Panna Anulka smiled in so lovely a fashion that two charming dimples appeared in her cheeks, and she dropped her eyelids.

  But the compliment seemed over bold to Pan Gideon, for his ward, though an orphan without property, was descended from magnates, hence he changed the conversation.

  “But have your graces,” asked he, “been moving long on the road in this fashion?”

  “Since the great snows fell, and we shall keep on till the frost stops,” said Stanislav.

  “And have ye killed many wolves?”

  “Enough to give overcoats to all of us.”

  Here the Bukoyemskis laughed as loud as if four horses were neighing, and when they had quieted a little, Mateush, the eldest one added, —

  “His Grace the King will be proud of his foresters.”

  “True,” said Pan Gideon. “And I have heard that ye are head foresters in the king’s wilderness in these parts. But do not the Bukoyemskis originate in the Ukraine?”

  “We are of those Bukoyemskis.”

  “Indeed — indeed — of good stock, the Yelo-Bukoyemskis are connected there with even great houses.”

  “And with St. Peter!” added Lukash.

  “Eh!” said Pan Gideon. And he began to look around with suspicion and sternly at the brothers to see if they were not trying to jest with him. But their faces were clear, and they nodded with earnest conviction, confirming in this way the words of their brother. Pan Gideon was astonished immensely, and repeated: “Relatives of Saint Peter? But how is that?”

  “Through the Pregonovskis.”

  “Indeed! And the Pregonovskis?”

  “Through the Usviats.”

  “And the Usviats through some one else,” said the old noble, with a smile, “and so on to the birth of Christ, the Lord. So! It is a great thing to have relatives in a senate down here, but what must it be to have kinsmen in the heavenly assembly — promotion is certain in that case. But how have ye wandered to our wilderness from the Ukraine, for men have told me that ye are some years in this neighborhood?”

  “About three. Rebellions have long since levelled everything in the Ukraine, and boundaries have vanished. We would not serve Pagans in partisan warfare, so we served first in the army and then became tenants till Pan Malchinski, our relative, made us chief foresters in this place.”

  “Yes,” said Pan Serafin, “I wondered that we found ourselves side by side in this wilderness, for we are not of this country, but the changing fortunes of men have transported us hither. The inheritance of your mightiness,” here he turned to Pan Gideon, “is also, as I know, in Rus near the castle of Pomorani.”

  Pan Gideon quivered at this, as if some one had struck an open wound in his body.

  “I had property there, and I have it there still,” said he, “but those places to me are abhorrent, for misfortunes alone struck me there, just like thunderbolts.”

  “The will of God,” said Pan Serafin.

  “It is vain to revolt against that; still, life in those regions is difficult.”

  “Your grace, as is known, has served long in the army.”

  “Till I lost my arm. I avenged my country’s wrongs, and my own there. And if the Lord Jesus will pardon one sin for each head that I took from a pagan, hell, as I trust, will never be seen by me.”

  “Of course not, of course not! Service is a merit, and so is suffering. Best of all is it to cast gloomy thoughts from us.”

  “Gladly would I be rid of them, still, they do not leave me. But enough! I am a cripple at present, and this lady’s guardian. I have removed in old age to a silent region which the enemy never visits. I live, as you know, in Belchantska.”

  “That is well, and I have acted in like manner,” added Pan Serafin. “Young men, though it is quiet now on the borders, hurry off to Tartar trails in the hope of adventure, but it is ghastly and woful in places where each man is mourning for some one.”

  Pan Gideon put his hand to his forehead where he held it rather long, till at length he said sadly, —

  “Only a peasant or a magnate can live in the Ukraine. When an onrush of pagans strikes that country the peasant flees to a forest and can live for some months in it like a wild beast; the magnate can live, for he has troops and strong castles of his own to protect him. But even then — the Jolkievskis lived in those regions and perished, the Danilovitches lived there and perished. Of the Sobieskis, the brother of our gracious King Yan perished also. And how many others! One of the Vishnievetskis squirmed on a hook in Stambul till he died there. Prince Koretski was beaten to death with iron rods. The Kalinovskis are gone, — and before them the Herburts and the Yaglovetskis paid their blood tribute. How many of the Sieninskis have died at various periods, and once they possessed almost the whole country — what a graveyard! Were I to recount all the names I could not finish till morning. And were I to give the names, not of magnates alone but of nobles, a month would not suffice me.”

