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FOR THE RIGHT

FOR THE RIGHT

BY

KARL EMIL FRANZOS

GIVEN IN ENGLISH

By JULIE SUTTER

With a Preface

By GEORGE MACDONALD, LLD.

NEW YORK

HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE

1888

PREFACE.

Not having even been asked to do so, I write this preface from admiration of the book. The translation I have not yet seen, but knowing previous work by the same hand, have confidence in it.

How much the story is founded on fact I cannot tell; a substratum of fact there must be. To know that such a man once lived as is represented in it, might well wake a new feeling of both strength and obligation: here is one who, with absolutely no help from what is commonly meant by education, lived heroically. But be the tale as much a product of the imagination as the wildest romance, it remains a significant fact that the generation has produced a man capable of such an ideal.

For the more evident tendency of art has for some time been to an infinite degeneracy. The cry of "Art for art's sake," as a protest against the pursuit of art for the sake of money or fame, one can recognize in its half wisdom, knowing the right cry to be, "Art for truth's sake!" But when certain writers tell us that the true aim of the author of fiction is to give the people what they want, namely, a reflection, as in a mirror, of themselves--a mirror not such as will show them to themselves as they are, but as they seem to each other, some of us feel that we stand on the verge of an abyss of falsehood. The people--in whose favour they seem to live and move and have their being--desire, they say, no admixture of further object, nothing to indicate they ought not to be what they are, or show them what they ought to be: they acknowledge no relations with the ideal, only with that which is--themselves, namely, and what they think and do. Such writers do not understand that nothing does or can exist except the ideal; nor is their art-philosophy other than "procuress to the lords of hell." Whoever has an ideal and is making no struggle toward it, is sinking into the outer darkness. The ideal is the end, and must be the object of life. Attained, or but truly conceived, we must think of it as the indispensable.

It is, then, a great fact of the age that, such low ends being advocated, and men everywhere insisting on a miserable origin and miserable prospects for humanity, there should yet appear in it a man with artistic conception of a lofty ideal, and such artistic expression of the same as makes it to us not conceivable only, but humanly credible. For an ideal that is impossible is no ideal; it is a fancy, no imagination. Our author keeps his narrative entirely consistent with human nature--not, indeed, human nature as degraded, disjointed, and unworthy, neither human nature as ideally perfect, but human nature as reaching after the perfection of doing the duty that is plainly perceived. In none of its details is the story unlikely. We may doubt if such a man as Taras ever lived; but alas for him who has no hope that such a man will ever be!

The reader must not suppose I would have everything the man did regarded as right. On the contrary, the man becomes bitterly aware of his errors--errors of knowledge, however, of judgment and of belief, be it understood--not of conduct as required by that belief, knowledge, and judgment. His head is at a loss rather than in fault; heart and will are pure. A good man may do the most mistaken things with such conviction of their rectitude as to be even bound to do them. How far he might be to blame for not knowing or judging better, God only could tell. If he could not have known better or judged better, he may have to bear some of the consequences of his mistakes, but he will not have to bear any blame; while his doing of what he believed to be right will result in his both being and knowing what is right. The rare thing is not the man who knows what is right, but the man who actually, with all the power in him, with his very being, sets himself to do that right thing, however unpleasant or painful, irksome or heartrending to him. Such a man, and such only, is a hero.

At the same time, the deepest instruction lies in the very mistakes of the man. The purity of his motive and object confessed, not merely were the means he took to reach his end beyond his administration, but the end itself was imperfect. There are multitudes who imagine they hate injustice when they but hate injury to themselves. They will boil with rage at that, but hear of wrong even to a friend with much equanimity. How many would not rather do a small wrong than endure a great one! Do such men love justice? No man is a lover of justice who would not rather endure the greatest wrong than commit the least. Here we have a man who, to revenge no wrong done to himself, but out of pure reverence for justice, feeling bound in his very being to do what in him lies for justice, gives up everything, wife even and children, and openly defying the emperor, betakes himself an outlaw to the hills, to serve that Justice whose ministers have forsaken her. He will do with what power he has, the thing so many fancy they would do if they had the power they have not--put down injustice with the strong hand. There is a place for this in the order of things; but were the judges of the earth absolutely righteous, the world would never thus be cleansed of injustice. The justest judge will do more for the coming of the kingdom of righteousness by being himself a true man, than by innumerable righteous judgments. The first and longest step a man can take toward redress of all wrong, is to be righteous, not in the avenging of wrong, but in the doing of the right thing, in the working of righteousness. He who could have put down evil with the strong hand had he so pleased, was he who less than any cared to do so. He saw that men might be kept from injustice and be not a whit the more just, or the more ready to do justice when the hand was withdrawn. What alone he thought worth his labour was that a man should love justice as he loved it, and be ready to die for it as he himself died. This man in his ignorance set out to do the thing his Master had declined to do; his end itself was inadequate.

