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

following the king, surpassed one another in praises of the knight. Then they began again to hurl questions at him, to which he answered with the greatest difficulty, for growing weakness had seized him; he was barely half-conscious. Meanwhile they brought him refreshments; and at the same time entered the priest Tsetsishovski, the chaplain of the king.

The dignitaries made way for him, for he was a very learned man, and respected. His word had almost more weight with the king than that of the chancellor, and from the pulpit he gave utterance to words such as few would dare to say at the Diet. The priest was surrounded then, and they began to tell him that an officer had come from Zbaraj; that the prince was there, though in hunger and wretchedness, and was still beating the Khan, who was present in his own person, as well as Hmelnitski, who during the whole past year had not lost so many men as at Zbaraj; finally, that the king was going to move to his succor, even if he had to lose his whole army.

The priest listened in silence, moving his lips and looking every moment at the emaciated knight, who was eating at the time, for the king had commanded him not to mind his presence; and he even waited on him himself, and from time to time drank to him from a little silver goblet.

“What is the name of this knight?” asked the priest at last.

“Skshetuski.”

“Yan?”

“Yes.”

“Colonel with the voevoda of Rus?”

“Yes.”

The priest raised his wrinkled face, prayed again, and said: “Let us praise the name of the Lord, for undiscoverable are the ways by which he brings a man to happiness and peace. Amen! I know this officer.”

Skshetuski heard, and involuntarily turned his eyes to the face of the priest; but his face, form, and voice were completely unknown to him.

“You are the man out of the whole army who undertook to pass through the enemy’s camp?” asked the priest.

“A worthy man tried before me, but he perished.”

“The greater is your service, since after him you dared. I see by your suffering that the road must have been an awful one. God looked on your sacrifice, on your virtue, on your youth, and he led you through.”

Suddenly the priest turned to Yan Kazimir. “Your gracious Majesty,” said he, “it is then your unchangeable decision to march to the rescue of the voevoda of Rus?”

“To your prayers, father,” answered the king, “I commit the country, the army, and myself, for I know it is an awful undertaking. But I cannot permit that the prince should perish behind those unfortunate ramparts, with such knights as this officer.”

“God send down victory!” cried a number of voices.

The priest raised his hands to heaven, and silence followed in the hall. “I bless you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

“Amen!” said the king.

“Amen!” repeated all the voices.

Peace was spread over the face of Yan Kazimir after his previous suffering; but his eyes shot forth unusual gleams. Among all assembled rose the buzz of conversation about the impending campaign, for it was much doubted yet whether the king could move at once. He took his sword, however, from the table, and nodded to Tyzenhauz to gird him.

“When does your Majesty think of marching?” asked the chancellor.

“God has granted a pleasant night,” said the king; “the horses will not be heated. Commander of the camp,” he added, turning to the dignitaries, “order the march to be sounded!”

The commander of the camp left the room at once. Ossolinski, the chancellor, said with quiet dignity that all were not ready; that they could not move the wagons before day. But the king answered immediately: “Let that man remain to whom the wagons are dearer than the country.”

The hall grew empty. Each man hastened to his standard, put everything in order, and prepared for the march. Only the king, the chancellor, the priest, with Skshetuski and Tyzenhauz, remained in the room.

“Gentlemen,” said the priest, “you have learned already from this officer what you had to learn. He should now get rest, for he is barely able to stand on his feet. Allow me, your Majesty, to take him to my quarters for the night!”

“All right, father,” replied the king. “Your demand is just. Let Tyzenhauz and someone else conduct him, for surely he cannot walk alone. Go, go, dear friend,” said he; “no one has earned his rest better than you. And remember that I am your debtor; henceforth I shall forget myself rather than you.”

Tyzenhauz caught Skshetuski under the arm and they passed into the antechamber. They met Sapieha, who supported the tottering knight on the other side. The priest went in advance, before him a boy with a lantern; but the boy carried it to no purpose, for the night was clear, calm, and warm. The great golden moon sailed over Toporoff like a boat. From the square of the camp came the bustle of men, the creaking of wagons, the noise of trumpets sounding the tattoo. At some distance, in front of the church lighted by the gleams of the moon, were already visible crowds of soldiers, infantry and cavalry. Horses were neighing in the village. To the creaking of wagons was joined the clatter of chains and the dull thump of cannon. The uproar increased every moment.

“They are moving already!” said the priest.

“On Zbaraj⁠—to the rescue⁠—” whispered Pan Yan. And whether from joy or from the toils he had endured, or from both together, he grew so weak that Tyzenhauz and the starosta were obliged almost to drag him along.

When they were turning to the priests’ house they went among the soldiers standing in front of the building. These were the cavalry of Sapieha and the infantry of Artsishevski. Not in rank yet for the march, they stood without order, crowded in places and hindering the passage.

“Out of the road, out of the road!” cried the priest.

“Who wants