With Fire and Sword, Henryk Sienkiewicz [year 7 reading list txt] 📗

“They will go away in the morning, mother, and I will restrain myself; only let the princess stay in her own rooms.”

“Why do you ask this? So that they should think I keep her in confinement? She will appear, because I wish it. Give no orders to me in this house, for you are not master here!”

“Be not angry. Princess! Since it cannot be otherwise, I will be as sweet to them as Turkish tidbits. I’ll not grind my teeth nor touch my head, even though anger were consuming me, though my soul were ready to groan. Let your will be done.”

“Oh, that’s your talk! Take your lyre, play, sing; then you will feel easier. But now meet the guests.”

They returned to the reception-room, in which the princes, not knowing how to entertain the guests, continued to ask them to make themselves at home, and were bowing to the girdle before them.

Skshetuski looked sharply and haughtily into the eyes of Bogun as soon as he came, but he saw in them neither quarrel nor defiance. The face of the youthful leader was lighted up with good-humor, so well simulated that it might have deceived the most experienced eye. The lieutenant looked at him carefully, for previously he had been unable to distinguish his features in the darkness. He saw now a young hero, straight as a poplar, with splendid brunette face, and rich, dark, drooping mustache. On that face gladness burst through the pensive mood of the Ukraine, as the sun through a mist. The leader had a lofty forehead, on which his dark hair drooped as a mane above his powerful brow. An aquiline nose, dilated nostrils, and white teeth, shining at every smile, gave the face a slight expression of rapacity; but on the whole it was a model of Ukraine beauty, luxuriant, full of character and defiance. His splendid dress also distinguished this hero of the steppe from the princes dressed in skins. Bogun wore a tunic of silver brocade and a scarlet kontush, which color was worn by all the Pereyasláv Cossacks. His loins were girt with a silken sash from which depended a rich sabre; but the sabre and the dress paled before the Turkish dagger at his belt. This dagger was so thickly studded with jewels that sparks flew from it. Arrayed in this fashion, he would have been easily taken by anyone for a scion of some great house; rather than a Cossack, especially since his freedom and his lordly manners betrayed no low descent.

Approaching Pan Longin, he listened to the story of his ancestor Stoveiko and the cutting off of the three heads. He turned to the lieutenant, and said with perfect indifference, just as if nothing had happened between them⁠—

“You are on your way from the Crimea, I hear.”

“From the Crimea,” answered the lieutenant, dryly.

“I have been there too, though I did not go to Baktche Serai; but I think I shall be there if the favorable news we hear comes true.”

“Of what news are you speaking?”

“It is said that if the king opens war against the Turks, Prince Vishnyevetski will visit the Crimea with fire and sword. This report brings great joy through the whole Ukraine and the lower country, for if under such a leader we do not frolic in Baktche Serai, then under none.”

“We will frolic, as God is in heaven!” cried the young princes.

The respect with which Bogun spoke of the prince captivated the lieutenant; so he smiled and said in a more friendly voice⁠—

“I see that you are not satisfied yet with the expeditions which you have had with men of the lower country, which however have covered you with glory.”

“Small war, small glory! Konashevich Sahaidachni did not win it on boats, but in Khotím.”

At that moment a door opened, and Vassily, the eldest of the Kurtsevichi, came slowly into the room, led by Helena. He was a man of ripe years, pale and emaciated, with a sad ascetic countenance, recalling the Byzantine pictures of saints. His long hair, prematurely gray from misfortune and pain, came down to his shoulders, and instead of his eyes were two red depressions. In his hand he held a bronze cross, with which he began to bless the room and all present.

“In the name of God the Father, in the name of the Saviour and of the Holy Most Pure,” said he, “if you are apostles and bring good tidings, be welcome on Christian thresholds!”

“Be indulgent, gentlemen,” muttered the princess; “his mind is disturbed.”

But Vassily continued to bless them with the cross, and added: “As it is said in the ‘Dialogues of the Apostles,’ ‘Whoso sheds his blood for the faith will be saved; he who dies for gain or booty will be damned.’ Let us pray! Woe to you, brothers, woe to me, since we made war for booty! God be merciful to us, sinners! God be merciful! And you, men who have come from afar, what tidings do you bring? Are you apostles?”

He was silent, and appeared to wait for an answer; therefore the lieutenant replied⁠—

“We are far from such a lofty mission. We are only soldiers ready to lay down our lives for the faith.”

“Then you will be saved,” said the blind man; “but for us the hour of liberation has not come. Woe to you, brothers! woe to me!”

He uttered the last words almost with a groan, and such deep despair was depicted on his countenance that the guests were at a loss what to do. Helena seated him straightway on a chair, and hastening to the anteroom, returned in a moment with a lute in her hand.

Low sounds were heard in the apartment, and the princess began to sing a hymn as accompaniment⁠—

“By night and by day I call thee, O Lord!
Relieve thou my torment, and dry my sad tears;
Be a merciful Father to me in my sins;
Oh, hear thou my cry!”

The blind man threw his