own will; for the
more they drag on, the more it results to our profit. Succor, if God
sends it, will have time to assemble, and a hard winter is coming,
making the siege more and more difficult. Delay is loss for the enemy,
but brings profit to us.”

Zamoyski then went to the chamber, where, after the envoy’s departure,
consultation was still going on. The words of the traitor had startled
men; minds and souls were excited. They did not believe, it is true, in
the abdication of Yan Kazimir; but the envoy had held up to their
vision the power of the Swedes, which previous days of success had
permitted them to forget. Now it confronted their minds with all that
terror before which towns and fortresses not such as theirs had been
frightened,—Poznan, Warsaw, Cracow, not counting the multitude of
castles which had opened their gates to the conqueror; how could Yasna
Gora defend itself in a general deluge of defeats?

“We shall defend ourselves a week longer, two, three,” thought to
themselves some of the nobles and some of the monks; “but what farther,
what end will there be to these efforts?”

The whole country was like a ship already deep in the abyss, and that
cloister was peering up like the top of a mast through the waves. Could
those wrecked ones, clinging to the mast, think not merely of saving
themselves, but of raising that vessel from under the ocean?

According to man’s calculations they could not, and still, at the
moment when Zamoyski re-entered the hall, Kordetski was saying,—

“My brothers! if you sleep not, neither do I sleep. When you are
imploring our Patroness for rescue, I too am praying. Weariness, toil,
weakness, cling to my bones as well as to yours; responsibility in like
manner weighs upon me—nay, more perhaps, than upon you. Why have I
faith while you seem in doubt? Enter into yourselves; or is it that
your eyes, blinded by earthly power, see not a power greater than the
Swedes? Or think you that no defence will suffice, that no hand can
overcome that preponderance? If that is the case your thoughts are
sinful, and you blaspheme against the mercy of God, against the
all-might of our Lord, against the power of that Patroness whose
servants you call yourselves. Who of you will dare to say that that
Most Holy Queen cannot shield us and send victory? Therefore let us
beseech her, let us implore night and day, till by our endurance, our
humility, our tears, our sacrifice of body and health, we soften her
heart, and pray away our previous sins.”

“Father,” said one of the nobles, “it is not a question for us of our
lives or of our wives and children; but we tremble at the thought of
the insults which may be put on the image, should the enemy capture the
fortress by storm.”

“And we do not wish to take on ourselves the responsibility,” added
another.

“For no one has a right to take it, not even the prior,” added a third.

And the opposition increased, and gained boldness, all the more since
many monks maintained silence. The prior, instead of answering
directly, began to pray.

“O Mother of Thy only Son!” said he, raising his hands and his eyes
toward heaven, “if Thou hast visited us so that in Thy capital we
should give an example to others of endurance, of bravery, of
faithfulness to Thee, to the country, to the king,—if Thou hast chosen
this place in order to rouse by it the consciences of men and save the
whole country, have mercy on those who desire to restrain, to stop the
fountain of Thy grace, to hinder Thy miracles, and resist Thy holy
will.” Here he remained a moment in ecstasy, and then turned to the
monks and nobles: “What man will take on his shoulders this
responsibility,—the responsibility of stopping the miracles of Mary Her
grace. Her salvation for this kingdom and the Catholic faith?”

“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!” answered a number of
voices, “God preserve us from that!”

“Such a man will not be found!” cried Zamoyski.

And those of the monks in whose hearts doubt had been plunging began to
beat their breasts, for no small fear had now seized them; and none of
the councillors thought of surrender that evening.

But though the hearts of the older men were strengthened, the
destructive planting of that hireling had given forth fruits of poison.

News of the abdication of Yan Kazimir and the improbability of succor
went from the nobles to the women, from the women to the servants; the
servants spread it among the soldiers, on whom it made the very worst
impression. The peasants were astonished least of all; but experienced
soldiers, accustomed to calculate the turns of war in soldier fashion
only, began to assemble and explain to one another the impossibility of
further defence, complaining of the stubbornness of monks, who did not
understand the position; and, finally, to conspire and talk in secret.

A certain gunner, a German of suspected fidelity, proposed that the
soldiers themselves take the matter in hand, and come to an
understanding with the Swedes touching the surrender of the fortress.
Others caught at this idea; but there were those who not only opposed
the treason resolutely, but informed Kordetski of it without delay.

Kordetski, who knew how to join with the firmest trust in the powers of
heaven the greatest earthly adroitness and caution, destroyed the
secretly spreading treason in its inception.

First of all he expelled from the fortress the leaders of the treason,
and at the head of them that gunner, having no fear whatever of what
they could inform the Swedes regarding the state of the fortress and
its weak sides; then, doubling the monthly wages of the garrison, he
took from them an oath to defend the cloister to the last drop of their
blood.

But he redoubled also his watchfulness, resolving to look with more
care to the paid soldiers, as well as the nobles, and even his own
monks. The older fathers were detailed to the night choirs; the
younger, besides the service of God, were obliged to render service on
the walls.

Next day a review of the infantry was held. To each bastion one noble
with his servants, ten monks and two reliable gunners were detailed.
All these were bound to watch, night and day, the places confided to
them.

Pan Mosinski took his place at the northeastern bastion; he was a good
soldier, the man whose little child had survived in a miraculous
manner, though a bomb fell near its cradle. With him Father Hilary
Slavoshevski kept guard. On the western bastion was Father Myeletski,
of the nobles Pan Mikolai Kryshtoporski, a man surly and abrupt in
speech, but of unterrified valor. The southeastern bastion was occupied
by Charnyetski and Kmita, and with them was Father Adam Stypulski, who
had formerly been a hussar. He, when the need came, tucked up his
habit, aimed cannon, and took no more heed of the balls flying over his
head than did the old sergeant Soroka. Finally, to the southwestern
bastion were appointed Pan Skorjevski and Father Daniel Ryhtalski, who
were distinguished by this, that both could abstain from sleep two and
three nights in succession without harm to their health or their
strength.

Fathers Dobrosh and Malahovski were appointed over the sentries.
Persons unfitted for fighting were appointed to the roofs. The armory
and all military implements Father Lyassota took under his care; after
Father Dobrosh, he took also the office of master of the fires. In the
night he had to illuminate the walls so that infantry of the enemy
might not approach them. He arranged sockets and iron-holders on the
towers, on which flamed at night torches and lights.

In fact, the whole tower looked every night like one gigantic torch. It
is true that this lightened cannonading for the Swedes; but it might
serve as a sign that the fortress was holding out yet, if, perchance,
some army should march to relieve the besieged.

So then not only had designs of surrender crept apart into nothing, but
the besieged turned with still greater zeal to defence. Next morning
the prior walked along the walls, like a shepherd through a sheepfold,
saw that everything was right, smiled kindly, praised the chiefs and
the soldiers, and coming to Charnyetski, said with radiant face,—

“Our beloved leader, Pan Zamoyski, rejoices equally with me, for he
says that we are now twice as strong as at first. A new spirit has
entered men’s hearts, the grace of the Most Holy Lady will do the rest;
but meanwhile I will take to negotiations again. We will delay and put
off, for by such means the blood of people will be spared.”

“Oh, revered father!” said Kmita, “what good are negotiations? Loss of
time! Better another sortie to-night, and we will cut up those dogs.”

Kordetski (for he was in good humor) smiled as a mother smiles at a
wayward child; then he raised a band of straw lying near the gun, and
pretended to strike Pan Andrei with it on the shoulders: “And you will
interfere here, you Lithuanian plague; you will lap blood as a wolf,
and give an example of disobedience; here it is for you, here it is for
you!”

Kmita, delighted as a schoolboy, dodged to the right and to the left,
and as if teasing purposely, repeated: “Kill the Swedes! kill, kill,
kill!”

And so they gave comfort to one another, having ardent souls devoted to
the country. But Kordetski did not omit negotiations, seeing that
Miller desired them earnestly and caught after every pretext. This
desire pleased Kordetski, for he divined, without trouble, that it
could not be going well with the enemy if he was so anxious to finish.

Days passed then, one after another, in which guns and muskets were not
indeed silent, but pens were working mainly. In this way the siege was
prolonged, and winter was coming harsher and harsher. On the Carpathian
summits clouds hatched in their precipitous nests storms, frost, and
snows, and then came forth on the country, leading their icy
descendants. At night the Swedes cowered around fires, choosing to die
from the balls of the cloister rather than freeze.

A hard winter had rendered difficult the digging of trenches and the
making of mines. There was no progress in the siege. In the mouths not
merely of officers, but of the whole army, there was only one
word,—“negociations.”

The priests feigned at first a desire to surrender. Father Dobrosh and
the learned priest Sebastyan Stavitski came to Miller as envoys. They
gave him some hope of agreement. He had barely heard this when he
opened his arms and was ready to seize them with joy to his embraces.
It was no longer a question of Chenstohova, but of the whole country.
The surrender of Yasna Gora would have removed the last hope of the
patriots, and pushed the Commonwealth finally into the arms of the King
of Sweden; while, on the contrary, resistance, and that a victorious
resistance, might change hearts and call out a terrible new war. Signs
were not wanting. Miller knew this, felt what he had undertaken, what a
terrible responsibility was weighing on him; he knew that either the
favor of the king, with the baton of a marshal, honors, a title, were
waiting for him, or final fall. Since he had begun to convince himself
that he could not crack this “nut,” he received the priests with
unheard-of honor, as if they were embassadors from the Emperor of
Germany or the Sultan. He invited them to a feast, he drank to their
honor, and also to the health of the prior and Pan Zamoyski; he gave
them fish for the cloister; finally, he offered conditions of surrender
so gracious that he did not doubt for a moment that they would be
accepted in haste.

The fathers thanked him humbly, as beseemed monks; they took the paper
and went their way. Miller promised the opening of the gates at eight
of the following morning. Joy indescribable reigned in the camp of the
Swedes. The soldiers left the trenches, approached the walls, and began
to address the besieged.

But it was announced from the cloister that in an affair of such weight
the prior must consult the whole Congregation; the monks therefore
begged for one day’s delay. Miller consented without hesitation.
Meanwhile they were counselling in the chamber till late at night.

Though Miller was an old and trained warrior, though there was not,
perhaps, in the whole Swedish army a general who had conducted more
negotiations with various places than that Poliorcetes, still his heart
beat unquietly when next morning he saw two white habits approaching
his quarters.

They were not the same fathers. First walked Father Bleshynski, a
reader of philosophy, bearing a sealed letter; after him came Father
Malahovski, with hands crossed on his breast, with drooping head and a
face slightly pale.

The general received them surrounded by his staff and all his noted
colonels; and when he had answered politely the submissive bow of
Father Bleshynski, he took the letter from his hand hastily and began
to read.

But all at once his face changed terribly: a wave of blood flew to his
head; his eyes were bursting forth, his neck grew thick, and terrible
anger raised the hair under his wig. For a while speech was taken from
him; he only indicated with his hand the letter to the Prince of Hesse,
who ran over it with his eyes, and turning to the colonels, said
calmly,—

“The monks declare only this much, that they cannot renounce Yan
Kazimir before the primate proclaims a new king; or speaking in other
words, they will not recognize Karl Gustav.”

Here the Prince of Hesse laughed. Sadovski fixed a jeering glance on
Miller, and Count Veyhard began to pluck his own beard from rage. A
terrible murmur of excitement rose among those present.

Then Miller struck his palms on his knees and cried,—

“Guards, guards!”

The mustached faces of four musketeers showed themselves quickly in the
door.

“Take those shaven sticks,” cried the general, “and confine them! And
Pan Sadovski, do you trumpet for me under the cloister, that if they
open fire from one cannon on the walls, I will hang these two monks the
next moment.”

The two priests were led out amid ridicule and the scoffing of
soldiers. The musketeers put their own caps on the priests’ heads, or
rather on their faces to cover their eyes, and led them of purpose to
various obstacles. When either of the priests stumbled or fell, an
outburst of laughter was heard in the crowds; but the fallen man they
raised with the butts of muskets, and pretending to support, they
pushed him by the loins and the shoulders. Some threw horse-dung at the
priests; others took snow and rubbed it on their shaven crowns, or let
it roll down on their habits. The soldiers tore strings from trumpets,
and tying one end to the neck of each priest, held the other, and
imitating men taking cattle to a fair, called out the prices.

Both fathers walked on in silence, with hands crossed on their breasts
and prayers on their lips. Finally, trembling from cold and insulted,
they were enclosed in a barn; around the place guards armed with
muskets were stationed.

Miller’s command, or rather his threat, was trumpeted under the
cloister walls.

The fathers were frightened, and the troops were benumbed from the
threat. The cannon were silent; a council was assembled, they knew not
what to do. To leave the fathers in cruel hands was impossible; and if
they sent others, Miller would detain them as well. A few hours later
he himself sent a messenger, asking what the monks thought of doing.

They answered that until the fathers were freed no negotiations could
take place; for how could the monks believe that the general would
observe conditions with them if, despite the chief law of nations, he
imprisoned envoys whose sacredness even barbarians respect?

To this declaration there was no ready answer; hence terrible
uncertainty weighed on the cloister and froze the zeal of its
defenders.

The Swedish army dug new trenches in haste, filled baskets with earth,
planted cannon; insolent soldiers pushed forward to within half a
musket-shot of the walls. They threatened the church, the defenders;
half-drunken soldiers shouted, raising their hands toward the walls,
“Surrender the cloister, or you will see your monks hanging!”

Others blasphemed terribly against the Mother of God and the Catholic
faith. The besieged, out of respect to the life of the fathers, had to
listen with patience. Rage stopped the breath in Kmita’s breast. He
tore the hair on his head, the clothing on his breast, and wringing his
hands, said to Charnyetski,—

“I asked, ‘Of what use is negotiation with criminals?’ Now stand and
suffer, while they are crawling into our eyes and blaspheming! Mother
of God, have mercy on me, and give me patience! By the living God, they
will begin soon to climb the walls! Hold me, chain me like a murderer,
for I shall not contain myself.”

But the Swedes came ever nearer, blaspheming more boldly.

Meanwhile a fresh event brought the besieged to despair. Stefan
Charnyetski in surrendering Cracow had obtained the condition of going
out with all his troops, and remaining with them in Silesia till the
end of the war. Seven hundred infantry of those troops of the royal
guard, under command of Colonel Wolf, were near the boundary, and
trusting in stipulations, were not on their guard. Count Veyhard
persuaded Miller to capture those men.

Miller sent Count Veyhard himself, with two thousand cavalry, who
crossing the boundary at night attacked those troops during sleep, and
captured them to the last man. When they were brought to the Swedish
camp, Miller commanded to lead them around the wall, so as to show the
priests that that army from which they had hoped succor would serve
specially for the capture of Chenstohova.

The sight of that brilliant guard of the king dragged along the walls
was crushing to the besieged, for no one doubted that Miller would
force them first to the storm.

Panic spread again among the troops of the cloister; some of the
soldiers began to break their weapons and exclaim that there was help
no longer, that it was necessary to surrender at the earliest. Even the
hearts of the nobles had fallen; some of them appeared before Kordetski
again with entreaties to take pity on their children, on the sacred
place, on the image, and on the Congregation of monks. The courage of
the prior and Pan Zamoyski was barely enough to put down this movement.

But Kordetski had the liberation of the imprisoned fathers on his mind
first of all, and he took the best method; for he wrote to Miller that
he would sacrifice those brothers willingly for the good of the church.
Let the general condemn them to death; all would know in future what to
expect from him, and what faith to give his promises.

