Part 47 (1/2)
On the third day, which they spent under the shelter of the forest by the Czeremosz, Taras consulted his men, whether they had better return to the camp in the Dembronia Forest, trusting to the Huzuls for further a.s.sistance in any considerable enterprise, or move northward to the Welyki Lys and gather a new band to their banner. But they would not decide. ”We follow you whichever way you lead us,” they said.
”Well, then,” said Taras; ”I am for taking you back to the Dembronia Forest. The Huzuls, certainly, are troublesome confederates, but we must not consult our feelings, we must do what seems best for the cause we serve. While Hilarion is inclined to back us we are strong, whereas without him we might not always be able to fight great wrongs effectively.”
It was late in the evening of this day that they rode into Zabie. The village lay hushed in sleep, the cottages standing dark and silent, the inn excepted, whence a pale light gleamed, though the place was closed for the night. Taras rode up to one of the uncurtained windows, and peered in. The large bar-room was empty, save for a bowed figure sitting by the hearth, motionless.
”It is From, the innkeeper,” cried Nashko, who was looking in at another window. ”For G.o.d's sake--I trust nothing has happened!” And, trembling violently, he tapped at the pane.
The old Jew started, turning to the table as if to extinguish the flickering lamp. But recognising Nashko's voice, he came to the window instead, opening it, and saying with a hoa.r.s.e whisper: ”I suppose you would like to have a last look at her!”
”Tatiana!” cried Taras. ”Man, say, what is it?”
”We could not have her laid out here,” continued the innkeeper, slowly and shaking with emotion. ”Poor lamb! we would have loved to show her that last honour, but we are Jews. She is in the little chapel of the cemetery, and to-morrow they are going to bury her.”
”She is dead!” cried Nashko, with anguished voice.
”Did you not know? I thought you might have returned so speedily for this sad reason,” cried From. ”We got her out of the water yesterday--the good pope here, and myself, and some of the villagers; but it was hard work, for the Czeremosz is a cruel river, holding fast its prey.”
”Tell us,” cried Taras, ”who has dared to take her life?”
”It was her own brave doing,” cried the old Jew. ”She would rather die than be dishonoured. Ah! how fair and sweet she was, and how good; and to come by such an end!” The honest innkeeper struggled with his tears, continuing, amid sobs, ”We have known her these few days only, my wife and I, but we grieve for her as for a child of our own.”
”But how did it happen?” cried Taras, vehemently.
”Cannot you see?” returned the old Jew. ”Two days ago, toward midnight, that Huzul came----”
”The Royal Eagle?”
”Yes; but Vulture were a truer name! He came with a hundred of his men--or two hundred for aught I can tell--and, knocking at this very window, insisted that I should let him in. 'What do you want?' said I.
'Open the door,' says he, 'or I shall force it open.' 'I am a poor old Jew,' I replied, 'and there are but three women in the house besides me--my wife, and her servant, and Tatiana. Of course we cannot resist you, but I ask you whether it is fit for a son of Hilarion, whom they call the Just, to turn house-breaker, and worse!' 'Open,' he retorted, 'or you shall rue it.' 'So please the G.o.d of Abraham,' said I, 'but I shall never let you in with my own hand, for I have sworn to keep the girl safe, and G.o.d Almighty will punish him who breaks his oath. I am afraid of you, of course I am, for I am but a poor old Jew, but much more do I fear G.o.d, and I will not let you in.' So he kicked open the door and carried off the girl. On to his own horse he lifted her, holding her in the saddle before him, and was off to the Black Water.
But she was a jewel of a maid, and her honour was dearer to her than life. She slipped from the horse as they rode by the river and leapt into the roaring water. They tried to save her, but in vain. I heard of it early in the morning, and went to seek for the body with some of our men, the good pope himself coming with us. And, as I said, they'll bury her to-morrow morning. Go to the chapel if you like to have a last look at her.”
The piteous tale had been interrupted with many an indignant exclamation from the men, Nashko and Taras only listening speechless, nor could they find words at once.
”Come to the chapel!” said Taras, after a sorrowful pause.
In deep silence and slowly the band rode through the village, reaching the cemetery at the other end. There they dismounted, casting the bridles over the railings, and one after another they entered the chapel, baring their heads.
It was a modest place, damp and bare, lit up with a couple of torches.
And there, at the foot of a large, crude crucifix, stood the open coffin in which they had laid the body. No one was watching by the dead, those to whom the pope had delegated that pious duty no doubt preferring to spend the bl.u.s.tering night in more congenial quarters.
With bowed heads and murmuring a prayer the outlaws stood by the humble coffin and gazed at the marble features, lovely even in death. The fair face, but for its pallor, seemed bound in sleep only, and the green wreath, the crown of virginity, rested lovingly on the maiden's brow.
The hearts of these rough men were stirred to their depths, but one only was unable to keep silence, and with a smothered cry the maiden's name burst from his lips. He broke down utterly.
That was Nashko. Taras went up to him gently and led him out into the night, making him sit down on the steps of the chapel. And bending over him, he pa.s.sed his hand tenderly over his face.
”I know ...” he murmured, ”I have seen it for some time ... and if I cannot avenge her, you will do it!...”