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  “My breath is gone, I have spent my strength; I can walk no farther, I will lie down here and die.”

  The old man was terribly distressed. “Oh, these cursed wastes,—not a house nor a cottage by the roadside, nor a living soul! But we cannot spend the night here. Evening is already falling, it will be dark in an hour,—and just listen!”

  The old man stopped speaking, and for a while there was deep silence. But it was soon broken by a distant dismal sound which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth; it did really come from the ravine, which lay not far from the road.

  “Those are wolves,” said Zagloba. “Last night we had horses,—they ate them; this time they will get at our own persons. I have, it is true, a pistol under my svitka; but I don’t know whether my powder would hold out for two charges, and I should not like to be the supper at a wolf’s wedding. Listen! Another howl!”

  The howling was heard again, and appeared to be nearer.

  “Rise, my child!” said the old man; “and if you are unable to walk, I will carry you. What’s to be done? I see that I have a great affection for you, which is surely because living in a wifeless condition I am unable to leave legitimate descendants of my own; and if I have illegitimate they are heathen, for I lived a long time in Turkey. With me ends the family of Zagloba, with its escutcheon ‘In the Forehead.’ You will take care of my old age, but now you must get up and sit on my shoulders.”

  “My feet have grown so heavy that I cannot move.”

  “You were boasting of your strength. But stop! stop! As God is dear to me, I hear the barking of dogs. That’s it. Those are dogs, not wolves. Then Demiánovka, of which the old minstrel told me, must be near. Praise be to God in the highest! I had thought not to make a fire on account of the wolves; for we should have surely gone to sleep, we are so tired. Yes, they are dogs. Do you hear?”

  “Let us go on,” said Helena, whose strength returned suddenly.

  They had barely come out of the wood when smoke from a number of cottages appeared at no great distance. They saw also three domes of a church, covered with fresh shingles, which shone yet in the dusk from the last gleams of the evening twilight. The barking of dogs seemed nearer, more distinct each moment.

  “Yes, that is Demiánovka; it cannot be another place,” said Zagloba. “They receive minstrels hospitably everywhere; maybe we shall find supper and lodging, and perhaps good people will take us farther. Wait a moment! this is one of the prince’s villages; there must be an agent living in it. We will rest and get news. The prince must be already on the way. Rescue may come sooner than you expect. Remember that you are a mute. I began at the wrong end when I told you to call me Onufri, for since you are a mute you cannot call me anything. I shall speak for you and for myself, and, praise be to God! I can use peasants’ speech as well as Latin. Move on, move on! Now the first cottage is near. My God! when will our wanderings come to an end? If we could get some warmed beer, I should praise the Lord God for even that.”

  Zagloba ceased, and for a time they went on in silence together; then he began to talk again.

  “Remember that you are dumb. When they ask you about anything, point to me and say, ‘Hum, hum, hum! niyá, niyá!’ I have seen that you have much wit, and besides, it is a question of our lives. If we should chance on a regiment belonging to the hetmans or the prince, then we would tell who we are at once, especially if the officer is courteous and an acquaintance of Pan Skshetuski. It is true that you are under the guardianship of the prince, and you have nothing to fear from soldiers. Oh! what fires are those bursting out in the glen? Ah, there are blacksmiths—there is a forge! But I see there is no small number of people at it. Let us go there.”

  In the cleft which formed the entrance to the ravine there was a forge, from the chimney of which bundles and bunches of golden sparks were thrown out; and through the open doors and numerous chinks in the walls sparkling light burst forth, intercepted from moment to moment by dark forms moving around inside. In front of the forge were to be seen in the evening twilight a number of dark forms standing together in knots. The hammers in the forge beat in time, till the echo was heard all about; and the sound was mingled with songs in front of the forge, with the buzz of conversation and the barking of dogs. Seeing all this, Zagloba turned immediately into the ravine, touched his lyre, and began to sing,—

  “Hei! on the mountain

  Reapers are seen,

  Under the mountain,

  The mountain green,

  Cossacks are marching on.”

  Singing thus, he approached the crowd of people standing in front of the forge. He looked around. They were peasants, for the most part drunk. Nearly all of them had sticks in their hands; on some of these sticks were scythes, double-edged and pointed. The blacksmiths in the forge were occupied specially in the making of these points and the bending of the scythes.

  “Ah, grandfather! grandfather!” they began to call out in the crowd.

  “Glory be to God!” said Zagloba.

  “For the ages of ages!”

  “Tell me, children, is this Demiánovka?”

  “Yes, it is Demiánovka. But why do you ask?”