  “True! true! So that a man wonders why the Lord God has thus multiplied those Turks and Tartars. So many of them have been killed that when an earthtiller works in the springtime his ploughshare bites at every step on the skull of a pagan. Dear God! Even our present king has crushed them to death in such numbers that their blood would form a large river, and still they are coming.”

  These words had truth in them. The Commonwealth, rent by disorder and unruliness, could not have strong armies sufficient to end in one mighty struggle the Tartar-Turk avalanche. For that matter, all Europe could not command such an army. Still, the Commonwealth was inhabited by men of great daring, who would not yield their throats willingly to the knife of the eastern attacker. On the contrary, to that terrible region bristling with grave-mounds, and reeking with blood at the borders, Red Russia, Podolia, and the Ukraine, new waves of Polish settlers followed each after the other; these not only stirred up fertile lands, but their own craving for endless wars, battles, and adventures.

  “The Poles,” wrote an old chronicler, “go to Russia for skirmishes with Tartars.”

  So from Mazovia went peasants; daring nobles went also, for each one of whom it was shameful “to die in his bed like a peasant.” And there grew up in those red lands mighty magnates, who, not satisfied with action even there, went frequently much farther — to Wallachia, or the Crimea, seeking victory, power, death, salvation, and glory.

  It was even said that the Poles did not wish one great war that would end the whole question. Though this was not true, still, continual disturbance was dear to that daring generation — but the invader on his part paid with blood dearly for his venture.

  Neither the Dobrudja nor Belgorod lands, nor the Crimean reed barrens could support their wild Tartar denizens, hence hunger drove them to the border where rich booty was waiting, but death was waiting also, very often.

  The flames of fire lighted up invasions unknown yet to history. Single regiments cut into bits with their sabres and trampled into dust under horsehoofs detachments surpassing them tenfold in number. Only swiftness beyond reckoning could save the invaders; in general when a Tartar band was overtaken by troops of the Commonwealth it was lost beyond rescue.

  There were expeditions, especially the smaller ones, from which not one man went back to the Crimea. Terrible in their time both to Turks and to Tartars were Pretvits and Hmieletski; knights of less note, Volodyovski, Pelka, and the elder Rushits, wrote their names down with blood in men’s memories. These for some years, or some tens of years, at that time, were resting in their graves and in glory; but even of the mighty ones none had drawn so much blood from the followers of Islam as the king reigning then, Yan Sobieski.

  At Podhaitsi, Kalush, Hotsim, and Lvoff there were lying till that time unburied such piles of pagan bones that broad fields beneath them were as white as if snow-covered. At last on all hordes there was terror. The borders drew breath then, and when the insatiable Turk began to seek lighter conquests the whole tortured Commonwealth breathed with more freedom.

  There remained only painful remembrances.

  Far away from Pan Serafin’s dwelling, and next to the castle of Pomorani, stood a tall cross on a hill, and two lances upon it. Twenty and some years before that Pan Gideon had placed this cross on the site of his fire-consumed mansion, hence, as he thought of that cross and of all those lives dear to him which had been lost in that region, the heart whined in the old man from anguish.

  But since he was stern to himself and to others, and would not shed tears before strangers, and could not endure paltry pity from any man, he would not speak longer of his misfortunes, and fell to inquiring of his host how he lived in that forest inheritance.

  “Here,” said Pan Serafin, “is stillness, oh, stillness! When the forest is not sounding, and the wolves are not howling, thou canst almost hear snow fall. There is calmness, there is fire in the chimney and a pitcher of heated wine in the evening — old age needs nothing further.”

  “True. But your son?”

  “A young bird leaves the nest sometimes. And here certain trees whisper that a great war with the pagan is approaching.”

