With Fire and Sword - Henryk Sienkiewicz (ink book reader .TXT) 📗

“I did what I could,” said the Lithuanian, “not what I wanted.”

“Still your action was not bad,” said Zagloba, patronizingly; “and that others surpassed you [here he began to curl his mustaches] is not your fault.”

The Lithuanian listened with downcast eyes and sighed, thinking of his ancestor Stoveiko and the three heads.

At that moment the tent door opened and Pan Michael entered quickly, glad as a goldfinch on a bright morning.

“Well, we are here,” said Zagloba; “give him some beer.”

The little knight pressed the hands of his three comrades, and said: “You should see how many balls are lying on the square; it passes imagination! You can’t pass without hitting one.”

“I saw that too,” said Zagloba, “for when I rose I walked a little through the camp. All the hens in the province of Lvoff won’t lay so many eggs in two years. Oh, I only wish they were eggs! Then we should have them fried; and you must know, gentlemen, that I consider a plate of fried eggs the greatest delicacy. I am a born soldier, and so are you. I eat willingly what is good, if there is only enough of it. On this account too I am more eager for battle than the pampered youngsters of today who can’t eat anything unusual without getting the gripes.”

“But you scored a success yesterday with Burlai,” said Volodyovski. “To cut down Burlai in that fashion! As I live I did not expect that of you, and he was a warrior famous throughout the Ukraine and Turkey.”

“Pretty good work, wasn’t it?” asked Zagloba, with satisfaction. “It’s not my first, it’s not my first, Pan Michael. I see we were all looking for poppyseed in the bottom of the bushel; but we have found four, and such another four you could not find in the whole Commonwealth. If I should go with you, gentlemen, and with our prince at the head, we could reach even Stamboul! Just think! Skshetuski killed Burdabut, and yesterday Tugai Bey.”

“Tugai Bey is not killed,” interrupted the colonel. “I felt that the sabre was turning in my hand; then they separated us.”

“All one; don’t interrupt me, Pan Yan! Pan Michael cut up Bogun at Warsaw, as we have said⁠—”

“It is better not to mention that,” interrupted the Lithuanian.

“What is said is said,” answered Zagloba, “though I should prefer not to mention it. But I go further: Here is Pan Podbipienta from Myshekishki, who finished Pulyan, and I Burlai. I will not hide from you, however, that I would give all these for Burlai alone; and this perhaps because I had terrible work with him. He was a devil, not a Cossack. If I had sons like him legitimately born, I should leave them a splendid name. I am only curious to know what his Majesty the King and the Diet will say when they reward us⁠—who live more on brimstone and saltpetre than anything else.”

“There was a knight greater than all of us,” said Pan Longin; “and no one knows his name or mentions it.”

“I should like to know who he was⁠—one of the ancients?” asked Zagloba, offended.

“No; he was that man, brother, who at Tshtsiana brought the king Gustavus Adolphus to the ground with his horse, and took him prisoner.”

“I heard it was at Putsek,” interrupted Volodyovski.

“But the king tore away from him, and escaped,” said Skshetuski.

“He did,” said Zagloba, closing his eyes. “I know something about that matter, for I was then under Konyetspolski, father of the standard-bearer. Modesty did not permit that knight to mention his own name, therefore no one knows it; and believe me, Gustavus Adolphus was a great warrior⁠—almost equal to Burlai; but in the hand-to-hand conflict with Burlai I had heavier work. It is I who tell you this.”

“That means that you overthrew Gustavus Adolphus?” said Volodyovski.

“Have I boasted of it, Pan Michael? Then let it remain unremembered. I have something to boast of today; no need of bringing up old times! This horrid beer rattles terribly in the stomach, and the more cheese there is in it the worse it rattles. I prefer wine, though God be praised for what we have! Soon perhaps we shall not have even the beer. The priest Jabkovski tells me that we are likely to have short rations; and he is all the more troubled, for he has a belly as big as a barn. He is a rare Bernardine, with whom I have fallen desperately in love. There is more of the soldier than the monk in him. If he should hit a man on the snout, then you might order his coffin on the spot.”

“But,” said Volodyovski, “I have not told you how handsomely the priest Yaskolski acted last night. He fixed himself in that corner of the tower at the right side of the castle, and looked at the fight. You must know that he is a wonderfully good shot. Said he to Jabkovski: ‘I won’t shoot Cossacks, for they are Christians after all, though their deeds are disgusting to the Lord; but Tartars,’ said he, ‘I cannot stand;’ and so he peppered away at the Tartars, and he spoiled about a score and a half of them during the battle.”

“I wish all priests were like him,” sighed Zagloba; “but our Mukhovetski only raises his hands to heaven and weeps because so much Christian blood is flowing.”

“But give us peace,” said Skshetuski, earnestly. “Mukhovetski is a holy man, and you have the best proof of it in this, that though he is not the senior of these two, they bow down before his worthiness.”

“Not only do I not deny his holiness,” retorted Zagloba, “but I suppose he would be able to convert the Khan himself. Oh, gentlemen, his Majesty the Khan must be so mad that the lice on him are standing on their heads from fright. If we have negotiations with the Khan, I will go with the commissioners. The Khan and I are old acquaintances.