  “I ask because men told me on the way,” continued the grandfather, “that good people dwell here, that they will take in the old man, give him food and drink, let him spend the night, and give him some money. I am old; I have travelled a long road, and this boy here cannot go a step farther. He, poor fellow, is dumb; he leads me because I am sightless. I am a blind unfortunate. God will bless you, kind people. Saint Nicholas, the wonder-worker, will bless you. Saint Onufri will bless you. In one eye there is a little of God’s light left me; in the other it is dark forever. So I travel with my lyre. I sing songs, and I live like the birds on what falls from the hands of kind people.”

  “And where are you from, grandfather?”

  “Oh, from afar, afar! But let me rest, for I see here by the forge a bench. And sit down, poor creature!” said he, showing the bench to Helena. “We are from Ladava, good people, and left home long, long ago; but to-day we come from the festival in Brovarki.”

  “And have you heard anything good there?” asked an old peasant with a scythe in his hand.

  “We heard, we heard, but whether it is anything good we don’t know. Many people have collected there. They spoke of Hmelnitski,—that he had conquered the hetman’s son and his knights. We heard, too, that the peasants are rising against the nobles on the Russian bank.”

  Immediately the crowd surrounded Zagloba, who, sitting by Helena, struck the strings of the lyre from time to time.

  “Then you heard, father, that the people are rising?”

  “I did; for wretched is our peasant lot.”

  “But they say there will be an end to it?”

  “In Kieff they found on the altar a letter from Christ, saying there would be fearful and awful war and much blood-spilling in the whole Ukraine.”

  The half-circle in front of the bench on which Zagloba sat contracted still more.

  “You say there was a letter?”

  “There was, as I am alive. About war and the spilling of blood. But I cannot speak further, for the throat is dried up within me, poor old man!”

  “Here is a measure of gorailka for you, father; and tell us what you have heard in the world. We know that minstrels go everywhere and know everything. There have been some among us already. They said that the black hour would come from Hmelnitski on the lords. We had these scythes and pikes made for us, so as not to be the last; but we don’t know whether to begin now or to wait for a letter from Hmelnitski.”

  Zagloba emptied the measure, smacked his lips, thought awhile, and then said: “Who tells you it is time to begin?”

  “We want to begin ourselves.”

  “Begin! begin!” said numerous voices. “If the Zaporojians have beaten the lords, then begi
n!”

  The scythes and pikes quivered in strong hands, and gave out an ominous clatter. Then followed a moment of silence, but the hammers in the forge continued to beat. The future killers waited for what the old man would say. He thought and thought; at last he asked,—

  “Whose people are you?”

  “Prince Yeremi’s.”

  “And whom will you kill?”

  The peasants looked at one another.

  “Him?” asked the old man.

  “We couldn’t manage him.”

  “Oh, you can’t manage him, children, you can’t manage him! I was in Lubni, and I saw that prince with my own eyes. He is awful! When he shouts the trees tremble in the woods, and when he stamps his foot a ravine is made. The king is afraid of him, the hetmans obey him, and all are terrified at him. He has more soldiers than the Khan or the Sultan. Oh, you can’t manage him, children, you can’t manage him! He is after you, not you after him. And I know what you don’t know yet, that all the Poles will come to help him; and where there is a Pole, there is a sabre.”

  Gloomy silence seized the crowd; the old man struck his lyre again, and raising his face toward the moon, continued:

  “The prince is coming, he is coming, and with him as many beautiful plumes and banners as there are stars in heaven or thistles on the steppe. The wind flies before him and groans; and do you know, my children, why the wind groans? It groans over your fate. Mother Death flies before him with a scythe, and strikes; and do you know what she strikes at? She strikes at your necks.”

  “O Lord, have mercy on us!” said low, terrified voices.

  Again nothing was heard but the beating of hammers.

  “Who is the prince’s agent here?” asked the old man.

  “Pan Gdeshinski.”

  “And where is he?”

  “He ran away.”

  “Why did he run away?”

  “He ran away, for he heard that they were making scythes and pikes for us. He got frightened and ran away.”

  “So much the worse, for he will tell the prince about you.”

  “Why do you croak, grandfather, like a raven?” asked an old peasant. “We believe that the black hour is coming on the lords; and there will be neither on the Russian nor Tartar bank lords or princes,—only Cossacks, free people; there will be neither land-rent, nor barrel-tax, nor mill-tax, nor transport-tax, nor any more Jews, for thus does it stand in the letter from Christ which you yourself spoke of. And Hmelnitski is as strong as the prince. Let them go at it!”

  “God grant!” said the old man. “Oh, bitter is our peasant lot! It was different in old times.”

  “Who owns the land? The prince. Who owns the steppe? The prince. Who owns the woods? The prince. Who has the cattle? The prince. And in old times it was God’s woods and God’s steppe; whoever came first, took it, and was bound to no man. Now everything belongs to the lords and princes.”