Miller was joyful, for he thought the affair was approaching its end.
But he did not trust the words of Kordetski at once, nor his readiness
to sacrifice the monks. He sent therefore one of them, Father
Bleshynski, to the cloister, binding him first with an oath to explain
the power of the Swedes and the impossibility of resistance. The monk
repeated everything faithfully, but his eyes spoke something else, and
concluding he said,—

“But prizing life less than the good of the Congregation, I am waiting
for the will of the council; and whatsoever you decide I will lay
before the enemy most faithfully.”

They directed him to say: “The monks are anxious to treat, but cannot
believe a general who imprisons envoys.” Next day the other envoy of
the fathers came to the cloister, and returned with a similar answer.

After this both heard the sentence of death. The sentence was read at
Miller’s quarters in presence of the staff and distinguished officers.
All observed carefully the faces of the monks, curious to learn what
impression the sentence would make; and with the greatest amazement
they saw in both a joy as great, as unearthly, as if the highest
fortune had been announced to them. The pale faces of the monks flushed
suddenly, their eyes were filled with light, and Father Malahovski said
with a voice trembling from emotion,—

“Ah! why should we not die to-day, since we are predestined to fall a
sacrifice for our Lord and the king?”

Miller commanded to lead them forth straightway. The officers looked at
one another. At last one remarked; “A struggle with such fanaticism is
difficult.”

The Prince of Hesse added: “Only the first Christians had such faith.
Is that what you wish to say?” Then he turned to Count Veyhard. “Pan
Veyhard,” said he, “I should be glad to know what you think of these
monks?”

“I have no need to trouble my head over them,” answered he, insolently;
“the general has already taken care of them.”

Then Sadovski stepped forward to the middle of the room, stood before
Miller, and said with decision: “Your worthiness, do not command to
execute these monks.”

“But why not?”

“Because there will be no talk of negotiations after that; for the
garrison of the fortress will be flaming with vengeance, and those men
will rather fall one upon the other than surrender.”

“Wittemberg will send me heavy guns.”

“Your worthiness, do not do this deed,” continued Sadovski, with force;
“they are envoys who have come here with confidence.”

“I shall not have them hanged on confidence, but on gibbets.”

“The echo of this deed will spread through the whole country, will
enrage all hearts, and turn them away from us.”

“Give me peace with your echoes; I have heard of them already a hundred
times.”

“Your worthiness will not do this without the knowledge of his Royal
Grace?”

“You have no right to remind me of my duties to the king.”

“But I have the right to ask for permission to resign from service, and
to present my reasons to his Royal Grace. I wish to be a soldier, not
an executioner.”

The Prince of Hesse issued from the circle in the middle of the room,
and said ostentatiously,—

“Give me your hand. Pan Sadovski; you are a gentleman, a noble, and an
honest man.”

“What does this mean?” roared Miller, springing from his seat.

“General,” answered the Prince of Hesse, “I permit myself to remark
that Pan Sadovski is an honorable man, and I judge that there is
nothing in this against discipline.”

Miller did not like the Prince of Hesse; but that cool, polite, and
also contemptuous manner of speaking, special to men of high rank,
imposed on him, as it does on many persons of low birth. Miller made
great efforts to acquire this manner, but had no success. He restrained
his outburst, however, and said calmly,—

“The monks will be hanged to-morrow.”

“That is not my affair,” answered the Prince of Hesse; “but in that
event let your worthiness order an attack on those two thousand Poles
who are in our camp, for if you do not they will attack us. Even now it
is less dangerous for a Swedish soldier to go among a pack of wolves
than among their tents. This is all I have to say, and now I permit
myself to wish you success.” When he had said this he left the
quarters.

Miller saw that he had gone too far. But he did not withdraw his
orders, and that same day gibbets wore erected in view of the whole
cloister. At the same time the soldiers, taking advantage of the truce,
pushed still nearer the walls, not ceasing to jeer, insult, blaspheme,
and challenge. Whole throngs of them climbed the mountain, stood as
closely together as if they intended to make an assault.

That time Kmita, whom they had not chained as he had requested, did not
in fact restrain himself, and thundered from a cannon into the thickest
group, with such effect that he laid down in a row all those who stood
in front of the shot. That was like a watchword; for at once, without
orders, and even in spite of orders, all the cannons began to play,
muskets and guns thundered.

The Swedes, exposed to fire from every side, fled from the fortress
with howling and screaming, many falling dead on the road.

Charnyetski sprang to Kmita: “Do you know that for that the reward is a
bullet in the head?”

“I know, all one to me. Let me be—”

“In that case aim surely.”

Kmita aimed surely; soon, however, he missed. A great movement rose
meanwhile in the Swedish camp, but it was so evident that the Swedes
were the first to violate the truce, that Miller himself recognized in
his soul that the besieged were in the right.

What is more, Kmita did not even suspect that with his shots he had
perhaps saved the lives of the fathers; but Miller, because of these
shots, became convinced that the monks in the last extremity were
really ready to sacrifice their two brethren for the good of the church
and the cloister.

The shots beat into his head this idea also, that if a hair were to
fall from the heads of the envoys, he would not hear from the cloister
anything save similar thunders; so next day he invited the two
imprisoned monks to dinner, and the day after he sent them to the
cloister.

Kordetski wept when he saw them, all took them in their arms and were
astonished at hearing from their mouths that it was specially owing to
those shots that they were saved. The prior, who had been angry at
Kmita, called him at once and said,—

“I was angry because I thought that you had destroyed the two fathers;
but the Most Holy Lady evidently inspired you. This is a sign of Her
favor, be rejoiced.”

“Dearest, beloved father, there will be no more negotiations, will
there?” asked Kmita, kissing Kordetski’s hands.

But barely had he finished speaking, when a trumpet was heard at the
gates, and an envoy from Miller entered the cloister.

This was Pan Kuklinovski, colonel of the volunteer squadron attached to
the Swedes. The greatest ruffians without honor or faith served in that
squadron, in part dissidents such as Lutherans, Arians,
Calvinists,—whereby was explained their friendship for Sweden; but a
thirst for robbery and plunder attracted them mainly to Miller’s army.
That band, made up of nobles, outlaws, fugitives from prison and from
the hands of a master, of attendants, and of gallows-birds snatched
from the rope, was somewhat like Kmita’s old party, save in this, that
Kmita’s men fought as do lions, and those preferred to plunder, offer
violence to noble women, break open stables and treasure chests. But
Kuklinovski himself had less resemblance to Kmita. Age had mixed gray
with his hair. He had a face dried, insolent, and shameless. His eyes,
which were unusually prominent and greedy, indicated violence of
character. He was one of those soldiers in whom, because of a turbulent
life and continuous wars, conscience had been burned out to the bottom.
A multitude of such men strolled about in that time, after the Thirty
Years’ War, through all Germany and Poland. They were ready to serve
any man, and more than once a mere simple incident determined the side
on which they were to stand.

Country and faith, in a word all things sacred, were thoroughly
indifferent to them. They recognized nothing but war, and sought in it
pleasure, dissipation, profit, and oblivion of life. But still when
they had chosen some side they served it loyally enough, and that
through a certain soldier-robber honor, so as not to close the career
to themselves and to others. Such a man was Kuklinovski. Stern daring
and immeasurable stubbornness had won for him consideration among the
disorderly. It was easy for him to find men. He had served in various
arms and services. He had been ataman in the Saitch; he had led
regiments in Wallachia; in Germany he had enlisted volunteers in the
Thirty Years’ War, and had won a certain fame as a leader of cavalry.
His crooked legs, bent in bow fashion, showed that he had spent the
greater part of his life on horseback. He was as thin as a splinter,
and somewhat bent from profligacy. Much blood, shed not in war only,
weighed upon him. And still he was not a man wholly wicked by nature;
he felt at times nobler influences. But he was spoiled to the marrow of
his bones, and insolent to the last degree. Frequently had he said in
intimate company, in drink; “More than one deed was done for which the
thunderbolt should have fallen, but it fell not.”

The effect of this impunity was that he did not believe in the justice
of God, and punishment, not only during life, but after death. In other
words, he did not believe in God; still, he believed in the devil, in
witches, in astrologers, and in alchemy. He wore the Polish dress, for
he thought it most fitting for cavalry; but his mustache, still black,
he trimmed in Swedish fashion, and spread at the ends turned upward. In
speaking he made every word diminutive, like a child; this produced a
strange impression when heard from the mouth of such a devil incarnate
and such a cruel ruffian, who was ever gulping human blood. He talked
much and boastingly; clearly he thought himself a celebrated personage,
and one of the first cavalry colonels on earth.

Miller, who, though on a broader pattern, belonged himself to a similar
class, valued him greatly, and loved specially to seat him at his own
table. At that juncture Kuklinovski forced himself on the general as an
assistant, guaranteeing that he would with his eloquence bring the
priests to their senses at once.

Earlier, when, after the arrest of the priests, Pan Zamoyski was
preparing to visit Miller’s camp and asked for a hostage, Miller sent
Kuklinovski; but Zamoyski and the prior would not accept him, as not
being of requisite rank.

From that moment, touched in his self-love, Kuklinovski conceived a
mortal hatred for the defenders of Yasna Gora, and determined to injure
them with all his power. Therefore he chose himself as an
embassy,—first for the embassy itself, and second so as to survey
everything and cast evil seed here and there. Since he was long known
to Charnyetski he approached the gate guarded by him; but Charnyetski
was sleeping at the time,—Kmita, taking his place, conducted the guest
to the council hall.

Kuklinovski looked at Pan Andrei with the eye of a specialist, and at
once he was pleased not only with the form but the bearing of the young
hero, which might serve as a model.

“A soldier,” said he, raising his hand to his cap, “knows at once a
real soldier. I did not think that the priests had such men in their
service. What is your rank, I pray?”

In Kmita, who had the zeal of a new convert, the soul revolted at sight
of Poles who served Swedes; still, he remembered the recent anger of
Kordetski at his disregard of negotiations; therefore he answered
coldly, but calmly,—

“I am Babinich, former colonel in the Lithuanian army, but now a
volunteer in the service of the Most Holy Lady.”

“And I am Kuklinovski, also colonel, of whom you must have heard; for
during more than one little war men mentioned frequently that name and
this sabre [here he struck at his side], not only here in the
Commonwealth, but in foreign countries.”

“With the forehead,” said Kmita, “I have heard.”

“Well, so you are from Lithuania, and in that land are famous soldiers.
We know of each other, for the trumpet of fame is to be heard from one
end of the world to the other. Do you know there, worthy sir, a certain
Kmita?”

The question fell so suddenly that Pan Andrei was as if fixed to the
spot. “But why do you ask of him?”

“Because I love him, though I know him not, for we are alike as two
boots of one pair; and I always repeat this, with your permission,
‘There are two genuine soldiers in the Commonwealth,—I in the kingdom,
and Kmita in Lithuania,’—a pair of dear doves, is not that true? Did
you know him personally?”

“Would to God that you were killed!” thought Kmita; but, remembering
Kuklinovski’s character of envoy, he answered aloud: “I did not know
him personally. But now come in, for the council is waiting.”

When he had said this, he indicated the door through which a priest
came out to receive the guest. Kuklinovski entered the chamber with him
at once, but first he turned to Kmita: “It would please me,” said he,
“if at my return you and none other were to conduct me out.”

“I will wait here,” answered Kmita. And he was left alone. After a
while he began to walk back and forth with quick steps; his whole soul
was roused within him, and his heart was filled with blood, black from
anger.

“Pitch does not stick to a garment like evil fame to a man,” muttered
he. “This scoundrel, this wretch, this traitor calls me boldly his
brother, and thinks he has me as a comrade. See to what I have come!
All gallows-birds proclaim me their own, and no decent man calls me to
mind without horror. I have done little yet, little! If I could only
give a lesson to this rascal! It cannot be but that I shall put my
score on him.”

The council lasted long in the chamber. It had grown dark. Kmita was
waiting yet.

At last Kuklinovski appeared. Pan Andrei could not see the colonel’s
face, but he inferred from his quick panting, that the mission had
failed, and had been also displeasing, for the envoy had lost desire
for talk. They walked on then for some time in silence. Kmita
determined meanwhile to get at the truth, and said with feigned
sympathy,—

“Surely, you are coming with nothing.—Our priests are stubborn; and,
between you and me, they act ill, for we cannot defend ourselves
forever.”

Kuklinovski halted and pulled him by the sleeve. “And do you think that
they act ill? You have your senses; these priests will be ground into
bran,—I guarantee that! They are unwilling to obey Kuklinovski; they
will obey his sword.”

“You see, it is not a question of the priests with me,” said Kmita,
“but of this place, which is holy, that is not to be denied, but which
the later it is surrendered the more severe must the conditions be. Is
what men say true, that through the country tumults are rising, that
here and there they are slashing the Swedes, and that the Khan is
marching with aid? If that is true, Miller must retreat.”

“I tell you in confidence, a wish for Swedish broth is rising in the
country, and likely in the army as well; that is true. They are talking
of the Khan also. But Miller will not retreat; in a couple of days
heavy artillery will come. We’ll dig these foxes out of their hole, and
then what will be will be!—But you have sense.”

“Here is the gate!” said Kmita; “here I must leave you, unless you wish
me to attend you down the slope?”

“Attend me, attend me! A couple of days ago you fired after an envoy.”

“Indeed! What do you mean?”

“Maybe unwillingly. But better attend me; I have a few words to say to
you.”

“And I to you.”

“That is well.”

They went outside the gate and sank in the darkness. Here Kuklinovski
stopped, and taking Kmita again by the sleeve, began to speak,—

“You, Sir Cavalier, seem to me adroit and foreseeing, and besides I
feel in you a soldier, blood and bone. What the devil do you stick to
priests for, and not to soldiers? Why be a serving lad for priests?
There is a better and a pleasanter company with us,—with cups, dice,
and women. Do you understand?”

Here he pressed Kmita’s arm with his fingers. “This house,” continued
he, pointing with his finger to the fortress, “is on fire, and a fool
is he who flees not from a house when ’tis burning. Maybe you fear the
name of traitor? Spit on those who would call you that! Come to our
company; I, Kuklinovski, propose this. Obey, if you like; if you don’t
like, obey not—there will be no offence. General Miller will receive
you well, I guarantee that; you have touched my heart, and I speak thus
from good wishes. Ours is a joyous company, joyous! A soldier’s freedom
is in this,—to serve whom he likes. Monks are nothing to you! If a bit
of virtue hinders you, then cough it out. Remember this also, that
honest men serve with us. How many nobles, magnates, hetmans! What can
be better? Who takes the part of our little Kazimir? No man save
Sapyeha alone, who is bending Radzivill.”

Kmita grew curious; “Did you say that Sapyeha is bending Radzivill?”

“I did. He is troubling him terribly there in Podlyasye, and is
besieging him now in Tykotsin. But we do not disturb him.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the King of Sweden wants them to devour one another. Radzivill
was never reliable; he was thinking of himself. Besides, he is barely
breathing. Whoever lets himself be besieged is in a fix, he is
finished.”

“Will not the Swedes go to succor him?”

“Who is to go? The king himself is in Prussia, for there lies the great
question. The elector has wriggled out hitherto; he will not wriggle
out this time. In Great Poland is war, Wittemberg is needed in Cracow,
Douglas has work with the hill-men; so they have left Radzivill to
himself. Let Sapyeha devour him. Sapyeha has grown, that is true, but
his turn will come also. Our Karl, when he finishes with Prussia, will
twist the horns of Sapyeha. Now there is no power against him, for all
Lithuania stands at his side.”

