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

they know you. You have virtue for sale, and are in a hurry to take it out of camp. You the worst among knights, not the best⁠—simply a drab, trading in virtue. Tfu! an offence to God⁠—that’s what you are. It is not to the king you want to go, but you would like to snort through the villages like a horse through a meadow. Look at him! There is a knight with virtue for sale! Vexation, vexation, as God is dear to me!”

“Disgusting to hear him!” cried the Lithuanian, thrusting his fingers in his ears.

“Let disputes rest,” said Skshetuski, seriously. “Better let us think about this question.”

“In God’s name,” said the starosta, who had listened hitherto with astonishment to Zagloba, “this is a great question, but we can decide nothing without the prince. This is no place for discussion. You are in service and obliged to obey orders. The prince must be in his quarters; let us go to him and see what he will say to your offer.”

“I agree to that,” answered Zagloba; and hope shone in his face. “Let us go as quickly as possible.”

They went out and crossed the square on which already the balls were falling from the Cossack trenches. The troops were at the ramparts, which at a distance looked like booths at a fair, so overhung were they with many-colored clothing sheepskin coats, packed with wagons, fragments of tents, and every kind of object which might become a shelter against the shots which at times ceased neither day nor night. And now above those rags hung a long bluish line of smoke, and behind them ranks of prostrate red and yellow soldiers, working hard against the nearest trenches of the enemy. The square itself was like a ruin; the level space was cut up with spades, or trampled by horses; it was not made green by a single grass-blade. Here and there were mounds of earth freshly raised by the digging of walls and graves; here and there lay fragments of broken wagons, cannon, barrels, or piles of bones, gnawed, and whitening before the sun. Bodies of horses were nowhere visible, for each one was removed immediately as food for the soldiers; but everywhere were piles of iron⁠—mostly cannonballs, red from rust, which fell every day on that piece of land. Grievous war and hunger were evident at every step. On their way our knights met greater or smaller groups of soldiers⁠—some carrying wounded or dead, others hurrying to the ramparts to relieve their overworked comrades. The faces of all were black, sunken, overgrown with beard; their fierce eyes were inflamed, their clothing faded and torn; many had filthy rags on their heads in place of caps or helmets; their weapons were broken. Involuntarily came the question, What will happen a week or two later to that handful hitherto victorious?

“Look, gentlemen,” said the starosta; “it is time to give notice to the king.”

“Want is showing its teeth, like a dog,” said the little knight.

“What will happen when we have eaten the horses?” asked Skshetuski.

Thus conversing, they reached the tents of the prince, situated at the right side of the rampart, before which were a few mounted messengers to carry orders through the camp. Their horses, fed with dried and ground horseflesh and excited by continual fire, reared restively, unable to stand in one place. This was the case too with all the cavalry horses, which in going against the enemy seemed like a herd of griffins or centaurs going rather by air than by land.

“Is the prince in the tent?” asked the starosta of one of the horsemen.

“Yes, with Pan Pshiyemski,” answered the orderly.

The starosta entered first without announcing himself, but the four knights remained outside. After a while the canvas opened, and Pshiyemski thrust out his head. “The prince is anxious to see you,” said he.

Zagloba entered the tent in good humor, for he hoped the prince would not expose his best knights to certain death; but he was mistaken, for they had not yet bowed when he said⁠—

“The starosta has told me of your readiness to issue from the camp, and I accept your good will. Too much cannot be sacrificed for the country.”

“We have only come for permission to try,” said Skshetuski, “since your Highness is the steward of our blood.”

“Then you want to go together?”

“Your Highness,” said Zagloba, “they want to go, but I do not. God is my witness that I have not come here to praise myself or to make mention of my services; and if I do mention them, I do so lest someone might suppose that I am afraid. Pan Skshetuski, Volodyovski, and Podbipienta of Myshekishki are great knights; but Burlai, who fell by my hand (not to speak of other exploits), was also a famous warrior, equal to Burdabut, Bogun, and the three heads of the janissaries. I mean to say by this that in knightly deeds I am not behind others. But heroism is one thing, and madness another. We have no wings, and we cannot go by land; that is certain.”

“You will not go then?” said the prince.

“I have said that I do not wish to go, but I have not said that I will not go. Since God has punished me with their company, I must remain in it till death. If we should be hard pressed, the sabre of Zagloba will be of service yet; but I know not why death should be put upon us four, and I hope that your Highness will avert it from us by not permitting this mad undertaking.”

“You are a good comrade,” answered the prince, “and it honorable on your part not to wish to leave your friends; you are mistaken in your confidence in me, for I accept your offer.”

“The dog is dead!” muttered Zagloba, and his hands dropped.

At that moment Firlei, castellan of Belsk, entered the tent. “Your Highness, my people have seized a Cossack who says that they are preparing an