Nor was the man himself adequate to the end. The very means he possessed he was unable to control; and wrong followed as terrible as unavoidable. Vengeance must be left with the Most High; for the administration of punishment, to be just, demands not merely an unselfishness perfect as God's, but an insight and knowledge equal to his. Besides all this, to administer justice a man must have power beyond his own, and must, therefore, largely depend on others, while yet he can with no certainty determine who are fit for his purpose and who are not. In brief, the justest man cannot but fail in executing justice. He may be pure, but his work will not.

One thing I must beg of the reader--not to come to a conclusion before he has come to the end; not to imagine that now or now he may condemn, but to wait until the drama is played out.

It was indeed a bold undertaking when our author chose for his hero a man who could not read or write, who had no special inclination, no personal aptitude for social or public affairs, and would present him attempting the noblest impossibility, from a divine sense of wrong done to others than himself, and duty owed by him to all men and to God--a duty become his because he alone was left to do it.

I have seldom, if ever, read a work of fiction that moved me with so much admiration.

The failures of some will be found eternities beyond the successes of others.

George Mac Donald.

CONTENTS.

FOR THE RIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

[TO THE FRONT.]

Let the reader's imagination carry him eastward. Let him suppose he were travelling at railway speed between Lemberg and Czernowitz, in a south-easterly direction, towards the sedgy shores of the river Pruth and the beech forests of the Bukowina, and the scenery to his left will appear changeless. His eye for miles will rest on a boundless plain, of which the seasons can influence the colouring only, but never a feature of the landscape. White and dazzling in the winter, it rises to something of a yellow brightness in the summer, wearing a neutral tint both in the autumn and spring. But on his right-hand each turn of the wheel will disclose a new picture to his eyes. He is fast approaching the towering heights of the Carpathians. Mere phantoms at first, they assume shape and substance like gathering clouds on the horizon, the mountain chain with deepening contours advancing through the violet and purple vapours of distance. And if the traveller now were able to fix his gaze a while on the monotonous plain, with its grey cottages, its poverty-stricken fields, and dreary heathlands, his would be a grand surprise in turning once more to the right. The heights have closed in--giants they, proud and solemn in fir-clad majesty. The wind, sweeping along the mountain-sides, is laden with the odours of pinewood; the air is filled with the roar of cataracts dashing through the gullies and foaming along the rocky channel by the side of the railway cutting; and athwart the narrow bands of azure, which seem the bluer for the deep-rent glens beneath, may be seen wheeling the bloodthirsty kite of the Carpathians. The very heart of the mountain chain, silent and beautiful, lies open to view. A moment only, and it will have vanished. The railroad, starting off in a sharp curve to the east, leaves nothing to the beholder but to the right and to the left the self-same monotonous plain. A sudden bend of the lawless Pruth had rendered it necessary for the line to cut the landscape at the very point where mountain and plain stand facing each other--abrupt and unblending--like hatred and love in the heart of man.

The spot in question--half-way between Colomea, the hill-crowned capital of the district, and Zablotow, a poor Jewish townlet of the plain--is within the parish boundary of Zulawce, a village not, however, visible from the railway, its cottages, a couple of miles beyond, covering an eastern slope of the magnificent mountain range. The thatched dwellings are as poor as anywhere in that part of Galicia, not even the church or the manor house commanding any attention. But all the more charming is the neighbourhood. Approaching the village from the Pruth, you reach its first outlying cottages without the effort of climbing, but by the time you have ascended to the farthermost dwellings you have a splendid lowland landscape at your feet--spreading fields of gold, verdant woods and heath-covered tracts, skirted by the Pruth as with a broad silver ribbon, the glittering rivulet of the Czerniawa winding between. And your eye will carry you farther still, to the natural horizon, northward. But the eastern view is altogether different, and incomparably bewitching, the gloriously wooded hill-country of the Bukowina rising gradually, terrace upon terrace, from the deep-sunk valley of the Czeremosz. Indeed, this prospect, as seen from the village, is wondrously grand, a succession of gigantic steps, as it were, leading from earth toward heaven, the highest mountain-tops melting away in the ethereal blue. To the west and south the view is bounded by the "Welyki Lys," a gigantic mountain forest which separates Galicia from Hungary--dark and dreary, and unutterably monotonous. Nowhere in the lower Carpathians is there a spot to equal Zulawce for Nature's variety, looking upon the village as a centre.