  “All belongs to you, my children; but I tell you one thing you yourselves know, that you can’t manage the prince here. I tell you this,—whoever wants to slay lords, let him not stay here till Hmelnitski has tried his hand on the prince, but let him be off to Hmelnitski, and right away, to-morrow, for the prince is on the road already. If Pan Gdeshinski brings him to Demiánovka, the prince won’t leave one of you alive; he will kill the last man of you. Make your way to Hmelnitski. The more of you there, the easier for Hmelnitski to succeed. Oh, but he has heavy work before him! The hetmans in front of him, the armies of the king without number, and then the prince more powerful than the hetmans. Hurry on, children, to help Hmelnitski and the Zaporojians; for they, poor men, won’t hold out unless you help, and they are fighting against the lords for your freedom and property. Hurry! You will save yourselves from the prince and you will help Hmelnitski.”

  “He speaks the truth!” cried voices in the crowd.

  “He speaks well!”

  “A wise grandfather!”

  “Did you see the prince on the road?”

  “See him I didn’t, but I heard in Brovarki that he had left Lubni, that he is burning and slaying; and where he finds even one pike before him, he leaves only the sky and the earth behind.”

  “Lord, have mercy on us!”

  “And where are we to look for Hmelnitski?”

  “I came here, children, to tell you where to look for Hmelnitski. Go, my children, to Zólotonosha, then to Trakhtimiroff, and there Hmelnitski will be waiting for you. There people are collecting from all the villages, houses, and cottages; the Tartars will come there too. Go! Unless you do, the prince will not leave you to walk over the earth.”

  “And you will go with us, father?”

  “Walk I will not, for the ground pulls down my old legs. But get ready a telega, and I will ride with you. Before we come to Zólotonosha I will go on ahead to see if there are Polish soldiers. If there are, we will pass by and go straight to Trakhtimiroff. That is a Cossack country. But now give me something to eat and drink, for I am hungry, and this lad here is hungry too. We will start off in the morning, and along the road I will sing to you of Pan Pototski and Prince Yeremi. Oh, they are terrible lions! There will be great bloodshed in the Ukraine. The sky is awfully red, and the moon just as if swimming in blood. Beg, children, for the mercy of God, for no one will walk long in God’s world. I have heard also that vampires rise out of their graves and howl.”

  A vague terror seized the crowd of peasants; they began to look around involuntarily, make the sign of the cross and whisper among themselves. At last one cried out,—

  “To Zólotonosha!”

  “To Zólotonosha!” repeated all, as if there in particular were refuge and safety.

  “To Trakhtimiroff!”

  “Death to the Poles and lords!”

  All at once a young Cossack stepped forward, shook his pike, and cried: “Fathers, if we go to Zólotonosha to-morrow, we, will go to the manager’s house to-night.”

  “To the manager’s house!” cried a number of voices at once.

  “Burn it up! take the goods!”

  But the minstrel, who held his head drooping on his breast, raised it and said,—

  “Oh, children, do not go to the manager’s house, and do not burn it, or you will suffer. The prince may be close by, he is going along with his army; he will see the fire, he will come, and there will be trouble. Better give me something to eat and show me a place to rest. And do you keep your peace!”

  “He tells the truth!” said a number of voices.

  “He tells the truth, and, Maksim, you are a fool!”

  “Come, father, to my house for bread and salt and a cup of mead, and rest on the hay till daylight,” said an old peasant, turning to the minstrel.

  Zagloba rose, and pulled the sleeve of Helena’s svitka. She was asleep.

  “The boy is tired to death; he fell asleep under the very sound of the hammers,” said Zagloba. But in his soul he thought: “Oh, sweet innocence, thou art able to sleep amidst pikes and knives! It is clear that angels of heaven are guarding thee, and me in thy company.”

  He roused her, and they went on toward the village, which lay at some distance. The night was calm and quiet; the echo of the striking hammers followed them. The old peasant went ahead to show the way in the darkness; and Zagloba, pretending to say his prayers, muttered in a monotone,—

  “O God, have mercy on us, sinners—Do you see, Princess—O Holy Most Pure—what would have happened to us without this peasant disguise?—As it is on earth, so in heaven—We shall get something to eat, and to-morrow ride to Zólotonosha instead of going on foot—Amen, amen, amen!—Bogun may come upon our tracks, for our tracks will not deceive him; but it will be late, for we shall cross the Dnieper at Próhorovka—Amen!—May black death choke them, may the hangman light their way! Do you hear, Princess, how they are howling at the forge?—Amen!—Terrible tim
es have come on us, but I am a fool if I don’t rescue you even if we have to flee to Warsaw itself.”