“But Jmud?”

“Pontus de la Gardie holds that in his paws, and heavy are the paws, I
know him.”

“How is it that Radzivill has fallen, he whose power was equal to that
of kings?”

“It is quenching already, quenching—”

“Wonderful are the ordinances of God!”

“The wheel of war changes. But no more of this. Well, what? Do you make
up your mind to my proposition? You’ll not be sorry! Come to us. If it
is too hurried to-day, think till to-morrow, till the day after, before
the heavy artillery comes. These people here trust you evidently, since
you pass through the gate as you do now. Or come with letters and go
back no more.”

“You attract others to the Swedish side, for you are an envoy of
Sweden,” said Kmita; “it does not beseem you to act otherwise, though
in your soul who knows what you think? There are those who serve the
Swedes, but wish them ill in their hearts.”

“Word of a cavalier!” answered Kuklinovski, “that I speak sincerely,
and not because I am filling the function of an envoy. Outside the gate
I am no longer an envoy; and if you wish I will remove the office of
envoy of my own will, and speak to you as a private man. Throw that
vile fortress to the devil!”

“Do you say this as a private man?”

“Yes.”

“And may I give answer to you as to a private man?”

“As true as life I propose it myself.”

“Then listen, Pan Kuklinovski,” Here Kmita inclined and looked into the
very eyes of the ruffian. “You are a rascal, a traitor, a scoundrel, a
crab-monger, an arch-cur! Have you enough, or shall I spit in your eyes
yet?”

Kuklinovski was astounded to such a degree that for a time there was
silence.

“What is this? How is this? Do I hear correctly?”

“Have you enough, you cur? or do you wish me to spit in your eyes?”

Kuklinovski drew his sabre; but Kmita caught him with his iron hand by
the wrist, twisted his arm, wrested the sabre from him, then slapped
him on the cheek so that the sound went out in the darkness; seized him
by the other side, turned him in his hand like a top, and kicking him
with all his strength, cried,—

“To a private man, not to an envoy!”

Kuklinovski rolled down like a stone thrown from a ballista. Pan Andrei
went quietly to the gate.

The two men parted on the slope of the eminence; hence it was difficult
to see them from the walls. But Kmita found waiting for him at the gate
Kordetski, who took him aside at once, and asked,—

“What were you doing so long with Kuklinovski.”

“I was entering into confidence with him,” answered Pan Andrei.

“What did he say?”

“He said that it was true concerning the Khan.”

“Praise be to God, who can change the hearts of pagans and make friends
out of enemies.”

“He told me that Great Poland is moving.”

“Praise be to God!”

“That the quarter soldiers are more and more unwilling to remain with
the Swedes; that in Podlyasye, the voevoda of Vityebsk, Sapyeha, has
beaten the traitor Radzivill, and that he has all honest people with
him. As all Lithuania stands by him, except Jmud, which De la Gardie
has taken.”

“Praise be to God! Have you had no other talk with each other?”

“Yes; Kuklinovski tried afterward to persuade me to go over to the
Swedes.”

“I expected that,” said the prior; “he is a bad man. And what did you
answer?”

“You see he told me, revered father, as follows: ‘I put aside my office
of envoy, which without that is finished beyond the gates, and I
persuade you as a private man.’ And I to make sure asked, ‘May I answer
as to a private man?’ He said, ‘Yes’—then—”

“What then?”

“Then I gave it to him in the snout, and he rolled down hill.”

“In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!”

“Be not angry, father; I acted very carefully, and that he will not say
a word about the matter to any man is certain.”

The priest was silent for a time, then said; “That you acted honestly,
I know. I am only troubled at this, that you have gained a new enemy.
He is a terrible man.”

“One more, one less!” said Kmita. Then he bent to the ear of the
priest. “But Prince Boguslav, he at least is an enemy! What is such a
Kuklinovski? I don’t even look back at him.”




CHAPTER III.


Now the terrible Arwid Wittemberg made himself heard. A famous officer
brought his stern letter to the cloister, commanding the fathers to
surrender the fortress to Miller. “In the opposite event,” wrote
Wittemberg, “if you do not abandon resistance, and do not yield to the
said general, you may be sure that a punishment awaits you which will
serve others as an example. The blame for your suffering lay to
yourselves.”

The fathers after receiving this letter determined in old fashion to
procrastinate, and present new difficulties daily. Again days passed
during which the thunder of artillery interrupted negotiations, and the
contrary.

Miller declared that he wished to introduce his garrison only to insure
the cloister against bands of freebooters. The fathers answered that
since their garrison appeared sufficient against such a powerful leader
as the general himself, all the more would it suffice against bands of
freebooters. They implored Miller, therefore, by all that was sacred,
by the respect which the people had for the place, by God and by Mary,
to go to Vyelunie, or wherever it might please him. But the patience of
the Swedes was exhausted. That humility of the besieged, who implored
for mercy while they were firing more and more quickly from cannons,
brought the chief and the army to desperation.

At first Miller could not get it into his head why, when the whole
country had surrendered, that one place was defending itself; what
power was upholding them; in the name of what hopes did these monks
refuse to yield, for what were they striving, for what were they
hoping?

But flowing time brought more clearly the answer to that question. The
resistance which had begun there was spreading like a conflagration. In
spite of a rather dull brain, the general saw at last what the question
with Kordetski was; and besides, Sadovski had explained
incontrovertibly that it was not a question of that rocky nest, nor of
Yasna Gora, nor of the treasures gathered in the cloister, nor of the
safety of the Congregation, but of the fate of the whole Commonwealth.
Miller discovered that that silent priest knew what he was doing, that
he had knowledge of his mission, that he had risen as a prophet to
enlighten the land by example,—to call with a mighty voice to the east
and the west, to the north and the south, _Sursum corda!_ (Raise your
hearts) in order to rouse, either by his victory or his death and
sacrifice, the sleeping from their slumber, to purify the sinful, to
bring light into darkness.

When he had discovered this, that old warrior was simply terrified at
that defender and at his own task. All at once that “hen-house” of
Chenstohova seemed to him a giant mountain defended by a Titan, and the
general seemed small to himself; and on his own army he looked, for the
first time in his life, as on a handful of wretched worms. Was it for
them to raise hands against that mysterious and heaven-touching power?
Therefore Miller was terrified, and doubt began to steal into his
heart. Seeing that the fault would be placed upon him, he began himself
to seek the guilty, and his anger fell first on Count Veyhard. Disputes
rose in the camp, and dissensions began to inflame hearts against one
another; the works of the siege had to suffer therefrom.

Miller had been too long accustomed to estimate men and events by the
common measure of a soldier, not to console himself still at times with
the thought that at last the fortress would surrender. And taking
things in human fashion, it could not be otherwise. Besides, Wittemberg
was sending him six siege guns of the heaviest calibre, which had shown
their force at Cracow.

“Devil take it!” thought Miller; “such walls will not stand against
guns like these, and if that nest of terrors, of superstitions, of
enchantment, winds up in smoke, then things will take another turn, and
the whole country will be pacified.”

While waiting for the heavier guns, he commanded to fire from the
smaller. The days of conflict returned. But in vain did balls of fire
fall on the roofs, in vain did the best gunners exert superhuman power.
As often as the wind blew away the sea of smoke, the cloister appeared
untouched, imposing as ever, lofty, with towers piercing calmly the
blue of the sky. At the same time things happened which spread
superstitious terror among the besiegers. Now balls flew over the whole
mountain and struck soldiers on the other side; now a gunner, occupied
in aiming a gun, fell on a sudden; now smoke disposed itself in
terrible and strange forms; now powder in the boxes exploded all at
once, as if fired by some invisible hand.

Besides, soldiers were perishing continually who alone, in twos or in
threes, went out of the camp. Suspicion fell on the Polish auxiliary
squadrons, which, with the exception of Kuklinovski’s regiment, refused
out and out every cooperation in the siege, and showed daily more
menacing looks. Miller threatened Colonel Zbrojek with a court-martial,
but he answered in presence of all the officers: “Try it, General.”

Officers from the Polish squadrons strolled purposely through the
Swedish camp, exhibiting contempt and disregard for the soldiers, and
raising quarrels with the officers. Thence it came to duels, in which
the Swedes, as less trained in fencing, fell victims more frequently.
Miller issued a severe order against duels, and finally forbade the
Poles entrance to the camp. From this it came that at last both armies
were side by side like enemies, merely awaiting an opportunity for
battle.

But the cloister defended itself ever better. It turned out that the
guns sent by Pan Myaskovski were in no wise inferior to those which
Miller had, and the gunners through constant practice arrived at such
accuracy that each shot threw down an enemy. The Swedes attributed this
to enchantment. The gunners answered the officers that with that power
which defended the cloister it was no business of theirs to do battle.

A certain morning a panic began in the southwestern trench, for the
soldiers had seen distinctly a woman in a blue robe shielding the
church and the cloister. At sight of this they threw themselves down on
their faces. In vain did Miller ride up, in vain did he explain that
mist and smoke had disposed themselves in that form, in vain besides
was his threat of court-martial and punishment. At the first moment no
one would hear him, especially as the general himself was unable to
hide his amazement.

Soon after this the opinion was spread through the whole army that no
one taking part in the siege would die his own death. Many officers
shared this belief, and Miller was not free from fears; for he brought
in Lutheran ministers and enjoined on them to undo the enchantment.
They walked through the camp whispering, and singing psalms; fear,
however, had so spread that more than once they heard from the mouths
of the soldiers: “Beyond your power, beyond your strength!”

In the midst of discharges of cannon a new envoy from Miller entered
the cloister, and stood before the face of Kordetski and the council.

This was Pan Sladkovski, chamberlain of Rava, whom Swedish parties had
seized as he was returning from Prussia. They received him coldly and
harshly, though he had an honest face and his look was as mild as the
sky; but the monks had grown accustomed to see honest faces on
traitors. He was not confused a whit by such a reception; combing
briskly his yellow forelock with his fingers, he began:—

“Praised be Jesus Christ!”

“For the ages of ages!” answered the Congregation, in a chorus.

And Kordetski added at once; “Blessed be those who serve him.”

“I serve him,” answered Sladkovski, “and that I serve him more
sincerely than I do Miller will be shown soon. H’m! permit me, worthy
and beloved fathers, to cough, for I must first spit out foulness.
Miller then—tfu! sent me, my good lords, to you to persuade you—tfu!—to
surrender. But I accepted the office so as to say to you: Defend
yourselves, think not of surrender, for the Swedes are spinning thin,
and the Devil is taking them by the eye.”

The monks and the laity were astonished at sight of such an envoy. Pan
Zamoyski exclaimed at once: “As God is dear to me, this is an honest
man!” and springing to him began to shake his hand; but Sladkovski,
gathering his forelock into one bunch, said,—

“That I am no knave will be shown straightway. I have become Miller’s
envoy so as to tell you news so favorable that I could wish, my good
lords, to tell it all in one breath. Give thanks to God and His Most
Holy Mother who chose you as instruments for changing men’s hearts. The
country, taught by your example and by your defence, is beginning to
throw off the yoke of the Swedes. What’s the use in talking? In Great
Poland and Mazovia the people are beating the Swedes, destroying
smaller parties, blocking roads and passages. In some places they have
given the enemy terrible punishment already. The nobles are mounting
their horses, the peasants are gathering in crowds, and when they seize
a Swede they tear straps out of him. Chips are flying, tow is flying!
This is what it has come to. And whose work is this?—yours.”

“An angel, an angel is speaking!” cried monks and nobles, raising their
hands toward heaven.

“Not an angel, but Sladkovski, at your service. This is nothing!—Listen
on. The Khan, remembering the kindness of the brother of our rightful
king, Yan Kazimir, to whom may God give many years! is marching with
aid, and has already passed the boundary of the Commonwealth. The
Cossacks who were opposed he has cut to pieces, and is moving on with a
horde of a hundred thousand toward Lvoff, and Hmelnitski _nolens
volens_ is coming with him.”

“For God’s sake, for God’s sake!” repeated people, overcome as it were
by happiness.

But Pan Sladkovski, sweating and waving his hand, with still more vigor
cried,—

“That is nothing yet! Pan Stefan Charnyetski, with whom the Swedes
violated faith, for they carried captive his infantry under Wolf, feels
free of his word and is mounting. Yan Kazimir is collecting troops, and
may return any day to the country and the hetmans. Listen further, the
hetmans, Pototski and Lantskoronski, and with them all the troops, are
waiting only for the coming of the king to desert the Swedes and raise
sabres against them. Meanwhile they are coming to an understanding with
Sapyeha and the Khan. The Swedes are in terror; there is fire in the
whole country, war in the whole country—whosoever is living is going to
the field!”

What took place in the hearts of the monks and the nobles is difficult
of description. Some wept, some fell on their knees, other repeated,
“It cannot be, it cannot be!” Hearing this, Sladkovski approached the
great crucifix hanging on the wall and said,—

“I place my hands on these feet of Christ pierced with a nail, and
swear that I declare the pure and clean truth. I repeat only: Defend
yourselves, fail not; trust not the Swedes; think not that by
submission and surrender you could insure any safety for yourselves.
They keep no promises, no treaties. You who are closed in here know not
what is passing in the whole country, what oppression has come, what
deeds of violence are done,—murdering of priests, profanation of
sanctuaries, contempt of all law. They promise you everything, they
observe nothing. The whole kingdom is given up as plunder to a
dissolute soldiery. Even those who still adhere to the Swedes are
unable to escape injustice. Such is the punishment of God on traitors,
on those who break faith with the king. Delay!—I, as you see me here,
if only I survive, if I succeed in slipping away from Miller, will move
straightway to Silesia, to our king. I will fall at his feet and say:
Gracious King, save Chenstohova and your most faithful servants! But,
most beloved fathers, stand firm, for the salvation of the whole
Commonwealth is depending upon you.”

Here Sladkovski’s voice trembled, tears appeared on his eyelids, but he
spoke further. “You will have grievous times yet: siege guns are coming
from Cracow, which two hundred infantry are bringing. One is a
particularly dreadful cannon. Terrible assaults will follow. But these
will be the last efforts. Endure yet these, for salvation is coming
already. By these red wounds of God, the king, the hetmans, the army,
the whole Commonwealth will come to rescue its Patroness. This is what
I tell you: rescue, salvation, glory is right here—not distant.”

The worthy noble now burst into tears, and sobbing became universal.

Ah! still better news was due to that wearied handful of defenders, to
that handful of faithful servants, and a sure consolation from the
country.

The prior rose, approached Sladkovski, and opened wide his arms.
Sladkovski rushed into them, and they embraced each other long; others
following their example began to fall into one another’s arms, embrace,
kiss, and congratulate one another as if the Swedes had already
retreated. At last the prior said,—

“To the chapel, my brethren, to the chapel!”

He went in advance, and after him the others. All the candles were
lighted, for it was growing dark outside; and the curtains were drawn
aside from the wonder-working image, from which sweet abundant rays
were scattered at once round about. Kordetski knelt on the steps,
farther away the monks, the nobles, and common people; women with
children were present also. Pale and wearied faces and eyes which had
wept were raised toward the image; but from behind the tears was
shining on each face a smile of happiness. Silence continued for a
time; at last Kordetski began,—

“Under thy protection we take refuge, Holy Mother of God—”

Further words stopped on his lips, weariness, long suffering, hidden
alarms, together with the gladsome hope of rescue, rose in him like a
mighty wave; therefore sobbing shook his breast, and that man, who bore
on his shoulders the fate of the whole country, bent like a weak child,
fell on his face, and with weeping immeasurable had strength only to
cry: “O Mary, Mary, Mary!”

