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

“An officer from Zbaraj⁠—”

“With the forehead to him! with the forehead to him!” cried many voices.

A way was opened at once; but some crowded the more to see the hero. They looked with astonishment on that suffering, on that terrible face, lighted by the gleam of the moon, and they whispered in wonder: “From Zbaraj! from Zbaraj!”

The priest brought Skshetuski to the house with the greatest difficulty. After he had been bathed and washed from the mud and blood, he had him put in the bed of the priest of the place, and went out himself at once to the army, which was moving to the march.

Skshetuski was half conscious. Fever did not let him sleep immediately; he knew not where he was, or what had happened. He heard only the noise⁠—the tramp, the rumble of wagons, the thundering tread of infantry, the shouts of soldiers, then the blare of trumpets; and all this was mingled in his ears in one enormous sound. “The army is moving,” he muttered. That sound began to retreat, to weaken, to vanish, to melt, till at last silence embraced Toporoff. Then it seemed to Skshetuski that together with the bed he was flying into some bottomless abyss.

Skshetuski slept a number of days, and when he woke he had a violent fever, and suffered long. He talked of Zbaraj, of the prince, of the starosta of Krasnovstav; he talked with Pan Michael, with Zagloba; he cried, “Not this way!” to Pan Longin; of the princess alone he spoke not a word. It was clear that the great power with which he had confined in himself the memory of her did not desert him a moment even in weakness and pain. At that moment, he seemed to see hanging over him the chubby face of Jendzian, precisely as he saw it when the prince after the battle of Konstantinoff sent him with troops to Zaslav to cut down lawless bands, and Jendzian appeared to him unexpectedly at his night quarters. This face brought confusion to his mind; for it seemed to him that time halted in its flight, and that nothing had changed from that period. So he is again at Khomor, is sleeping in the cottage, is marching to Tarnopol to give over his troops; Krívonos, beaten at Konstantinoff, has fled to Hmelnitski; Jendzian has come from Gushchi, and sits with him. Skshetuski wanted to talk⁠—wanted to order the lad to have the horse saddled⁠—but could not. And again it comes into his head that he is not at Khomor; that since that time too was the taking of Bar. Here Skshetuski halted in his pain, and his unfortunate head sank in darkness. He knows nothing now, sees nothing; but at times out of that chaos comes the heroism of Zbaraj, the siege. He is not at Khomor then? But still Jendzian is sitting over him, bending toward him. Through an opening in the shutters a narrow bright ray comes into the room, and lights completely the face of the youth, full of care and sympathy.

“Jendzian!” cried Skshetuski, suddenly.

“Oh, my master! do you know me already?” cried the youth, and fell at the feet of his master. “I thought you would never wake again!”

A moment of silence followed; only the sobbing of the youth could be heard as he continued to press the feet of his master.

“Where am I?” asked Skshetuski.

“In Toporoff. You came from Zbaraj to the king. Praise be to God!”

“And where is the king?”

“He went with the army to rescue the prince.’ ”

Silence followed. Tears of joy continued to flow along the face of Jendzian, who after a while began to repeat with a voice of emotion: “That I should look on your body again!” Then he opened the shutters and the window.

Fresh morning air came into the room, and with it the bright light of day. With this light came all Skshetuski’s presence of mind. Jendzian sat at the foot of the bed.

“Then I came out of Zbaraj?”

“Yes, my master. No one could do that but you, and on your account the king went to the rescue.”

“Pan Podbipienta tried before me, but he perished⁠—”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Pan Podbipienta⁠—such a liberal man, so virtuous! My breath leaves me. How could they kill such a strong man?”

“They shot him with arrows.”

“And Pan Volodyovski and Zagloba?”

“They were well when I came out.”

“Praise be to God! They are great friends of yours, my master⁠—But the priest won’t let me talk.”

Jendzian was silent, and for a time was working at something with his head. Thoughtfulness was expressed on his ruddy face. After a while he said: “My master?”

“Well, what is it?”

“What will be done with the fortune of Pan Podbipienta? Very likely he has villages and every kind of property beyond measure⁠—unless he has left it to his friends; for, as I hear, he has no relatives.”

Skshetuski made no answer. Jendzian knew then that he did not like the question, and began as follows:⁠—

“But God be praised that Pan Zagloba and Pan Volodyovski are well. I thought that the Tartars had caught them. We went through a world of trouble together⁠—But the priest won’t let me talk. Oh, my master, I thought that I should never see them again; for the horde so pressed upon us that there was no help.”

“Then you were with Pan Volodyovski and Zagloba? They did not tell me anything about that.”

“For they didn’t know whether I was dead or alive.”

“And where did the horde press on you so?”

“Beyond Ploskiri, on the road to Zbaraj. For, my master, we travelled far beyond Yampol⁠—But the priest Tsetsishovski won’t let me talk.”

A moment of silence.

“May God reward you for all your good wishes and labors,” said Skshetuski; “for I know why you went there. I was there before you to no purpose.”

“Oh, my master, if only that priest⁠—But this is how it is. ‘I must go with the king to Zbaraj, and do you,’ says he, ‘take