  “To that war even gray falcons will hasten. Were it not for this, I should fly with the others.”

  Here Pan Gideon shook his coat sleeve, in which there was only a bit of his arm near the shoulder.

  And Pan Serafin poured out heated wine to him.

  “To the success of Christian weapons!”

  “God grant it! Drink to the bottom.”

  Stanislav entertained at the same time Pani Vinnitski, Panna Anulka, and the four Bukoyemskis with a pitcher of wine which steamed quite as actively as the other. The ladies touched the glasses however with their lips very sparingly, but the Bukoyemskis needed no urging, hence the world seemed to them more joyous each moment, and Panna Anulka more beautiful, so, unable to find words to express their delight, they began to look at one another with amazement and panting; then each nudged another with his elbow. Mateush at last found expression, —

  “We are not to wonder that the wolves wished to try the bones and the body of this lady, for even a wild beast knows a real tid-bit!”

  Marek, Lukash, and Yan, the three remaining Bukoyemskis slapped their thighs then in ecstasy.

  “He has hit the nail on the head, he has! A tid-bit! Nothing short of it!”

  “A Saint Martin’s cake!”

  On hearing this Panna Anulka laid one hand on the other, and, feigning terror, said to Stanislav, —

  “Oh, help me, for I see that these gentlemen only saved me from the wolves to eat me themselves.”

  “Gracious maiden,” said Stanislav, joyfully, “Pan Mateush said that we were not to wonder at the wolves, but I say I do not wonder at the Bukoyemskis.”

  “What shall I do then, except to ask who will save me?”

  “Trifle not with sacred subjects!” cried Pani Vinnitski.

  “Well, but these gentlemen are ready to eat me and also auntie. Are they not?”

  This question remained for some time without answer. Moreover, it was easy to note from the faces of the brothers that they had much less desire for the additional eating. But Lukash, who had quicker wit than his brothers, now added, “Let Mateush speak; he is the eldest.”

  Mateush was somewhat bothered, and answered, “Who knows what will meet him to-morrow?”

  “A good remark,” said Stanislav, “but to what do you apply it?”

  “How to what?”

  “Why, nothing. I only ask, why mention to-morrow?”

  “But knowest thou that love is worse than a wolf, for a man may kill a wolf, but to kill love is beyond him.”

  “I know, but that again is another question.”

  “But if there be wit enough, a question is nothing.”

  “In that case may God give us wit.”

  Panna Anulka hid her laughter behind her palm; after her laughed Stanislav, and then the Bukoyemskis. Further word-play was stopped by a servant announcing the supper.

  Pan Serafin gave his arm to Pani Vinnitski; after them went Pan Gideon; Stanislav conducted Panna Anulka.

  “A dispute with Pan Bukoyemski is difficult,” said the young lady, made gladsome.

  “For his reasons are like wilful horses, each goes its own way; but he has told two truths which are hard of denial.”

  “What is the first one?”

  “That no man knows what will meet him on the morrow, just as yesterday I did not know, for example, that to-day I should see you.”

  “And the other?”

  “That a man can kill a wolf, but to kill love is beyond him. This also is a great truth.”

  Stanislav sighed; the young lady lowered her shady eyelashes and was silent. Only after a while, when they were sitting at the table, did she say to him, —

  “But you will come, gentlemen, soon to my guardian’s, so that he may show you some gratitude for saving us and for your hospitality also?”

  The gloomy feelings of Pan Gideon brightened notably at supper, and when the host in splendid phrases proposed first the health of the ladies and that of the honored guest afterward, the old noble answered very cordially, thanking for the rescue from difficult straits, and giving assurance of never-ending gratitude.

  After that they conversed of public questions, of the king, of the Diet which was to meet the May following of the war with which the Turkish Sultan was threatening the German Empire, and for which that Knight of Malta, Pan Lyubomirski, was bringing in volunteers.

  The four brothers listened with no slight curiosity, because every Pole was received with open arms among Germans; since the Turks despised German cavalry, while Polish horsemen roused proper terror.