All wept with him, but the image from above cast brightest rays.

It was late at night when the monks and the nobles went each his own
way to the walls; but Kordetski remained all night lying in the chapel
in the form of a cross. There were fears in the cloister that weariness
might overpower him; but next morning he appeared on the bastions, went
among the soldiers and the garrison, glad and refreshed, and here and
there he repeated,—

“Children, the Most Holy Lady will show again that she is mightier than
siege guns, and then will come the end of your sorrows and torments.”

That morning Yatsek Bjuhanski, an inhabitant of Chenstohova, disguised
as a Swede, approached the walls to confirm the news that great guns
were coming from Cracow, but also that the Khan with the horde was
approaching. He delivered a letter from Father Anton Pashkovski, of the
monastery at Cracow, who, describing the terrible cruelty and robbery
of the Swedes, incited and implored the fathers of Yasna Gora to put no
trust in the promises of the enemy, but to defend the sacred place
patiently against the insolence of the godless.

“There is no faith in the Swedes,” wrote Father Pashkovski, “no
religion. Nothing divine or human is sacred and inviolate for them. It
is not their custom to respect anything, though guarded by treaties or
public declarations.”

That was the day of the Immaculate Conception. Some tens of officers
and soldiers of the allied Polish squadrons besought with most urgent
requests Miller’s permission to go to the fortress for divine service.
Perhaps Miller thought that they would become friendly with the
garrison, carry news of the siege guns and spread alarm; perhaps he did
not wish by refusing to cast sparks on inflammable elements, which
without that made relations between the Poles and the Swedes more and
more dangerous: ’tis enough that he gave the permission.

With these quarter soldiers went a certain Tartar of the Polish
Mohammedan Tartars. He, amid universal astonishment, encouraged the
monks not to yield their holy place to vile enemies, considering with
certainty that the Swedes would soon go away with shame and defeat. The
quarter soldiers repeated the same, confirming completely the news
brought by Sladkovski. All this taken together raised the courage of
the besieged to such a degree that they had no fear of those gigantic
cannons, and the soldiers made sport of them among themselves.

After services firing began on both sides. There was a certain Swedish
soldier who had come many times to the wall, and with a trumpet-like
voice had blasphemed against the Mother of God. Many a time had the
besieged fired at him, but always without result. Kmita aimed at him
once, but his bow-string broke; the soldier became more and more
insolent, and roused others by his daring. It was said that he had
seven devils in his service who guarded and shielded him.

He came this day again to blaspheme; but the besieged, trusting that on
the day of the Immaculate Conception enchantments would have less
effect, determined to punish him without fail. They fired a good while
in vain; at last a cannon ball, rebounding from an ice wall, and
tripping along the snow like a bird, struck him straight in the breast
and tore him in two. The defenders comforted themselves with this and
cried out: “Who will blaspheme against Her another time?” Meanwhile the
revilers had rushed down to the trenches, in panic.

The Swedes fired at the walls and the roofs; but the balls brought no
terror to the besieged.

The old beggarwoman, Konstantsia, who dwelt in a cranny of the cliff,
used to go, as if in ridicule of the Swedes, along the whole slope,
gathering bullets in her apron, and threatening from time to time the
soldiers with her staff. They, thinking her a witch, were afraid she
would injure them, especially when they saw that bullets did not touch
her.

Two whole days passed in vain firing. They hurled on the roof ship
ropes very thickly steeped in pitch; these flew like fiery serpents;
but the guards, trained in a masterly manner, met the danger in time. A
night came with such darkness that, in spite of the fires, tar barrels,
and the fireworks of Father Lyassota, the besieged could see nothing.

Meanwhile some uncommon movement reigned among the Swedes. The squeak
of wheels was heard, men’s voices, at times the neighing of horses, and
various other kinds of uproar. The soldiers on the walls guessed the
cause easily.

“The guns have come surely,” said some.

The officers were deliberating on a sortie which Charnyetski advised;
but Zamoyski opposed, insisting, with reason, that at such important
works the enemy must have secured themselves sufficiently, and must
surely hold infantry in readiness. They resolved merely to fire toward
the north and south, whence the greatest noise came. It was impossible
to see the result in the darkness.

Day broke at last, and its first rays exposed the works of the Swedes.
North and south of the fortress were intrenchments, on which some
thousands of men were employed. These intrenchments stood so high that
to the besieged the summits of them seemed on a line with the walls of
the fortress. In the openings at the top were seen great jaws of guns,
and the soldiers standing behind them looked at a distance like swarms
of yellow wasps.

The morning Mass was not over in the church when unusual thunder shook
the air; the window-panes rattled; some of them dropped out of the
frames from shaking alone, and were broken with a sharp shiver on the
stone floor; and the whole church was filled with dust which rose from
fallen plaster.

The great siege guns had spoken.

A terrible fire began, such as the besieged had not experienced. At the
end of Mass all rushed out on the walls and roofs. The preceding storms
seemed innocent play in comparison with this terrible letting loose of
fire and iron.

The smaller pieces thundered in support of the siege guns. Great bombs,
pieces of cloth steeped in pitch, torches, and fiery ropes were flying.
Balls twenty-six pounds in weight tore out battlements, struck the
walls of buildings; some settled in them, others made great holes,
tearing off plaster and bricks. The walls surrounding the cloister
began to shake here and there and lose pieces, and struck incessantly
by new balls threatened to fall. The buildings of the cloister were
covered with fire.

The trumpeters on the tower felt it totter under them. The church
quaked from continuous pounding, and candles fell out of the sockets at
some of the altars.

Water was poured in immense quantities on the fires that had begun, on
the blazing torches, on the walls, on the fire balls; and formed,
together with the smoke and the dust, rolls of steam so thick that
light could not be seen through them. Damage was done to the walls and
buildings. The cry, “It is burning, it is burning!” was heard oftener
amid the thunder of cannon and the whistle of bullets. At the northern
bastion the two wheels of a cannon were broken, and one injured cannon
was silent. A ball had fallen into a stable, killed three horses, and
set fire to the building. Not only balls, but bits of grenades, were
falling as thickly as rain on the roofs, the bastions, and the walls.

In a short time the groans of the wounded were heard. By a strange
chance three young men fell, all named Yan. This amazed other defenders
bearing the same name; but in general the defence was worthy of the
storm. Even women, children, and old men came out on the walls.
Soldiers stood there with unterrified heart, in smoke and fire, amid a
rain of missiles, and answered with determination to the fire of the
enemy. Some seized the wheels and rolled the cannon to the most exposed
places; others thrust into breaches in the walls stones, beams, dung,
and earth.

Women with dishevelled hair and inflamed faces gave an example of
daring, and some were seen running with buckets of water after bombs
which were still springing and ready to burst right there, that moment.
Ardor rose every instant, as if that smell of powder, smoke, and steam,
that thunder, those streams of fire and iron, had the property of
rousing it. All acted without command, for words died amid the awful
noise. Only the supplications which were sung in the chapel rose above
the voices of cannon.

About noon firing ceased. All drew breath; but before the gate a drum
was sounded, and the drummer sent by Miller, approaching the gate,
inquired if the fathers had had enough, and if they wished to surrender
at once. Kordetski answered that they would deliberate over the
question till morning. The answer had barely reached Miller when the
attack began anew, and the artillery fire was redoubled.

From time to time deep ranks of infantry pushed forward under fire
toward the mountain, as if wishing to try an assault; but decimated by
cannon and muskets, they returned each time quickly and in disorder
under their own batteries. As a wave of the sea covers the shore and
when it retreats leaves on the sand weeds, mussels, and various
fragments broken in the deep, so each one of those Swedish waves when
it sank back left behind bodies thrown here and there on the slope.

Miller did not give orders to fire at the bastions, but at the wall
between them, where resistance was least. Indeed, here and there
considerable rents were made, but not large enough for the infantry to
rush through.

Suddenly a certain event checked the storm.

It was well toward evening when a Swedish gunner about to apply a
lighted match to one of the largest guns was struck in the very breast
by a ball from the cloister. The ball came not with the first force,
but after a third bound from the ice piled up at the intrenchment; it
merely hurled the gunner a number of yards. He fell on an open box
partly filled with powder. A terrible explosion was heard that instant,
and masses of smoke covered the trench. When the smoke fell away it
appeared that five gunners had lost their lives; the wheels of the
cannon were injured, and terror seized the soldiers. It was necessary
to cease fire for the time from that intrenchment, since a heavy fog
had filled the darkness; they also stopped firing in other places.

The next day was Sunday. Lutheran ministers held services in the
trenches, and the guns were silent. Miller again inquired if the
fathers had had enough. They answered that they could endure more.

Meanwhile the damage in the cloister was examined and found to be
considerable. People were killed and the wall was shaken here and
there. The most formidable gun was a gigantic culverin standing on the
north. It had broken the wall to such a degree, torn out so many stones
and bricks, that the besieged could foresee that should the fire
continue two days longer a considerable part of the wall would give
away.

A breach such as the culverin would make could not be filled with beams
or earth. The prior foresaw with an eye full of sorrow the ruin which
he could not prevent.

Monday the attack was begun anew, and the gigantic gun widened the
breach. Various mishaps met the Swedes, however. About dusk that day a
Swedish gunner killed on the spot Miller’s sister’s son, whom the
general loved as though he had been his own, and intended to leave him
all that he had,—beginning with his name and military reputation and
ending with his fortune. But the heart of the old warrior blazed up
with hatred all the more from this loss.

The wall at the northern bastion was so broken that preparations were
made in the night for a hand-to-hand assault. That the infantry might
approach the fortress with less danger, Miller commanded to throw up in
the darkness a whole series of small redoubts, reaching the very slope.
But the night was clear, and white light from the snow betrayed the
movements of the enemy. The cannons of Yasna Gora scattered the men
occupied in making those parapets formed of fascines, fences, baskets,
and timbers.

At daybreak Charnyetski saw a siege machine which they had already
rolled toward the walls. But the besieged broke it with cannon fire
without difficulty; so many men were killed on that occasion that the
day might have been called a day of victory for the besieged, had it
not been for that great gun which shook the wall incessantly with
irrestrainable power.

A thaw came on the following days, and such dense mists settled down
that the fathers attributed them to the action of evil spirits. It was
impossible to see either the machines of war, the erection of parapets,
or the work of the siege. The Swedes came near the very walls of the
cloister. In the evening Charnyetski, when the prior was making his
usual round of the walls, took him by the side and said in a low
voice,—

“Bad, revered father! Our wall will not hold out beyond a day.”

“Perhaps these fogs will prevent them from firing,” answered Kordetski;
“and we meanwhile will repair the rents somehow.”

“The fogs will not prevent the Swedes, for that gun once aimed may
continue even in darkness the work of destruction; but here the ruins
are falling and falling.”

“In God and in the Most Holy Lady is our hope.”

“True! But if we make a sortie? Even were we to lose men, if they could
only spike that dragon of hell.”

Just then some form looked dark in the fog, and Babinich appeared near
the speakers.

“I saw that some one was speaking; but faces cannot be distinguished
three yards away,” said he. “Good evening, revered father! But of what
is the conversation?”

“We are talking of that gun. Pan Charnyetski advises a sortie. These
fogs are spread by Satan; I have commanded an exorcism.”

“Dear father,” said Pan Andrei, “since that gun has begun to shake the
wall, I am thinking of it, and something keeps coming to my head. A
sortie is of no use. But let us go to some room; there I will tell you
my plans.”

“Well,” said the prior, “come to my cell.”

Soon after they were sitting at a pine table in Kordetski’s modest
cell. Charnyetski and the priest were looking carefully into the
youthful face of Babinich, who said,—

“A sortie is of no use in this case. They will see it and repulse it.
Here one man must do the work.”

“How is that?” asked Charnyetski.

“One man must go and burst that cannon with powder; and he can do it
during such fogs. It is best that he go in disguise. There are jackets
here like those worn by the enemy. As it will not be possible to do
otherwise, he will slip in among the Swedes; but if at this side of the
trench from which the gun is projecting there are no soldiers, that
will be better still.”

“For God’s sake! what will the man do?”

“It is only necessary to put a box of powder into the mouth of the gun,
with a hanging fuse and a thread to be ignited. When the powder
explodes, the gun—devil I wanted to say—will burst.”

“Oh, my son! what do you say? Is it little powder that they thrust into
it every day, and it does not burst?”

Kmita laughed, and kissed the priest on the sleeve of his habit.
“Beloved father, there is a great heart in you, heroic and holy—”

“Give peace now!” answered the prior.

“And holy,” repeated Kmita; “but you do not understand cannon. It is
one thing when powder bursts in the butt of the cannon, for then it
casts forth the ball and the force flies out forward, but another if
you stop the mouth of a gun with powder and ignite it,—no cannon can
stand such a trial. Ask Pan Charnyetski. The same thing will take place
if you fill the mouth of a cannon with snow and fire it; the piece will
burst. Such is the villanous power of powder. What will it be when a
whole box of it explodes at the mouth? Ask Pan Charnyetski.”

“That is true. These are no secrets for soldiers,” answered
Charnyetski.

“You see if this gun is burst,” continued Kmita, “all the rest are a
joke.”

“This seems impossible to me,” said Kordetski; “for, first, who will
undertake to do it?”

“A certain poor fellow,” said Kmita; “but he is resolute, his name is
Babinich.”

“You!” cried the priest and Charnyetski together.

“Ai, father, benefactor! I was with you at confession, and acknowledged
all my deeds in sincerity; among them were deeds not worse than the one
I am now planning; how can you doubt that I will undertake it? Do you
not know me?”

“He is a hero, a knight above knights,” cried Charnyetski. And seizing
Kmita by the neck, he continued: “Let me kiss you for the wish alone;
give me your mouth.”

“Show me another remedy, and I will not go,” said Kmita; “but it seems
to me that I shall manage this matter somehow. Remember that I speak
German as if I had been dealing in staves, wainscots, and wall plank in
Dantzig. That means much, for if I am disguised they will not easily
discover that I am not of their camp. But I think that no one is
standing before the mouth of the cannon; for it is not safe there, and
I think that I shall do the work before they can see me.”

“Pan Charnyetski, what do you think of this?” asked the prior, quickly.

“Out of one hundred men one might return from such an undertaking; but
_audaces fortuna juvat_ [fortune favors the bold].”

“I have been in hotter places than this,” said Kmita: “nothing will
happen to me, for such is my fortune. Ai, beloved father, and what a
difference! Ere now to exhibit myself, and for vainglory, I crawled
into danger; but this undertaking is for the Most Holy Lady. Even
should I have to lay down my head, which I do not foresee, say yourself
could a more praiseworthy death be wished to any man than down there in
this cause?”

The priest was long silent, and then said at last,—

“I should try to restrain you with persuasion, with prayers and
imploring, if you wished to go for mere glory; but you are right: this
is a question affecting the honor of the Most Holy Lady, this sacred
place, the whole country! And you, my son, whether you return safely or
win the palm of glory, you will gain the supreme happiness,—salvation.
Against my heart then I say, Go; I do not detain you. Our prayers, the
protection of God, will go with you.”

“In such company I shall go boldly and perish with joy.”

“But return, soldier of God, return safely; for you are loved with
sincerity here. May Saint Raphael attend you and bring you back,
cherished son, my dear child!”

