"You are as near to my heart as a brother. May the G.o.d of Hosts and our Queen of Angels carry you through, warrior of the Lord! Amen!"
"Amen!" repeated Sobieski, the castellan of Belsk, and Pan Pshiyemski.
The prince had tears in his eyes, for he was a real father to the knights. Others wept, and a quiver of enthusiasm shook the body of Pan Podbipienta. A flame pa.s.sed through his bones; and rejoiced to its depth was his soul, pure, obedient, and heroic, with the hope of coming sacrifice.
"History will write of you!" cried the castellan.
"Non n.o.bis, non n.o.bis, sed nomini tuo, Domine, da gloriam (Not to us, not to us, but to thy name, Lord, give the glory)," said the prince.
The knights issued from the tent.
"Tfu! something has seized me by the throat and holds me," said Zagloba; "and it is as bitter in my mouth as wormwood, and there they are firing continually. Oh, if the thunders would fire you away!" said he, pointing to the smoking trenches of the Cossacks. "Oh, it is hard to live in this world! Pan Longin, are you really going out? May the angels guard you! If the plague would choke those ruffians!"
"I must take farewell of you," said Podbipienta.
"How is that? Where are you going?" asked Zagloba.
"To the priest Mukhovetski,--to confess, my brother. I must cleanse my sinful soul."
Pan Longin hastened to the castle; the others returned to the ramparts.
Skshetuski and Volodyovski were silent, but Zagloba said,--
"Something holds me by the throat. I did not think to be sorrowful, but that is the worthiest man in the world. If any one contradicts me, I"ll give it to him in the face. Oh, my G.o.d, my G.o.d! I thought the castellan of Belsk would restrain the prince, but he beat the drums still more.
The hangman brought that heretic! "History," he says, "will write of you." Let it write of him, but not on the skin of Pan Longin. And why doesn"t he go out himself? He has six toes on his feet, like every Calvinist, and he can walk better. I tell you, gentlemen, that it is getting worse and worse on earth, and Jabkovski is a true prophet when he says that the end of the world is near. Let us sit down awhile at the ramparts, and a go to the castle, so as to console ourselves with the company of our friend till evening at least."
But Pan Longin, after confession and communion, spent whole time in prayer. He made his first appearance at the storm in the evening, which was one of the most awful, for the Cossacks had struck just when the troops were transporting their cannon and wagons to the newly raised ramparts. For a time it seemed that the slender forces of the Poles would fall before the onrush of two hundred thousand foes. The Polish battalions had become so intermingled with the enemy that they could not distinguish their own, and three times they closed in this fashion.
Hmelnitski exerted all his power; for the Khan and his own colonels had told him that this must be the last storm, and that henceforth they would only hara.s.s the besieged with hunger. But after three hours all attacks were repulsed with such terrible losses that according to later reports forty thousand of the enemy had fallen. One thing is certain,--after the battle a whole bundle of flags was thrown at the feet of the prince; and this was really the last great a.s.sault, after which followed more difficult times of digging under the ramparts, capturing wagons, continual firing, suffering, and famine.
Immediately after the storm the soldiers, ready to drop from weariness, were led by the tireless Yeremi in a sally, which ended in a new defeat for the enemy. Quiet then soothed the tabor and the camp.
The night was warm but cloudy. Four black forms pushed themselves quietly and carefully to the eastern edge of the ramparts. They were Pan Longin, Zagloba, Skshetuski, and Volodyovski.
"Guard your pistols well, to keep the powder dry," whispered Pan Yan.
"Two battalions will be ready all night. If you fire, we will spring to the rescue."
"Nothing to be seen, even if you strain your eyes out!" whispered Zagloba.
"That is better," answered Pan Longin.
"Be quiet!" interrupted Volodyovski, "I hear something."
"That is only the groan of a dying man,--nothing!"
"If you can only reach the oak grove."
"Oh, my G.o.d! my G.o.d!" sighed Zagloba, trembling as if in a fever.
"In three hours it will be daylight."
"It is time!" said Pan Longin.
"Time! time!" repeated Skshetuski, in a stifled voice. "Go with G.o.d!"
"With G.o.d, with G.o.d!"
"Farewell, brothers, and forgive me if I have offended any of you in anything."
"You offend? O G.o.d!" cried Zagloba, throwing himself into his arms.
Skshetuski and Volodyovski embraced him in turn. The moment came.
Suppressed gulping shook the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of these knights. One alone, Pan Longin, was calm, though full of emotion. "Farewell!" he repeated once more; and approaching the edge of the rampart, he dropped into the ditch, and soon appeared as a black figure on the opposite bank. Once more he beckoned farewell to his comrades, and vanished in the gloom.
Between the road to Zalostsitse and the highway from Vishnyovets grew an oak-grove, interspersed with narrow openings. Beyond and joining with it was an old pine-forest, thick and large, extending north of Zalostsitse. Podbipienta had determined to reach that grove. The road is very perilous, for to reach the oaks it was necessary to pa.s.s along the entire flank of the Cossack tabor; but Pan Longin selected it on purpose, for it was just around the camp that most people were moving during the whole night, and the guards gave least attention to pa.s.sers-by. Besides, other roads, valleys, thickets, and narrow places were set by guards who rode around continually, by essauls, sotniks, and even Hmelnitski himself. A pa.s.sage through the meadows and along the Gnyezna was not to be dreamt for the Cossack horse-herders were watching there from dusk till daylight with their herds.