  Pan Gideon blamed Lyubomirski’s pride somewhat, since he spoke of German counts thuswise: “Ten of them could find place in one glove of mine;” still, he praised the man’s knightliness, boundless daring, and great skill in warfare.

  On hearing this, Lukash Bukoyemski declared for himself and his brothers that in spring they would hasten to Lyubomirski, but while the frost raged they would kill wolves, and avenge the young lady, as behooved them.

  “For, though we are not to wonder at the wolves,” said Mateush, “when one thinks that such a pure dove might have been turned into wolf’s meat the heart flies to the throat from pure anger, and at the same time it is hard to keep tears down. What a pity that wolf skins are so low-priced, — the Jews give barely one thaler for three of them! — but it is hard to keep our tears down, and even better to give way to them, for whoso could not compassionate innocence and virtue would be a savage, whom no man should name as a knight and a noble.”

  In fact, he gave way to his tears then, as did his three brothers; though wolves in the worst case could threaten only the life, not the virtue of the lady, still the eloquence of Lukash so moved his three brothers that their hearts became soft as warmed wax while they listened. They wished to shoot in the air from their pistols in honor of the young lady; but the host opposed, saying that he had a sick forester in the mansion, a man of great merit, who needed silence.

  Pan Gideon, who supposed this to be some reduced relative of Pan Serafin, or in the worst case a village noble, inquired touching him, through politeness; but on learning that he was a serving-man and a peasant he shrugged his shoulders and looked with displeased and wondering eyes at Pan Serafin.

  “Oh yes!” said he. “I forgot what people say of your marvellous kindness.”

  “God grant,” answered Pan Serafin, “that they say nothing worse of me. I have to thank this man for much; and may every one meet such a person, for he knows herbs very thoroughly and can give aid in every illness.”

  “I wonder, since he cures others so ably, that he has not cured himself thus far. Send him my relative, Pani Vinnitski, — she knows many simples, and presses them on people; but meanwhile permit us to think of retiring, for the road has fatigued me most cruelly, and the wine has touched me also a trifle, just as it has the Bukoyemskis.”

  In fact, the heads of the Bukoyemskis were steaming, while the eyes of those brothers were mist-covered and tender; so when Pan Stanislav conducted them to another building, where they were to pass the night together, they followed him with most uncertain tread on frozen snow, which squeaked under them. They wondered why the moon, instead of shining in the heavens, was perched on the roof of a barn and was smiling.

  But Panna Anulka had dropped into their hearts so profoundly that they wished to speak more of her.

  Pan Stanislav, who felt no great wish for sleep, directed to bring a thick-bellied bottle; then they sat near the broad chimney, and, by the bright light of the torch, drank in silence at first, listening only to the crickets in the chamber. At last Mateush filled his breast well with air and blew with such force at the chimney that the flame bent before him.

  “O Jesus! My dear brothers,” cried he, “weep, for a sad fate has met me.”

  “What fate? Speak, do not hide thy condition!”

  “It is this. I am so in love that the knees are weakening under me!”

  “And I? Dost think that I am not in love?” shouted Marek.

  “And I?” screamed out Lukash.

  “And I,” ended Yan.

  Mateush wanted to give them an answer of some kind, but could not at first, for a hiccough had seized him. He only stared with great wonderment, and looked as if he saw them for the first time in life at that moment. Then rage was depicted on his countenance.

  “How is this, O sons of a such a one?” cried he, “ye wish to block the road to your eldest brother, and deprive him of happiness?”

  “O indeed!” answered Marek, “what does this mean? Is Panna Anulka an entail of some kind, that only the eldest brother can get her? We are sons of one father and mother, so if thou call us sons of a such a one, thou art blaming thy father and mother. Each man is free to love as he chooses.”

  “Free, but woe to you, for ye are all bound to me in obedience.”

  “Must we all our lives serve a horseskull? Hei?”

  “O pagan, thou art barking like a dog!”

  “Thou art thyself doing that. Jacob was younger than Esau, and Joseph was younger than all his brothers, so thou art blaming the Scriptures, and barking against true religion.”

 

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