“Then I will begin preparations at once,” said Pan Andrei, joyfully
pressing the priest. “I will dress in Swedish fashion with a jacket and
wide-legged boots. I will fill in the powder, and do you, father, stop
the exorcisms for this night; fog is needful to the Swedes, but also to
me.”

“And do you not wish to confess before starting?”

“Of course, without that I should not go; for the devil would have
approach to me.”

“Then begin with confession.”

Charnyetski went out of the cell, and Kmita knell down near the priest
and purged himself of his sins. Then, gladsome as a bird, he began to
make preparations.

An hour or two later, in the deep night, he knocked again at the
prior’s cell, where Pan Charnyetski also was waiting.

The two scarcely knew Pan Andrei, so good a Swede had he made himself.
He had twirled his mustaches to his eyes and brushed them out at the
ends; he had put his hat on one side of his head, and looked precisely
like some cavalry officer of noted family.

“As God lives, one would draw a sabre at sight of him,” said
Charnyetski.

“Put the light at a distance,” said Kmita; “I will show you something.”

When Father Kordetski had put the light aside quickly, Pan Andrei
placed on a table a roll, a foot and a half long and as thick as the
arm of a sturdy man, sewn up in pitched linen and filled firmly with
powder. From one end of it was hanging a long string made of tow
steeped in sulphur.

“Well,” said he, “when I put this flea-bane in the mouth of the cannon
and ignite the string, then its belly will burst.”

“Lucifer would burst!” cried Pan Charnyetski. But he remembered that it
was better not to mention the name of the foul one, and he slapped his
own mouth.

“But how will you set fire to the string?” asked Kordetski.

“In that lies the whole danger, for I must strike fire. I have good
flint, dry tinder, and steel of the best; but there will be a noise,
and they may notice something. The string I hope will not quench, for
it will hang at the beard of the gun, and it will be hard to see it,
especially as it will hide itself quickly in burning; but they may
pursue me, and I cannot flee straight toward the cloister.”

“Why not?” asked the priest.

“For the explosion would kill me. The moment I see the spark on the
string I must jump aside with all the strength in my legs, and when I
have run about fifty yards, must fall to the ground under the
intrenchment. After the explosion I shall rush toward the cloister.”

“My God, my God, how many dangers!” said the prior, raising his eyes to
heaven.

“Beloved father, so sure am I of returning that even emotion does not
touch me, which on an occasion like this ought to seize me. This is
nothing! Farewell, and pray the Lord God to give me luck. Only conduct
me to the gate.”

“How is that? Do you want to go now?” asked Charnyetski.

“Am I to wait till daylight, or till the fog rises? Is not my head dear
to me?”

But Pan Andrei did not go that night, for just as they came to the
gate, darkness, as if out of spite, began to grow light. Some movement
too was heard around the great siege gun.

Next morning the besieged were convinced that the gun was transferred
to another place.

The Swedes had received apparently some report of a great weakness in
the wall a little beyond the bend near the southern bastion, and they
determined to direct missiles to that spot. Maybe too the prior was not
a stranger to the affair, for the day before they had seen old Kostuha
(Konstantsia) going out of the cloister. She was employed chiefly when
there was need of giving false reports to the Swedes. Be that as it
may, it was a mistake on their part; for the besieged could now repair
in the old place the wall so greatly shaken, and to make a new breach a
number of days would be needed.

The nights were clear in succession, the days full of uproar. The
Swedes fired with terrible energy. The spirit of doubt began again to
fly over the fortress. Among the besieged were nobles who wished to
surrender; some of the monks too had lost heart. The opposition gained
strength and importance. The prior made head against it with
unrestrained energy, but his health began to give way. Meanwhile came
reinforcements to the Swedes and supplies from Cracow, especially
terrible explosive missiles in the form of iron cylinders filled with
powder and lead. These caused more terror than damage to the besieged.

Kmita, from the time that he had conceived the plan of bursting the
siege gun, secreted himself in the fortress. He looked every day at the
roll, with heart-sickness. On reflection he made it still larger, so
that it was almost an ell long and as thick as a boot-leg. In the
evening he cast greedy looks toward the gun, then examined the sky like
an astrologer. But the bright moon, shining on the snow continually,
baffled his plan.

All at once a thaw came; clouds covered the horizon, and the night was
dark,—so dark that even strain your eyes you could see nothing. Pan
Andrei fell into such humor as if some one had given him the steed of
the Sultan; and midnight had barely sounded when he stood before
Charnyetski in his cavalry dress, the roll under his arm.

“I am going!” said he.

“Wait, I will speak to the prior.”

“That is well. Kiss me, Pan Pyotr, and go for the prior.”

Charnyetski kissed him with feeling, and turned away. He had hardly
gone thirty steps when Kordetski stood before him in white. He had
guessed that Kmita was going, and had come there to bless him.

“Babinich is ready; he is only waiting for your reverence.”

“I hurry, I hurry!” answered the priest. “O Mother of God, save him and
aid him!”

After a while both were standing at the opening where Charnyetski left
Kmita, but there was no trace of him.

“He has gone!” said the prior, in amazement.

“He has gone!” repeated Charnyetski.

“But, the traitor!” said the prior, with emotion, “I intended to put
this little scapular on his neck.”

Both ceased to speak; there was silence around, and as the darkness was
dense there was firing from neither side. On a sudden Charnyetski
whispered eagerly,—

“As God is dear to me, he is not even trying to go in silence! Do you
hear steps crushing the snow?”

“Most Holy Lady, guard thy servant!” said the prior.

Both listened carefully for a time, till the brisk steps and the noise
on the snow had ceased.

“Do you know, your reverence, at moments I think that he will succeed,
and I fear nothing for him. The strange man went as if he were going to
an inn to drink a glass of liquor. What courage he has in him! Either
he will lay down his head untimely, or he will be hetman. H’m! if I did
not know him as a servant of Mary, I should think that he has—God give
him success, God grant it to him! for such another cavalier there is
not in the Commonwealth.”

“It is so dark, so dark!” said Kordetski; “but they are on their guard
since the night of your sortie. He might come upon a whole rank before
he could see it.”

“I do not think so. The infantry are watching, that I know, and watch
carefully; but they are in the intrenchment, not before the muzzles of
their own cannon. If they do not hear the steps, he can easily push
under the intrenchment, and then the height of it alone will cover
him—Uf!”

Here Charnyetski puffed and ceased speaking; for his heart began to
beat like a hammer from expectation and alarm, and breath failed him.

Kordetski made the sign of the cross in the darkness.

A third person stood near the two. This was Zamoyski.

“What is the matter?” asked he.

“Babinich has gone to blow up the siege gun.”

“How is that? What is that?”

“He took a roll of powder, cord, and flint, and went.”

Zamoyski pressed his head between his hands.

“Jesus, Mary! Jesus, Mary! All alone?”

“All alone.”

“Who let him go? That’s an impossible deed!”

“I. For the might of God all things are possible, even his safe
return,” said Kordetski.

Zamoyski was silent. Charnyetski began to pant from emotion.

“Let us pray,” said the prior.

The three knelt down and began to pray. But anxiety raised the hair on
the heads of both knights. A quarter of an hour passed, half an hour,
an hour as long as a lifetime.

“There will be nothing now!” said Charnyetski, sighing deeply.

All at once in the distance a gigantic column of flame burst forth, and
a roar as if all the thunders of heaven had been hurled to the earth;
it shook the walls, the church, and the cloister.

“He has burst it, he has burst it!” shouted Charnyetski.

New explosions interrupted further speech of his.

Kordetski threw himself on his knees, and raising his hands, cried to
heaven, “Most Holy Mother, Guardian, Patroness, bring him back safely!”

A noise was made on the walls. The garrison, not knowing what had
happened, seized their arms. The monks rushed from their cells. No one
was sleeping. Even women sprang forth. Questions and answers crossed
one another like lightnings.

“What has happened?”

“An assault!”

“The Swedish gun has burst!” cried one of the cannoneers.

“A miracle, a miracle!”

“The largest gun is burst!”

“That great one!”

“Where is the prior?”

“On the wall. He is praying; he did this.”

“Babinich burst the gun!” cried Charnyetski.

“Babinich, Babinich! Praise to the Most Holy Lady! They will harm us no
longer.”

At the same time sounds of confusion rose from the Swedish camp. In all
the trenches fires began to shine. An increasing uproar was heard. By
the light of the fires masses of soldiers were seen moving in various
directions without order, trumpets sounded, drums rolled continually;
to the walls came shouts in which alarm and amazement were heard.

Kordetski continued kneeling on the wall.

At last the night began to grow pale, but Babinich came not to the
fortress.




CHAPTER IV.


What had happened to Pan Andrei, and in what way had he been able to
carry out his plan?

After leaving the fortress he advanced some time with a sure and wary
step. At the very end of the slope he halted and listened. It was
silent around,—so silent in fact that his steps were heard clearly on
the snow. In proportion as he receded from the walls, he stepped more
carefully. He halted again, and again listened. He was somewhat afraid
of slipping and falling, and thus dampening his precious roll; he drew
out his rapier therefore and leaned on it. That helped him greatly.
Thus feeling his way, after the course of half an hour he heard a
slight sound directly in front.

“Ah! they are watching. The sortie has taught them wariness,” thought
he.

And he went farther now very slowly. He was glad that he had not gone
astray, for the darkness was such that he could not see the end of the
rapier.

“Those trenches are considerably farther: I am advancing well then!”
whispered he to himself.

He hoped also not to find men before the intrenchment; for, properly
speaking, they had nothing to do there, especially at night. It might
be that at something like a hundred or fewer yards apart single
sentries were stationed; but he hoped to pass them in such darkness. It
was joyous in his soul.

Kmita was not only daring but audacious. The thought of bursting the
gigantic gun delighted him to the bottom of his soul,—not only as
heroism, not only as an immortal service to the besieged, but as a
terrible damage to the Swedes. He imagined how Miller would be
astounded, how he would gnash his teeth, how he would gaze in
helplessness on those walls; and at moments pure laughter seized him.

And as he had himself said, he felt no emotion, no fear, no unquiet. It
did not even enter his head to what an awful danger he was exposing
himself. He went on as a school-boy goes to an orchard to make havoc
among apples. He recalled other times when he harried Hovanski, stole
up at night to a camp of thirty thousand with two hundred such fighters
as himself.

His comrades stood before his mind: Kokosinski, the gigantic
Kulvyets-Hippocentaurus, the spotted Ranitski, of senatorial stock, and
others; then for a moment he sighed after them. “If they were here
now,” thought he, “we might blow up six guns.” Then the feeling of
loneliness oppressed him somewhat, but only for a short while; soon
memory brought before his eyes Olenka. Love spoke in him with
immeasurable power. He was moved to tenderness. If she could see him,
the heart would rejoice in her this time. Perhaps she thinks yet that
he is serving the Swedes. He is serving them nicely! And soon he will
oblige them! What will happen when she learns of all these perils? What
will she think? She will think surely, “He is a whirlwind, but when it
comes to a deed which no other can do, he will do it; where another
dares not go, he will go. Such a man is that Kmita!”

“Another such deed I shall never accomplish,” said Pan Andrei; and
boastfulness seized him completely. Still, in spite of these thoughts
he did not forget where he was, whither he was going, what he intended
to do; and he began to advance like a wolf on a night pasture. He
looked behind once and a second time. No church, no cloister! All was
covered with thick, impenetrable gloom. He noted, however, by the time,
that he must have advanced far already, and that the trench might be
right there.

“I am curious to know if there are sentries,” thought he.

But he had not advanced two steps after giving himself this question,
when, in front of him, was heard the tramp of measured steps and a
number of voices inquired at various distances,—

“Who goes?”

Pan Andrei stood as if fixed to the earth. He felt hot.

“Ours,” answered a number of voices.

“The watchword!”

“Upsala.”

“The counter-sign!”

“The crown.”

Kmita saw at this moment that there was a change of sentries. “I’ll
give you Upsala and a crown!” And he rejoiced. This was really for him
a very favorable circumstance, for he might pass the line of guards at
the moment of changing sentries, when the tramp of the soldiers drowned
his own steps.

In fact, he did so without the least difficulty, and went after the
returning soldiers rather boldly up to the trench itself. There they
made a turn to go around it; but he pushed quickly into the ditch and
hid in it.

Meanwhile objects had become somewhat more visible; Pan Andrei thanked
Heaven, for in the previous darkness he could not by feeling have found
the gun sought for. Now, by throwing back his head and straining his
vision, he saw above him a black line, indicating the edge of the
trench, and also the black outlines of the baskets between which stood
the guns.

He could indeed see their jaws thrust out a little above the trench.
Advancing slowly in the ditch, he discovered the great gun at last. He
halted and began to listen. From the intrenchment a noise came,—a
murmur; evidently the infantry were near the guns, in readiness. But
the height of the intrenchment concealed Kmita; they might hear him,
they could not see him. Now he had only to rise from below to the mouth
of the gun, which was high above his head.

Fortunately the sides of the ditch were not too steep; and besides the
embankment freshly made, or moist with water, had not frozen, since for
some time there had been a thaw.

Taking note of all this, Kmita began to sink holes quietly in the slope
of the intrenchment and to climb slowly to the gun. After fifteen
minutes’ work he was able to seize the opening of the culverin. Soon he
was hanging in the air, but his uncommon strength permitted him to hold
himself thus till he pushed the roll into the jaws of the cannon.

“Here’s dog sausage for thee!” muttered he, “only don’t choke with it!”

Then he slipped down and began to look for the string, which, fastened
to the inner side of the roll, was hanging to the ditch. After a while
he felt it with his hand. But then came the greatest difficulty, for he
had to strike fire and ignite the string.

Kmita waited for a moment, thinking that the noise would increase
somewhat among the soldiers in the breastworks. At last he began to
strike the flint lightly with the steel. But that moment above his head
was heard in German the question,—

“Who is there in the ditch?”

“It is I, Hans!” answered Kmita, without hesitation; “the devils have
taken my ramrod into the ditch, and I am striking fire to find it.”

“All right, all right,” said the gunner. “It is your luck there is no
firing, for the wind would have taken your head off.”

“Ah!” thought Kmita, “the gun besides my charge has still its own,—so
much the better.”

At that moment the sulphur-string caught, and delicate little sparks
began to run upward along its dry exterior.

It was time to disappear. Kmita hurried along the ditch with all the
strength in his legs, not losing an instant, not thinking overmuch of
the noise he was making. But when he had run twenty yards, curiosity
overcame in him the feeling of his terrible danger.

“The string has gone out, there is moisture in the air!” thought he;
and he stopped. Casting a look behind, he saw a little spark yet, but
much higher than he had left it.

“Eh, am I not too near?” thought he; and fear hurried him forward.

He pushed on at full speed; all at once he struck a stone and fell. At
that moment a terrible roar rent the air; the earth trembled, pieces of
wood, iron, stones, lumps of ice and earth, whistled about his ears,
and here his sensations ended.

After that were heard new explosions in turn. These were powder-boxes
standing near the cannon which exploded from the shock.

But Kmita did not hear these; he lay as if dead in the ditch. He did
not hear also how, after a time of deep silence, the groans of men were
heard, cries and shouts for help; how nearly half the army, Swedish and
allied, assembled.

The confusion and uproar lasted long, till from the chaos of testimony
the Swedish general reached the fact that the siege-gun had been blown
up of purpose by some one. Search was ordered immediately. In the
morning the searching soldiers found Kmita lying in the ditch.

It appeared that he was merely stunned from the explosion. He had lost,
to begin with, control of his hands and feet. His powerlessness lasted
the whole ensuing day. They nursed him with the utmost care. In the
evening he had recovered his power almost completely.

