The Deluge. Vol. 1. Генрик Сенкевич

I returned to my house, and what did I find? I found my comrades cut up like cattle, lying at the wall. When I learned that the Butryms had done this, the devil entered me, and I took stern vengeance. Would you believe why they were cut up, why they were slaughtered? I learned myself later from one of the Butryms, whom I found in the woods. Behold, it was for this, – that they wanted to dance with the women of the nobles in a public house! Who would not have taken vengeance?"

      "My worthy sir," answered Volodyovski, "it is true that they acted severely with your comrades; but was it the nobles who killed them? No; their previous reputation killed them, – that which they brought with them; for if orderly soldiers had wished to dance, surely they would not have slain them."

      "Poor fellows!" said Kmita, following his own thoughts, "while I was lying here now in a fever, they came in every evening through that door from the room outside. I saw them around this bed as if living, blue, hacked up, and groaning continually, 'Yendrus! give money to have a Mass for our souls; we are in torments!' Then I tell you the hair stood on my head, for the smell of sulphur from them was in the room. I gave money for a Mass. Oh, may it help them!"

      A moment of silence then followed.

      "As to the carrying off," continued Kmita, "no one could have told you about that; for in truth she saved my life when the nobles were hunting me, but afterward she ordered me to depart and not show myself before her eyes. What was there left for me after that?"

      "Still it was a Tartar method."

      "You know not what love is, and to what despair it may bring a man when he loses that which he prizes most dearly."

      "I know not what love is?" cried Volodyovski, with excitement. "From the time that I began to carry a sabre I was in love. It is true that the object changed, for I was never rewarded with a return. Were it not for that, there could have been no Troilus more faithful than I."

      "What kind of love can that be when the object is changing?" said Kmita.

      "I will tell you something else which I saw with my own eyes. In the first period of the Hmelnitski affair, Bogun, the same who next to Hmelnitski has now the highest respect of the Cossacks, carried off Princess Kurtsevich, a maiden loved by Skshetuski above all things. That was a love! The whole army was weeping in view of Skshetuski's despair; for his beard at some years beyond twenty grew gray, and can you guess what he did?"

      "I have no means of knowing."

      "Well, because the country was in need, in humiliation, because the terrible Hmelnitski was triumphing, he did not go to seek the girl. He offered his suffering to God, and fought under Prince Yeremi in all the battles, including Zbaraj, and covered himself with such glory that to-day all repeat his name with respect. Compare his action with your own and see the difference."

      Kmita was silent, gnawed his mustache. Volodyovski continued, -

      "Then God rewarded and gave him the maiden. They married immediately after Zbaraj, and now have three children, though he has not ceased to serve. But you by making disturbance have given aid to the enemy and almost lost your own life, not to mention that a few days ago you might have lost the lady forever."

      "How is that?" asked Kmita, sitting up in the bed; "what happened to her?"

      "Nothing; but there was found a man who asked for her hand and wanted to marry her."

      Kmita grew very pale; his hollow eyes began to shoot flames. He wanted to rise, even struggled for a moment; then cried, "Who was this devil's son? By the living God, tell me!"

      "I," said Pan Volodyovski.

      "You, – you?" asked Kmita, with astonishment, "Is it possible?"

      "It is."

      "Traitor! that will not go with you! But she-what-tell me everything. Did she accept?"

      "She refused me on the spot, without thinking."

      A moment of silence followed. Kmita breathed heavily, and fixed his eyes on Volodyovski, who said, -

      "Why call me traitor? Am I your brother or your best man? Have I broken faith with you? I conquered you in battle, and could have done what I liked."

      "In old fashion one of us would seal this with his blood, – if not with a sabre, with a gun. I would shoot you; then let the devils take me."

      "Then you would have shot me, for if she had not refused I should not have accepted a second duel. What had I to fight for? Do you know why she refused me?"

      "Why?" repeated Kmita, like an echo.

      "Because she loves you."

      That was more than the exhausted strength of the sick man could bear. His head fell on the pillows, a copious sweat came out on his forehead, and he lay there in silence.

      "I am terribly weak," said he, after a while. "How do you know that she loves me?"

      "Because I have eyes and see, because I have reason and observe; just after I had received the refusal my head became clear. To begin with, when after the duel I came to tell her that she was free, for I had slain you, she was dazed, and instead of showing gratitude she ignored me entirely; second, when the Domasheviches were bringing you in, she carried your head like a mother; and third, because when I visited her, she received me as if some one were giving me a slap in the face. If these explanations are not sufficient, it is because your reason is shaken and your mind impaired."

      "If that is true," said Kmita, with a feeble voice, "many plasters are put on my wounds; better balsam than your words there could not be."

      "But a traitor applies this balsam."

      "Oh, forgive me! Such happiness cannot find place in my mind, that she has a wish for me still."

      "I said that she loves you; I did not say that she has a wish for you, – that is altogether different."

      "If she has no wish for me, I will break my head against the wall; I cannot help it."

      "You might if you had a sincere desire of effacing your faults. There is war now; you may go, you may render important services to our dear country, you may win glory with bravery, and mend your reputation. Who is without fault? Who has no sin on his conscience? Every one has. But the road to penance and correction is open to all. You sinned through violence, then avoid it henceforth; you offended against the country by raising disturbance in time of war, save the country now; you committed wrongs against men, make reparation for them. This is a better and a surer way for you than breaking your head."

      Kmita looked attentively at Volodyovski; then said, "You speak like a sincere friend of mine."

      "I am not your friend, but in truth I am not your enemy; and I am sorry for that lady, though she refused me and I said a sharp word to her in parting. I shall not hang myself by reason of the refusal; it is not the first for me, and I am not accustomed to treasure up offences. If I persuade you to the right road, that will be to the country a service on my part, for you are a good and experienced soldier."

      "Is there time for me to return to this road? How many summonses are waiting for me? I shall have to go from the bed to the court-unless I flee hence, and I do not wish to do that. How many summonses, and every case a sure sentence of condemnation!"

      "Look, here is a remedy!" said Volodyovski, taking out the commission.

      "A commission!" cried Kmita; "for whom?"

      "For you! You need not appear at any court, for you are in the hetman's jurisdiction. Hear what the prince voevoda writes me."

      Volodyovski read to Kmita the private letter of Radzivill, drew breath, moved his mustaches, and said, "Here, as you see, it depends on me either to give you the commission or to retain it."

      Uncertainty, alarm, and hope were reflected on Kmita's face. "What will you do?" asked he, in a low voice.

      "T will give the commission," said Volodyovski.

      Kmita said nothing at first; he dropped his head on the pillow, and looked some time at the ceiling. Suddenly his eyes began to grow moist; and tears, unknown guests in those eyes, were hanging on the lashes.

      "May I be torn with horses," said he at