The night was gloomy, cloudy, and so dark that at ten paces not only could a man not be seen, but not even a tree. This circ.u.mstance was favorable for Pan Longin; though on the other hand he was obliged to go very slowly and carefully, so as not to fall into any of the pits or ditches, occupying the whole expanse of the battle-field and dug by Polish and Cossack hands. In this fashion he made way to the second Polish rampart, which had been abandoned just before evening, and had pa.s.sed through the ditch. He stopped and listened; the trenches were empty. The sally made by Yeremi after the storm had pushed the Cossacks out, who either fell, or took refuge in the tabor. A mult.i.tude of bodies were lying on the slopes and summits of these mounds. Pan Longin stumbled against bodies every moment, stepped over them, and pa.s.sed on.
From time to time a low groan or sigh announced that some one of the prostrate was living yet.
Beyond the ramparts there was a broad expanse stretching to another trench made before the arrival of Yeremi, also covered with corpses; but some tens of steps farther on were those earth-shelters, like stacks of hay in the darkness. But they were empty. Everywhere the deepest silence reigned,--nowhere a fire or a man; no one on that former square but the prostrate.
Pan Longin began the prayer for the souls of the dead, and went on. The sounds of the Polish camp, which followed him to the second rampart, grew fainter and fainter, melting in the distance, till at last they ceased altogether. Pan Longin stopped and looked around for the last time. He could see almost nothing, for in the camp there was no light; but one window in the castle glimmered weakly as a star which the clouds now expose and now conceal, or like a glow-worm which shines and darkens in turn.
"My brothers, shall I see you again in this life?" thought Pan Longin; and sadness pressed him down like a tremendous stone. He was barely able to breathe. There, where that pale light was trembling, are his people; there are brother hearts,--Prince Yeremi, Pan Yan, Volodyovski, Zagloba, the priest Mukhovetski; there they love him and would gladly defend him. But here is night, with desolation, darkness, corpses; under his feet choruses of ghosts; farther on, the blood-devouring tabor of sworn, pitiless enemies. The weight of sadness became so great that it was too heavy even for the shoulders of this giant. His soul began to waver within him.
In the darkness pale Alarm flew upon him, and began to whisper in his ear: "You will not pa.s.s, it is impossible! Return, there is still time!
Fire the pistol, and a whole battalion will rush to your aid. Through those tabors, through that savageness nothing will pa.s.s."
That starving camp, covered every day with b.a.l.l.s, full of death and the odor of corpses, appeared at that moment to Pan Longin a calm, peaceful, safe haven. His friends there would not think ill of him if he returned. He would tell them that the deed pa.s.sed human power; and they would not go themselves, would not send another,--would wait further for the mercy of G.o.d and the coming of the king. But if Skshetuski should go and perish! "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! These are temptations of Satan," thought Pan Longin. "I am ready for death, and nothing worse can meet me. And this is Satan terrifying a weak soul with desolation, corpses, and darkness; for he makes use of all means." Will the knight return, cover himself with shame, suffer in reputation, disgrace his name, not save the army, renounce the crown of heaven? Never! And he moved on, stretching out his hands before him.
Now a murmur reached him again, not from the Polish camp, however, but from the opposite side, still indefinite, but as it were deep and terrible, like the growling of a bear giving sudden answer in a dark forest. Disquiet had now left Pan Longin"s soul; sadness had ceased, and changed into a mere sweet remembrance of those near to him. At last, as if answering that menace coming up from the tabor, he repeated once more in spirit: "But still I will go."
After a certain time he found himself on that battle-field ere on the first day of the storm the prince"s cavalry had defeated the Cossacks and janissaries. The road here was more even,--fewer pits, ditches, shelters, and no corpses, those who had fallen in the earlier struggles had been buried by the Cossacks. It was also somewhat clearer, for the ground was not covered with various obstacles. The land inclined gradually toward the north. But Pan Longin turned immediately to the flank, wishing to push through between the western pond and the tabor.
He went quickly now, without hindrance, and it seemed him already that he was reaching the line of the tabor, when some new sound caught his attention. He halted at once, and after waiting a quarter of an hour heard the tramp and breathing of horses. "Cossack patrols!" thought he.
The voices of men reached his ears. He sprang aside with speed, and searching with his foot for the first depression in the ground, fell to the earth and stretched out motionless, holding his pistol in one hand and his sword the other.
The riders approached still nearer, and at last were abreast of him. It was so dark he could not count them; but he heard every word of their conversation.
"It is hard for them, but hard for us too," said some sleepy voice.
"And how many good men of ours have bitten the dust!"
"Oh, Lord!" said another voice, "they say the king is far. What will become of us?"
"The Khan got angry with our father; and the Tartars threaten to take us, if there will be no other prisoners."
"And in the pastures they fight with our men. Father has forbidden us to go to the Tartar camp, for whoever goes there is lost."
"They say there are disguised Poles among the market-men. I wish this war had never begun."