He was brought then by command before Miller, who occupied the middle
place at the table in his quarters; around him sat the Prince of Hesse,
Count Veyhard, Sadovski, all the noted officers of the Swedes, of the
Poles, Zbrojek, Kalinski, and Kuklinovski. The last at sight of Kmita
became blue, his eyes burned like two coals, and his mustaches began to
quiver. Without awaiting the question of the general, he said,—

“I know this bird. He is from the Chenstohova garrison. His name is
Babinich.”

Kmita was silent; pallor and weariness were evident on his face, but
his glance was bold and his countenance calm.

“Did you blow up the siege-gun?” asked Miller.

“I did.”

“How did you do it?”

Kmita stated all briefly, concealed nothing. The officers looked at one
another in amazement.

“A hero!” whispered the Prince of Hesse to Sadovski.

But Sadovski inclined to Count Veyhard. “Count Veyhard,” asked he, “how
are we to take a fortress with such defenders? What do you think, will
they surrender?”

“There are more of us in the fortress ready for such deeds,” said
Kmita. “You know not the day nor the hour.”

“I too have more than one halter in the camp,” said Miller.

“We know that. But you will not take Yasna Gora while there is one man
alive there.”

A moment of silence followed. Then Miller inquired,—

“Is your name Babinich?”

Pan Andrei thought that after what he had done, and in presence of
death, the time had come in which he had no need to conceal his name.
Let people forget the faults and transgressions bound up with it; let
glory and devotion shine over them.

“My name is not Babinich,” said he, with a certain pride, “my name is
Andrei Kmita; I was colonel of my own personal squadron in the
Lithuanian contingent.”

Hardly had Kuklinovski heard this when he sprang up as if possessed,
stuck out his eyes, opened his mouth, and began to strike his sides
with his hands. At last he cried,—

“General, I beg for a word without delay, without delay.”

A murmur rose at the same time among the Polish officers, which the
Swedes heard with wonder, since for them the name Kmita meant nothing.
They noted at once that this must be no common soldier, for Zbrojek
rose, and approaching the prisoner said,—

“Worthy colonel, in the straits in which you are I cannot help you; but
give me your hand, I pray.”

Kmita raised his head and began to snort.

“I will not give a hand to traitors who serve against their country!”

Zbrojek’s face flushed. Kalinski, who stood right behind him, withdrew.
The Swedish officers surrounded them at once, asking what man this
Kmita was whose name had made such an impression. During this time
Kuklinovski had squeezed Miller up to the window, and said,—

“For your worthiness the name Kmita is nothing; but he is the first
soldier, the first colonel, in the whole Commonwealth. All know of him,
all know that name; once he served Radzivill and the Swedes; now it is
clear that he has gone over to Yan Kazimir. There is not his equal
among soldiers, save me. He was the only man who could go alone and
blow up that gun. From this one deed you may know him. He fought
Hovanski, so that a reward was put on his head. He with two or three
hundred men kept up the whole war after the defeat at Shklov, until
others were found who, imitating him, began to tear at the enemy. He is
the most dangerous man in all the country—”

“Why do you sing his praises to me?” inquired Miller. “That he is
dangerous I know to my own irreparable loss.”

“What does your worthiness think of doing with him?”

“I should give orders to hang him; but being a soldier myself, I know
how to value daring and bravery. Besides, he is a noble of high
birth,—I will order him shot, and that to-day.”

“Your worthiness, it is not for me to instruct the most celebrated
soldier and statesman of modern times; but I permit myself to say that
that man is too famous. If you shoot him, Zbrojek’s squadron and
Kalinski’s will withdraw at the latest this very day, and go over to
Yan Kazimir.”

“If that is true, I’ll have them cut to pieces before they go!” cried
Miller.

“Your worthiness, a terrible responsibility! for if that becomes
known,—and the cutting down of two squadrons is hard to hide,—the whole
Polish army will leave Karl Gustav; at present their loyalty is
tottering, as you know. The hetmans are not reliable. Pan Konyetspolski
with six thousand of the best cavalry is at the side of our king. That
force is no trifle. God defend us if these too should turn against us,
against the person of his Royal Grace! Besides, this fortress defends
itself; and to cut down the squadrons of Zbrojek and Kalinski is no
easy matter, for Wolf is here too with his infantry. They might come to
an agreement with the garrison of the fortress.”

“A hundred horned devils!” cried Miller; “what do you want,
Kuklinovski? do you want me to give Kmita his life? That cannot be.”

“I want,” answered Kuklinovski, “you to give him to me.”

“What will you do with him?”

“Ah, I—will tear him alive from his skin.”

“You did not know even his real name, you do not know him. What have
you against him?”

“I made his acquaintance first in the fortress, where I have been twice
as an envoy to the monks.”

“Have you reasons for vengeance?”

“Your worthiness, I wished privately to bring him to our camp. He,
taking advantage of the fact that I laid aside my office of envoy,
insulted me, Kuklinovski, as no man in life has insulted me.”

“What did he do to you?”

Kuklinovski trembled and gnashed his teeth. “Better not speak of it.
Only give him to me. He is doomed to death anyhow, and I would like
before his end to have a little amusement with him,—all the more
because he is the Kmita whom formerly I venerated, and who repaid me in
such fashion. Give him to me; it will be better for you. If I rub him
out, Zbrojek and Kalinski and with them all the Polish knighthood will
fall not upon you, but upon me, and I’ll help myself. There will not be
anger, wry faces, and mutiny. It will be my private matter about
Kmita’s skin, of which I shall have a drum made.”

Miller fell to thinking; a sudden suspicion flashed over his face.

“Kuklinovski,” said he, “maybe you wish to save him?”

Kuklinovski smiled quietly, but that smile was so terrible and sincere
that Miller ceased to doubt.

“Perhaps you give sound advice,” said he.

“For all my services I beg this reward only.”

“Take him, then.”

Now both returned to the room where the rest of the officers were
assembled. Miller turned to them and said,—

“In view of the services of Pan Kuklinovski I place at his absolute
disposal this prisoner.”

A moment of silence followed; then Pan Zbrojek put his hands on his
sides, and asked with a certain accent of contempt,—

“And what does Pan Kuklinovski think to do with the prisoner?”

Kuklinovski bent, straightened himself quickly, his lips opened with an
ill-omened smile, and his eyes began to quiver.

“Whoso is not pleased with what I do to the prisoner, knows where to
find me.” And he shook his sabre.

“Your promise, Pan Kuklinovski,” said Zbrojek.

“Promise, promise!”

When he had said this he approached Kmita. “Follow me, little worm;
come after me, famous soldier. Thou’rt a trifle weak; thou needst
swathing,—I’ll swathe thee.”

“Ruffian!” said Kmita.

“Very good, very good, daring soul! Meanwhile step along.”

The officers remained in the room; Kuklinovski mounted his horse before
the quarters. Having with him three soldiers, he commanded one of them
to lead Kmita by a lariat; and all went together toward Lgota, where
Kuklinovski’s regiment was quartered.

On the way Kmita prayed ardently. He saw that death was approaching,
and he committed himself with his whole soul to God. He was so sunk in
prayer and in his own doom that he did not hear what Kuklinovski said
to him; he did not know even how long the road was.

They stopped at last before an empty, half-ruined barn, standing in the
open field, at some distance from the quarters of Kuklinovski’s
regiment. The colonel ordered them to lead Kmita in, and turning
himself to one of the soldiers, said,—

“Hurry for me to the camp, bring ropes and a tar bucket!”

The soldier galloped with all the breath in his horse, and in quarter
of an hour returned at the same pace, with a comrade. They had brought
the requisite articles.

“Strip this spark naked!” ordered Kuklinovski; “tie his hands and feet
behind him with a rope, and then fasten him to a beam.”

“Ruffian!” said Kmita.

“Good, good! we can talk yet, we have time!”

Meanwhile one of the soldiers climbed up on the beam, and the others
fell to dragging the clothes from Kmita. When he was naked the three
executioners placed Pan Andrei with his face to the ground, bound his
hands and feet with a long rope, then passing it still around his waist
they threw the other end to the soldier sitting on the beam.

“Now raise him, and let the man on the beam pull the rope and tie it!”
said Kuklinovski.

In a moment the order was obeyed.

“Let him go!”

The rope squeaked. Pan Andrei was hanging parallel with the earth, a
few ells above the threshing-floor. Then Kuklinovski dipped tow in the
burning tar-bucket, walked up to him, and said,—

“Well, Pan Kmita, did not I say that there are two colonels in the
Commonwealth?—only two, I and thou! And thou didst not wish to join
company with Kuklinovski, and kicked him! Well, little worm, thou art
right! Not for thee is the company of Kuklinovski, for Kuklinovski is
better. Hei! a famous colonel is Pan Kmita, and Kuklinovski has him in
his hand, and Kuklinovski is roasting his sides!”

“Ruffian!” repeated Kmita, for the third time.

“This is how he will roast his sides!” finished Kuklinovski, and he
touched Kmita’s side with the burning tow; then he said,—

“Not too much at first; we have time.”

Just then the tramp of horses was heard near the barn-door.

“Whom are the devils bringing?” asked Kuklinovski.

The door squeaked and a soldier entered. “General Miller wishes to see
your grace at once!”

“Ah! that is thou, old man?” asked Kuklinovski. “What business? What
devil?”

“The general asks your grace to come to him straightway.”

“Who came from the general?”

“There was a Swedish officer; he has ridden off already. He had almost
driven the breath out of his horse.”

“I’ll go,” said Kuklinovski. Then he turned to Kmita: “It was hot for
thee; cool off now, little worm. I’ll come again soon, we’ll have
another talk.”

“What shall be done with the prisoner?” asked one of the soldiers.

“Leave him as he is. I shall return directly. Let one go with me.”

The colonel went out, and with him that soldier who had sat on the beam
at first. There remained only three, but soon three new ones entered
the barn.

“You may go to sleep,” said he who had reported Miller’s order to
Kuklinovski, “the colonel has left the guard to us.”

“We prefer to remain,” replied one of the first three soldiers, “to see
the wonder; for such a—”

Suddenly he stopped. A certain unearthly sound was wrested from his
throat like the call of a strangled cock. He threw out his arms and
fell as if struck by lightning.

At the same moment the cry of “Pound” was heard through the barn, and
two of the newly arrived rushed like leopards on the two remaining
soldiers. A terrible, short struggle surged up, lighted by the gleams
of the burning tar-bucket. After a moment two bodies fell in the straw,
for a moment longer were heard the gasps of the dying, then that voice
rose which at first seemed familiar to Kmita.

“Your grace, it is I, Kyemlich, and my sons. We have been waiting since
morning for a chance, we have been watching since morning.” Then he
turned to his sons: “Now out, rogues, free the colonel in a
breath,—quickly!”

And before Kmita was able to understand what was taking place there
appeared near him the two bushy forelocks of Kosma and Damian, like two
gigantic distaffs. The ropes were soon cut, and Kmita stood on his
feet. He tottered at first; his stiffened lips were barely able to
say,—

“That is you?—I am thankful.”

“It is I!” answered the terrible old man. “Mother of God! Oh—let his
grace dress quickly. You rogues—” And he began to give Kmita his
clothes.

“The horses are standing at the door,” said he. “From here the way is
open. There are guards; maybe they would let no one in, but as to
letting out, they will let out. We know the password. How does your
grace feel?”

“He burned my side, but only a little. My feet are weak—”

“Drink some gorailka.”

Kmita seized with eagerness the flask the old man gave him, and
emptying half of it said,—

“I was stiff from the cold. I shall be better at once.”

“Your grace will grow warm on the saddle. The horses are waiting.”

“In a moment I shall be better,” repeated Kmita. “My side is smarting a
little—that’s nothing!—I am quite well.” And he sat on the edge of a
grain-bin.

After a while he recovered his strength really, and looked with perfect
presence of mind on the ill-omened faces of the three Kyemliches,
lighted by the yellowish flame of the burning pitch. The old man stood
before him.

“Your grace, there is need of haste. The horses are waiting.”

But in Pan Andrei the Kmita of old times was roused altogether.

“Oh, impossible!” cried he, suddenly; “now I am waiting for that
traitor.”

The Kyemliches looked amazed, but uttered not a word,—so accustomed
were they from former times to listen blindly to this leader.

The veins came out on his forehead; his eyes were burning in the dark,
like two stars, such was the hate and the desire of vengeance that
gleamed in them. That which he did then was madness, he might pay for
it with his life; but his life was made up of a series of such
madnesses. His side pained him fiercely, so that every moment he seized
it unwittingly with his hand; but he was thinking only of Kuklinovski,
and he was ready to wait for him even till morning.

“Listen!” said he; “did Miller really call him?”

“No,” answered the old man. “I invented that to manage the others here
more easily. It would have been hard for us three against five, for
some one might have raised a cry.”

“That was well. He will return alone or in company. If there are any
people with him, then strike at once on them. Leave him to me. Then to
horse! Has any one pistols?”

“I have,” said Kosma.

“Give them here! Are they loaded, is there powder in the pan?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. If he comes back alone, when he enters spring on him and
shut his mouth. You can stuff his own cap into it.”

“According to command,” said the old man. “Your grace permits us now to
search these? We are poor men.”

He pointed to the corpses lying on the straw.

“No! Be on the watch. What you find on Kuklinovski will be yours.”

“If he returns alone,” said the old man, “I fear nothing. I shall stand
behind the door; and even if some one from the quarters should come, I
shall say that the colonel gave orders not to admit.”

“That will do. Watch!”

The tramp of a horse was heard behind the barn. Kmita sprang up and
stood in the shadow at the wall. Kosma and Damian took their places
near the door, like two cats waiting for a mouse.

“He is alone,” said the old man.

“Alone,” repeated Kosma and Damian.

The tramp approached, was right there and halted suddenly.

“Come out here, some one,—hold the horse!”

The old man jumped out quickly. A moment of silence followed, then to
those waiting in the barn came the following conversation,—

“Is that you, Kyemlich? What the thunder! art mad, or an idiot? It is
night, Miller is asleep. The guard will not give admission; they say
that no officer went away. How is that?”

“The officer is waiting here in the barn for your grace. He came right
away after you rode off; he says that he missed your grace.”

“What does all this mean? But the prisoner?”

“Is hanging.”

The door squeaked, and Kuklinovski pushed into the barn; but before he
had gone a step two iron hands caught him by the throat, and smothered
his cry of terror. Kosma and Damian, with the adroitness of genuine
murderers, hurled him to the ground, put their knees on his breast,
pressed him so that his ribs began to crack, and gagged him in the
twinkle of an eye.

Kmita came forward, and holding the pitch light to his eyes, said,—

“Ah! this is Pan Kuklinovski! Now I have something to say to you!”

Kuklinovski’s face was blue, the veins were so swollen that it seemed
they might burst any moment; but in his eyes, which were coming out of
his head and bloodshot, there was quite as much wonder as terror.

“Strip him and put him on the beam!” cried Kmita.

Kosma and Damian fell to stripping him as zealously as if they wished
to take the skin from him together with his clothing.

In a quarter of an hour Kuklinovski was hanging by his hands and feet,
like a half goose, on the beam. Then Kmita put his hands on his hips
and began to brag terribly.

“Well, Pan Kuklinovski,” said he, “who is better, Kmita or
Kuklinovski?” Then he seized the burning tow and took a step nearer.
“Thy camp is distant one shot from a bow, thy thousand ruffians are
within call, there is thy Swedish general a little beyond, and thou art
hanging here from this same beam from which ’twas thy thought to roast
me.—Learn to know Kmita! Thou hadst the thought to be equal to Kmita,
to belong to his company, to be compared with him? Thou cut-purse, thou
low ruffian, terror of old women, thou offscouring of man. Lord
Scoundrel of Scoundrelton! Wry-mouth, trash, slave! I might have thee
cut up like a kid, like a capon; but I choose to roast thee alive as
thou didst think to roast me.”

Saying this, he raised the tow and applied it to the side of the
hanging, hapless man; but he held it longer, until the odor of the
burned flesh began to spread through the barn.

Kuklinovski writhed till the rope was swinging with him. His eyes,
fastened on Kmita, expressed terrible pain and a dumb imploring for
pity; from his gagged lips came woful groans; but war had hardened the
heart of Pan Andrei, and there was no pity in him, above all, none for
traitors.

Removing at last the tow from Kuklinovski’s side, he put it for a while
under his nose, rubbed with it his mustaches, his eyelashes, and his
brows; then he said,—

“I give thee thy life to meditate on Kmita. Thou wilt hang here till
morning, and now pray to God that people find thee before thou art
frozen.”

Then he turned to Kosma and Damian. “To horse!” cried he, and went out
of the barn.

Half an hour later around the four riders were quiet hills, silent and
empty fields. The fresh breeze, not filled with smoke of powder,
entered their lungs. Kmita rode ahead, the Kyemliches after him. They
spoke in low voices. Pan Andrei was silent, or rather he was repeating
in silence the morning “Our Father,” for it was not long before dawn.

From time to time a hiss or even a low groan was rent from his lips,
when his burned side pained him greatly. But at the same time he felt
on horseback and free; and the thought that he had blown up the
greatest siege gun, and besides that had torn himself from the hands of
Kuklinovski and had wrought vengeance on him, filled Pan Andrei with
such consolation that in view of it the pain was nothing.

Meanwhile a quiet dialogue between the father and the sons turned into
a loud dispute.

“The money belt is good,” said the greedy old man; “but where are the
rings? He had rings on his fingers; in one was a stone worth twenty
ducats.”

“I forgot to take it,” answered Kosma.

“I wish you were killed! Let the old man think of everything, and these
rascals haven’t wit for a copper! You forgot the rings, you thieves?
You lie like dogs!”

“Then turn back, father, and look,” muttered Damian.

“You lie, you thieves! You hide things. You wrong your old father,—such
sons! I wish that I had not begotten you. You will die without a
blessing.”

Kmita reined in his horse somewhat. “Come this way!” called he.

The dispute ceased, the Kyemliches hurried up, and they rode farther
four abreast.

“And do you know the road to the Silesian boundary?” asked Pan Andrei.

“O Mother of God! we know, we know,” answered the old man.

“There are no Swedish parties on the road?”

“No, for all are at Chenstohova, unless we might meet a single man; but
God give us one!”

A moment of silence followed.

“Then you served with Kuklinovski?” asked Kmita.

“We did, for we thought that being near we might serve the holy monks
and your grace, and so it has happened. We did not serve against the
fortress,—God save us from that! we took no pay unless we found
something on Swedes.”

“How on Swedes?”

“For we wanted to serve the Most Holy Lady even outside the walls;
therefore we rode around the camp at night or in the daytime, as the
Lord God gave us; and when any of the Swedes happened alone, then
we—that is—O Refuge of sinners!—we—”

“Pounded him!” finished Kosma and Damian.

Kmita laughed. “Kuklinovski had good servants in you. But did he know
about this?”

“He received a share, an income. He knew, and the scoundrel commanded
us to give a thaler a head. Otherwise he threatened to betray us. Such
a robber,—he wronged poor men! And we have kept faith with your grace,
for not such is service with you. Your grace adds besides of your own;
but he, a thaler a head, for our toil, for our labor. On him may God—”

“I will reward you abundantly for what you have done,” said Kmita. “I
did not expect this of you.”

The distant sound of guns interrupted further words. Evidently the
Swedes had begun to fire with the first dawn. After a while the roar
increased. Kmita stopped his horse; it seemed to him that he
distinguished the sound of the fortress cannon from the cannon of the
Swedes, therefore he clinched his fist, and threatening with it in the
direction of the enemies’ camp said,—

“Fire away, fire away! Where is your greatest gun now?”




CHAPTER V.


The bursting of the gigantic culverin had really a crushing effect upon
Miller, for all his hopes had rested hitherto on that gun. Infantry
were ready for the assault, ladders and piles of fascines were
collected; but now it was necessary to abandon all thought of a storm.

The plan of blowing up the cloister by means of mines came also to
nothing. Miners brought in previously from Olkush split, it is true,
the rock, and approached on a diagonal to the cloister; but work
progressed slowly. The workmen, in spite of every precaution, fell
frequently from the guns of the church, and labored unwillingly. Many
of them preferred to die rather than aid in the destruction of a sacred
place.

Miller felt a daily increasing opposition. The frost took away the
remnant of courage from his unwilling troops, among whom terror was
spreading from day to day with a belief that the capture of the
cloister did not lie within human power.

Finally Miller himself began to lose hope, and after the bursting of
the gun he was simply in despair; a feeling of helplessness and
impotence took possession of him. Next morning he called a council, but
he called it with the secret wish to hear from officers encouragement
to abandon the fortress.

They began to assemble, all wearied and gloomy. In silence they took
their places around a table in an enormous and cold room, in which the
steam from their breaths stood before their faces, and they looked from
behind it as from behind a cloud. Each one felt in his soul exhaustion
and weariness; each one said to himself: “There is no counsel to give
save one, which it is better for no man to be the first to give.” All
waited for what Miller would say. He ordered first of all to bring
plenty of heated wine, hoping that under the influence of warm drink it
would be easier to obtain a real thought from those silent figures, and
encouragement to retreat from the fortress.

At last, when he supposed that the wine had produced its effect, he
spoke in the following words—

“Have you noticed, gentlemen, that none of the Polish colonels have
come to this council, though I summoned them all?”

“It is known of course to your worthiness that servants of the Polish
squadron have, while fishing, found silver belonging to the cloister,
and that they fought for it with our soldiers. More than ten men have
been cut down.”

“I know; I succeeded in snatching a part of that silver from their
hands, indeed the greater part. It is here now, and I am thinking what
to do with it.”

“This is surely the cause of the anger of the Polish colonels. They say
that if the Poles found the silver, it belongs to the Poles.”

“That’s a reason!” cried Count Veyhard.

“For my mind, it is a strong reason,” said Sadovski; “and I think that
if you had found the silver you would not feel bound to divide it, not
only with the Poles, but even with me, a Cheh.”

“First of all, my dear sir, I do not share your good will for the
enemies of our king,” answered the count, with a frown.

“But we, thanks to you, must share with you shame and disgrace, not
being able to succeed against a fortress to which you have brought us.”

“Then have you lost all hope?”

“But have you any yourself to give away?”

“Just as if you knew; and I think that these gentlemen share more
willingly with me in my hope, than with you in your fear.”

“Do you make me a coward, Count Veyhard?”

“I do not ascribe to you more courage than you show.”

“And I ascribe to you less.”

“But I,” said Miller, who for some time had looked on the count with
dislike as the instigator of the ill-starred undertaking, “shall have
the silver sent to the cloister. Perhaps kindness and graciousness will
do more with these surly monks than balls and cannon. Let them
understand that we wish to possess the fortress, not their treasures.”

The officers looked on Miller with wonder, so little accustomed were
they to magnanimity from him. At last Sadovski said,—

“Nothing better could be done, for it will close at once the mouths of
the Polish colonels who lay claim to the silver. In the fortress it
will surely make a good impression.”

“The death of that Kmita will make the best impression,” answered Count
Veyhard. “I hope that Kuklinovski has already torn him out of his
skin.”

“I think that he is no longer alive,” said Miller. “But that name
reminds me of our loss, which nothing can make good. That was the
greatest gun in the whole artillery of his grace. I do not hide from
you, gentlemen, that all my hopes were placed on it. The breach was
already made, terror was spreading in the fortress. A couple of days
longer and we should have moved to a storm. Now all our labor is
useless, all our exertions vain. They will repair the wall in one day.
And the guns which we have now are no better than those of the
fortress, and can be easily dismounted. No larger ones can be had
anywhere, for even Marshal Wittemberg hasn’t them. The more I ponder
over it, the more the disaster seems dreadful. And to think that one
man did this,—one dog! one Satan! I shall go mad! To all the horned
devils!”

Here Miller struck the table with his fist, for unrestrained anger had
seized him, the more desperately because he was powerless. After a
while he cried,—

“But what will the king say when he hears of this loss?” After a while
he added: “And what shall we do? We cannot gnaw away that cliff with
our teeth. Would that the plague might strike those who persuaded me to
come to this fortress!”

Having said this, he took a crystal goblet, and in his excitement
hurled it to the floor so that the crystal was broken into small bits.

This unbecoming frenzy, more befitting a peasant than a warrior holding
such a high office, turned all hearts from him, and soured good-humor
completely.

“Give counsel, gentlemen!” cried Miller.

“It is possible to counsel, but only in calmness,” answered the Prince
of Hesse.

Miller began to puff and blow out his anger through his nostrils. After
a time he grew calm, and passing his eyes over those present as if
encouraging them with a glance, he said,—

“I ask your pardon, gentlemen, but my anger is not strange. I will not
mention those places which, when I had taken command after Torstenson,
I captured, for I do not wish, in view of the present disaster, to
boast of past fortune. All that is done at this fortress simply passes
reason. But still it is necessary to take counsel. For that purpose I
have summoned you. Deliberate, then, and what the majority of us
determine at this council will be done.”

“Let your worthiness give us the subject for deliberation,” said the
Prince of Hesse. “Have we to deliberate only concerning the capture of
the fortress, or also concerning this, whether it is better to
withdraw?”

Miller did not wish to put the question so clearly, or at least he did
not wish the “either—or,” to come first from his mouth; therefore he
said,—

“Let each speak clearly what he thinks. It should be a question for us
of the profit and praise of the king.”

But none of the officers wished more than Miller to appear first with
the proposition to retreat, therefore there was silence again.

“Pan Sadovski,” said Miller after a while, in a voice which he tried to
make agreeable and kind, “you say what you think more sincerely than
others, for your reputation insures you against all suspicion.”

“I think, General,” answered the colonel, “that Kmita was one of the
greatest soldiers of this age, and that our position is desperate.”

“But you were in favor of withdrawing from the fortress?”

“With permission of your worthiness, I was only in favor of not
beginning the siege. That is a thing quite different.”

“Then what do you advise now?”

“Now I give the floor to Count Veyhard.”

Miller swore like a pagan.

“Count Veyhard will answer for this unfortunate affair,” said he.

“My counsels have not all been carried out,” answered the count,
insolently. “I can boldly cast responsibility from myself. There were
men who with a wonderful, in truth an inexplicable, good-will for the
priests, dissuaded his worthiness from all severe measures. My advice
was to hang those envoy priests, and I am convinced that if this had
been done terror would have opened to us before this time the gates of
that hen-house.”

Here the count looked at Sadovski; but before the latter had answered,
the Prince of Hesse interfered: “Count, do not call that fortress a
hen-house, for the more you decrease its importance the more you
increase our shame.”

“Nevertheless I advised to hang the envoys. Terror and always terror,
that is what I repeated from morning till night; but Pan Sadovski
threatened resignation, and the priests went unharmed.”

“Go, Count, to-day to the fortress,” answered Sadovski, “blow up with
powder their greatest gun as Kmita did ours, and I guarantee that, that
will spread more terror than a murderous execution of envoys.”

The count turned directly to Miller: “Your worthiness I thought we had
come here for counsel and not for amusement.”

“Have you an answer to baseless reproaches?” asked Miller.

“I have, in spite of the joyousness of these gentlemen, who might save
their humor for better times.”

“Oh, son of Laertes, famous for stratagems!” exclaimed the Prince of
Hesse.

“Gentlemen,” answered the count, “it is universally known that not
Minerva but Mars is your guardian deity; but since Mars has not favored
you, and you have renounced your right of speech, let me speak.”

“The mountain is beginning to groan, and soon we shall see the small
tail of a mouse,” said Sadovski.

“I ask for silence!” said Miller, severely. “Speak, Count, but keep in
mind that up to this moment your counsels have given bitter fruit.”

“Which, though it is winter, we must eat like mouldy biscuits,” put in
the Prince of Hesse.

“This explains why your princely highness drinks so much wine,” said
Count Veyhard; “and though it does not take the place of native wit, it
helps you to a happy digestion of even disgrace. But no matter! I know
well that there is a party in the fortress which is long desirous of
surrender, and that only our weakness on one side and the superhuman
stubbornness of the prior on the other keep it in check. New terror
will give this party new power; for this purpose we should show that we
make no account of the loss of the gun, and storm the more vigorously.”

“Is that all?”

“Even if it were all, I think that such counsel is more in accordance
with the honor of Swedish soldiers than barren jests at cups, or than
sleeping after drinking-bouts. But that is not all. We should spread
the report among our soldiers, and especially among the Poles, that the
men at work now making a mine have discovered the old underground
passage leading to the cloister and the church.”

“That is good counsel,” said Miller.

“When this report is spread among the soldiers and the Poles, the Poles
themselves will persuade the monks to surrender, for it is a question
with them as with the monks, that that nest of superstitions should
remain intact.”

“For a Catholic that is not bad!” muttered Sadovski.

“If he served the Turks he would call Rome a nest of superstitions,”
said the Prince of Hesse.

“Then, beyond doubt, the Poles will send envoys to the priests,”
continued Count Veyhard,—“that party in the cloister, which is long
anxious for surrender will renew its efforts under the influence of
fear; and who knows but its members will force the prior and the
stubborn to open the gates?”

“The city of Priam will perish through the cunning of the divine son of
Laertes,” declaimed the Prince of Hesse.

“As God lives, a real Trojan history, and he thinks he has invented
something new!” said Sadovski.

But the advice pleased Miller, for in very truth it was not bad. The
party which the count spoke of existed really in the cloister. Even
some priests of weaker soul belonged to it. Besides, fear might extend
among the garrison, including even those who so far were ready to
defend it to the last drop of blood.

“Let us try, let us try!” said Miller, who like a drowning man seized
every plank, and from despair passed easily to hope. “But will
Kuklinovski or Zbrojek agree to go again as envoys to the cloister, or
will they believe in that passage, and will they inform the priests of
it?”

“In every case Kuklinovski will agree,” answered the count; “but it is
better that he should believe really in the existence of the passage.”

At that moment they heard the tramp of a horse in front of the
quarters.

“There, Pan Zbrojek has come!” said the Prince of Hesse, looking
through the window.

A moment later spurs rattled, and Zbrojek entered, or rather rushed
into the room. His face was pale, excited, and before the officers
could ask the cause of his excitement the colonel cried,—

“Kuklinovski is no longer living!”

“How? What do you say? What has happened?” exclaimed Miller.

“Let me catch breath,” said Zbrojek, “for what I have seen passes
imagination.”

“Talk more quickly. Has he been murdered?” cried all.

“By Kmita,” answered Zbrojek.

The officers all sprang from their seats, and began to look at Zbrojek
as at a madman; and he, while blowing in quick succession bunches of
steam from his nostrils, said,—

“If I had not seen I should not have believed, for that is not a human
power. Kuklinovski is not living, three soldiers are killed, and of
Kmita not a trace. I know that he was a terrible man. His reputation is
known in the whole country. But for him, a prisoner and bound, not only
to free himself, but to kill the soldiers and torture Kuklinovski to
death,—that a man could not do, only a devil!”

“Nothing like that has ever happened; that’s impossible of belief!”
whispered Sadovski.

“That Kmita has shown what he can do,” said the Prince of Hesse. “We
did not believe the Poles yesterday when they told us what kind of bird
he was; we thought they were telling big stories, as is usual with
them.”

“Enough to drive a man mad,” said the count.

Miller seized his head with his hands, and said nothing. When at last
he raised his eyes, flashes of wrath were crossing in them with flashes
of suspicion.

“Pan Zbrojek,” said he, “though he were Satan and not a man, he could
not do this without some treason, without assistance. Kmita had his
admirers here; Kuklinovski his enemies, and you belong to the number.”

Zbrojek was in the full sense of the word an insolent soldier;
therefore when he heard an accusation directed against himself, he grew
still paler, sprang from his place, approached Miller, and halting in
front of him looked him straight in the eyes.

“Does your worthiness suspect me?” inquired he.

A very oppressive moment followed. The officers present had not the
slightest doubt were Miller to give an affirmative answer something
would follow terrible and unparalled in the history of camps. All hands
rested on their rapier hilts. Sadovski even drew his weapon altogether.

But at that moment the officers saw before the window a yard filled
with Polish horsemen. Probably they also had come with news of
Kuklinovski, but in case of collision they would stand beyond doubt on
Zbrojek’s side. Miller too saw them, and though the paleness of rage
had come on his face, still he restrained himself, and feigning to see
no challenge in Zbrojek’s action, he answered in a voice which he
strove to make natural,—

“Tell in detail how it happened.”

Zbrojek stood for a time yet with nostrils distended, but he too
remembered himself; and then his thoughts turned in another direction,
for his comrades, who had just ridden up, entered the room.

“Kuklinovski is murdered!” repeated they, one after another.
“Kuklinovski is killed! His regiment will scatter! His soldiers are
going wild!”

“Gentlemen, permit Pan Zbrojek to speak; he brought the news first,”
cried Miller.

After a while there was silence, and Zbrojek spoke as follows,—

“It is known to you, gentlemen, that at the last council I challenged
Kuklinovski on the word of a cavalier. I was an admirer of Kmita, it is
true; but even you, though his enemies, must acknowledge that no common
man could have done such a deed as bursting that cannon. It behooves us
to esteem daring even in an enemy; therefore I offered him my hand, but
he refused his, and called me a traitor. Then I thought to myself, ‘Let
Kuklinovski do what he likes with him.’ My only other thought was this:
‘If Kuklinovski acts against knightly honor in dealing with Kmita, the
disgrace of his deed must not fall on all Poles, and among others on
me.’ For that very reason I wished surely to fight with Kuklinovski,
and this morning taking two comrades, I set out for his camp. We come
to his quarters; they say there, ‘He is not at home.’ I send to this
place,—he is not here. At his quarters they tell us, ‘He has not
returned the whole night.’ But they are not alarmed, for they think
that he has remained with your worthiness. At last one soldier says,
‘Last evening he went to that little barn in the field with Kmita, whom
he was going to burn there.’ I ride to the barn; the doors are wide
open. I enter; I see inside a naked body hanging from a beam. ‘That is
Kmita,’ thought I; but when my eyes have grown used to the darkness, I
see that the body is some thin and bony one, and Kmita looked like a
Hercules. It is a wonder to me that he could shrink so much in one
night. I draw near—Kuklinovski!”

“Hanging from the beam?” asked Miller.

“Exactly! I make the sign of the cross,—I think, ‘Is it witchcraft, an
omen, deception, or what?’ But when I saw three corpses of soldiers,
the truth stood as if living before me. That terrible man had killed
these, hung Kuklinovski, burned him like an executioner, and then
escaped.”

“It is not far to the Silesian boundary,” said Sadovski.

A moment of silence followed. Every suspicion of Zbrojek’s
participation in the affair was extinguished in Miller’s soul. But the
event itself astonished and filled him with a certain undefined fear.
He saw dangers rising around, or rather their terrible shadows, against
which he knew not how to struggle; he felt that some kind of chain of
failures surrounded him. The first links were before his eyes, but
farther the gloom of the future was lying. Just such a feeling mastered
him as if he were in a cracked house which might fall on his head any
moment. Uncertainty crushed him with an insupportable weight, and he
asked himself what he had to lay hands on.

Meanwhile Count Veyhard struck himself on the forehead. “As God lives,”
said he, “when I saw this Kmita yesterday it seemed as if I had known
him somewhere. Now again I see before me that face. I remember the
sound of his voice. I must have met him for a short time and in the
dark, in the evening; but he is going through my head,—going—” Here he
began to rub his forehead with his hand.

“What is that to us?” asked Miller; “you will not mend the gun, even
should you remember; you will not bring Kuklinovski to life.”

Here he turned to the officers. “Gentlemen, come with me, whoso wishes,
to the scene of this deed.”

All wished to go, for curiosity was exciting them. Horses were brought,
and they moved on at a trot, the general at the head. When they came to
the little barn they saw a number of tens of Polish horsemen scattered
around that building, on the road, and along the field.

“What men are they?” asked Miller of Zbrojek.

“They must be Kuklinovski’s; I tell your worthiness that those
ragamuffins have simply gone wild.”

Zbrojek then beckoned to one of the horsemen,—

“Come this way, come this way. Quickly!”

The soldier rode up.

“Are you Kuklinovski’s men?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the rest of the regiment?”

“They have run away. They refused to serve longer against Yasna Gora.”

“What does he say?” asked Miller.

Zbrojek interpreted the words.

“Ask him where they went to.”

Zbrojek repeated the question.

“It is unknown,” said the soldier. “Some have gone to Silesia. Others
said that they would serve with Kmita, for there is not another such
colonel either among the Poles or the Swedes.”

When Zbrojek interpreted these words to Miller, he grew serious. In
truth, such men as Kuklinovski had were ready to pass over to the
command of Kmita without hesitation. But then they might become
terrible, if not for Miller’s army, at least for his supplies and
communication. A river of perils was rising higher and higher around
the enchanted fortress.

Zbrojek, into whose head this idea must have come, said, as if in
answer to these thoughts of Miller: “It is certain that everything is
in a storm now in our Commonwealth. Let only such a Kmita shout,
hundreds and thousands will surround him, especially after what he has
done.”

“But what can he effect?” asked Miller.

“Remember, your worthiness, that that man brought Hovanski to
desperation, and Hovanski had, counting the Cossacks, six times as many
men as we. Not a transport will come to us without his permission, the
country houses are destroyed, and we are beginning to feel hunger.
Besides, this Kmita may join with Jegotski and Kulesha; then he will
have several thousand sabres at his call. He is a grievous man, and may
become most harmful.”

“Are you sure of your soldiers?”

“Surer than of myself,” answered Zbrojek, with brutal frankness.

“How surer?”

“For, to tell the truth, we have all of us enough of this siege.”

“I trust that it will soon come to an end.”

“Only the question is: How? But for that matter to capture this
fortress is at present as great a calamity as to retire from it.”

Meanwhile they had reached the little barn. Miller dismounted, after
him the officers, and all entered. The soldiers had removed Kuklinovski
from the beam, and covering him with a rug laid him on his back on
remnants of straw. The bodies of three soldiers lay at one side, placed
evenly one by the other.

“These were killed with knives.”

“But Kuklinovski?”

“There are no wounds on Kuklinovski, but his side is roasted and his
mustaches daubed with pitch. He must have perished of cold or
suffocation, for he holds his own cap in his teeth to this moment.”

“Uncover him.”

The soldier raised a corner of the rug, and a terrible face was
uncovered, swollen, with eyes bursting out. On the remnants of his
pitched mustaches were icicles formed from his frozen breath and mixed
with soot, making as it were tusks sticking out of his mouth. That face
was so revolting that Miller, though accustomed to all kinds of
ghastliness, shuddered and said,—

“Cover it quickly. Terrible, terrible!”

Silence reigned in the barn.

“Why have we come here?” asked the Prince of Hesse, spitting. “I shall
not touch food for a whole day.”

All at once some kind of uncommon exasperation closely bordering on
frenzy took possession of Miller. His face became blue, his eyes
expanded, he began to gnash his teeth, a wild thirst for the blood of
some one had seized him; then turning to Zbrojek, he screamed,—

“Where is that soldier who saw that Kuklinovski was in the barn? He
must be a confederate!”

“I know not whether that soldier is here yet,” answered Zbrojek. “All
Kuklinovski’s men have scattered like oxen let out from the yoke.”

“Then catch him!” bellowed Miller, in fury.

“Catch him yourself!” cried Zbrojek, in similar fury.

And again a terrible outburst hung as it were on a spider-web over the
heads of the Swedes and the Poles. The latter began to gather around
Zbrojek, moving their mustaches threateningly and rattling their
sabres.

During this noise the echoes of shots and the tramp of horses were
heard, and into the barn rushed a Swedish officer of cavalry.

“General!” cried he. “A sortie from the cloister! The men working at
the mine have been cut to pieces! A party of infantry is scattered!”

“I shall go wild!” roared Miller, seizing the hair of his wig. “To
horse!”

In a moment they were all rushing like a whirlwind toward the cloister,
so that lumps of snow fell like hail from the hoofs of their horses. A
hundred of Sadovski’s cavalry, under command of his brother, joined
Miller and ran to assist. On the way they saw parties of terrified
infantry fleeing in disorder and panic, so fallen were the hearts of
the Swedish infantry, elsewhere unrivalled. They had left even trenches
which were not threatened by any danger. The oncoming officers and
cavalry trampled a few, and rode finally to within a furlong of the
fortress, but only to see on the height as clearly as on the palm of
the hand, the attacking party returning safely to the cloister; songs,
shouts of joy, and laughter came from them to Miller’s ears.

Single persons stood forth and threatened with bloody sabres in the
direction of the staff. The Poles present at the side of the Swedish
general recognized Zamoyski himself, who had led the sortie in person,
and who, when he saw the staff, stopped and saluted it solemnly with
his cap. No wonder he felt safe under cover of the fortress cannon.

And, in fact, it began to smoke on the walls, and iron flocks of cannon
balls were flying with terrible whistling among the officers. Troopers
tottered in their saddles, and groans answered whistles.

“We are under fire. Retreat!” commanded Sadovski.

Zbrojek seized the reins of Miller’s horse. “General, withdraw! It is
death here!”

Miller, as if he had become torpid, said not a word, and let himself be
led out of range of the missiles. Returning to his quarters, he locked
himself in, and for a whole day would see no man. He was meditating
surely over his fame of Poliorcetes.

Count Veyhard now took all power in hand, and began with immense energy
to make preparations for a storm. New breastworks were thrown up; the
soldiers succeeding the miners broke the cliff unweariedly to prepare a
mine. A feverish movement continued in the whole Swedish camp. It
seemed that a new spirit had entered the besiegers, or that
reinforcements had come. A few days later the news thundered through
the Swedish and allied Polish camps that the miners had found a passage
going under the church and the cloister, and that it depended now only
on the good-will of the general to blow up the whole fortress.

Delight seized the soldiers worn out with cold, hunger, and fruitless
toil. Shouts of: “We have Chenstohova! We’ll blow up that hen-house!”
ran from mouth to mouth. Feasting and drinking began.

The count was present everywhere; he encouraged the soldiers, kept them
in that belief, repeated a hundred times daily the news of finding the
passage, incited to feasting and frolics.

The echo of this gladness reached the cloister at last. News of the
mines dug and ready to explode ran with the speed of lightning from
rampart to rampart. Even the most daring were frightened. Weeping women
began to besiege the prior’s dwelling, to hold out to him their
children when he appeared for a while, and cry,—

“Destroy not the innocent! Their blood will fall on thy head!”

The greater coward a man had been, the greater his daring now in urging
Kordetski not to expose to destruction the sacred place, the capital of
the Most Holy Lady.

Such grievous, painful times followed, for the unbending soul of our
hero in a habit, as had not been till that hour. It was fortunate that
the Swedes ceased their assaults, so as to prove more convincingly that
they needed no longer either balls or cannon, that it was enough for
them to ignite one little powder fuse. But for this very reason terror
increased in the cloister. In the hour of deep night it seemed to some,
the most timid, that they heard under the earth certain sounds, certain
movements; that the Swedes were already under the cloister. Finally, a
considerable number of the monks fell in spirit. Those, with Father
Stradomski at the head of them, went to the prior and urged him to
begin negotiations at once for surrender. The greater part of the
soldiers went with them, and some of the nobles.

Kordetski appeared in the courtyard, and when the throng gathered
around him in a close circle, he said,—

“Have we not sworn to one another to defend this holy place to the last
drop of our blood? In truth, I tell you that if powder hurls us forth,
only our wretched bodies, only the temporary covering, will fall away
and return to the earth, but the souls will not return,—heaven will
open above them, and they will enter into rejoicing and happiness, as
into a sea without bounds. There Jesus Christ will receive them, and
that Most Holy Mother will meet them, and they like golden bees will
sit on her robe, and will sink in light and gaze on the face of the
Lord.”

Here the reflection of that brightness was gleaming on his face. He
raised his inspired eyes upward, and spoke on with a dignity and a calm
not of earth:—

“O Lord, the Ruler of worlds, Thou art looking into my heart, and Thou
knowest that I am not deceiving this people when I say that if I
desired only my own happiness I would stretch out my hands to Thee and
cry from the depth of my soul: O Lord! let powder be there, let it
explode, for in such a death is redemption of sins and faults, for it
is eternal rest, and Thy servant is weary and toil worn over-much. And
who would not wish a reward of such kind, for a death without pain and
as short as the twinkle of an eye, as a flash in the heavens, after
which is eternity unbroken, happiness inexhaustible, joy without end.
But Thou hast commanded me to guard Thy retreat, therefore it is not
permitted me to go. Thou hast placed me on guard, therefore Thou hast
poured into me Thy strength, and I know, O Lord, I see and feel that
although the malice of the enemy were to force itself under this
church, though all the powder and destructive saltpetre were placed
there, it would be enough for me to make the sign of the cross above
them and they would never explode.”

Here he turned to the assembly and continued: “God has given me this
power, but do you take fear out of your hearts. My spirit pierces the
earth and tells you; Your enemies lie, there are no powder dragons
under the church. You, people of timid hearts, you in whom fear has
stifled faith, deserve not to enter the kingdom of grace and repose
to-day. There is no powder under your feet then! God wishes to preserve
this retreat, so that, like Noah’s ark, it may be borne above the
deluge of disasters and mishap; therefore, in the name of God, for the
third time I tell you, there is no powder under the church. And when I
speak in His name, who will make bold to oppose me, who will dare still
to doubt?”

When he had said this he was silent and looked at the throng of monks,
nobles, and soldiers. But such was the unshaken faith, the conviction
and power in his voice that they were silent also, and no man came
forward. On the contrary, solace began to enter their hearts, till at
last one of the soldiers, a simple peasant, said,—

“Praise to the name of the Lord! For three days they say they are able
to blow up the fortress; why do they not blow it up?”

“Praise to the Most Holy Lady! Why do they not blow it up?” repeated a
number of voices.

Then a wonderful sign was made manifest. Behold all about them on a
sudden was heard the sound of wings, and whole flocks of small winter
birds appeared in the court of the fortress, and every moment new ones
flew in from the starved country-places around. Birds 

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