But this is not all for which the place is noteworthy. Life there, on the whole, is regulated after the ways of the lowlands; but the people themselves approach the Huzul type--a peculiar race, inhabiting the mountains, and which, on account of the common language, is generally classed with the Ruthens, but being of a different origin and of different conditions of life is distinct from them, as in appearance so in habit and in character. The Huzul is a hybrid, uniting the Slavonic blood of the Ruthen with the Mongolian blood of the Uzen, his speech betraying the former while his name testifies to the latter; so also does the defiant dauntlessness of his bearing, hidden beneath an appearance of proud restraint, but apt to burst out suddenly, like a hot spring through the covering snow. The Ruthens of the lowlands, on the contrary, are purely Slavonic; industrious therefore, enduring and very patient, not easily roused, but once the fire is kindled it will go on burning with a steady glow. These virtues, however, have sad vices for a reverse--a bluntness which is both dull and coarse, and an abject humility, bending the neck of the conquered man even lower than need be. An unfair load of hardships may be pleaded in their excuse. The Ruthen for centuries bore the chains of serfdom, and these broken he continued the subject of some Polish nobleman, no law protecting his body, still less his goods, no mental culture reaching him whose soul received the barest crumbs of spiritual teaching. In this respect things, to be sure, went as ill with the Huzuls, but for the rest theirs was a life of liberty on the mountains, acknowledging no nobleman and no officer of the crown. Poorly enough they lived in the forest wilds, their sheep yielding milk and cheese, the barren soil a few oats for scarcely eatable bread, while meat was within reach of him only who would stake his own life in killing a bear. To this day there are glens where no money has ever been seen; for which reason it has never been thought worth while to levy taxes, the great lords remaining in the lowlands where the soil was fruitful and he who tilled it a slave. "Within those mountains there are but bears to be found and a wild people called Uzels," thus wrote a German explorer in the seventeenth century. He might have written it yesterday, for with the bear only does the Huzul share the sovereignty of the mountains, and his very freedom is no better than the liberty of the bear--yet liberty it is! Thus the difference between the Ruthens of the uplands and the Ruthens of the plain is immense, and scarcely to be bridged over--free huntsmen up yonder, yoke-bearing bondmen below.

"No falcon can lived caged, no Huzul in bondage," says the proverb. The village of Zulawce appeared to give the lie to this saying, but only at first sight. The people there tilled the soil; they went to church, paid tithes, and yielded forced labour; but for the rest they were Huzuls, and cousins-german to the bear-hunters of the Welyki Lys. They never forgot that they were men; they chose to govern themselves, and did not hesitate to meet injustice with a bullet or a blow of the axe. The lord of the manor, old Count Henryk Borecki, knew this well enough, and though he might groan he never attempted to treat the peasants of Zulawce as he would treat the churls on his lowland property. Not that he was a gracious lord, but he was prudent; and being a passionate huntsman himself, he loved to spend the season on that borderland of the great forest, which led to many a scuffle, but open rupture there was none while he lived.

When he had departed, matters grew worse. His son, Count George, never troubled the people with his presence, for he lived in Paris. He was a famous cavalier, devoting himself to the rising generation, so far as it was of the feminine gender, and given to dancing at Mabille. His far-off estates he only bore in mind when his purse was low; for which reason, indeed, he thought of them as often and as anxiously as any pattern landlord, keeping up a lively correspondence with his stewards in Podolia--money they must send him, or dismissed his service they should be. These unfortunate "mandatars" had a hard time of it; but they did their best, fleecing the peasants to the utmost, and keeping their stewardships. Now, the mandatar of Zulawce also, Mr. Severin Gonta, for all that can be told to the contrary, might have wished to adopt this plan; but having lived for twenty years in the village, and knowing the people and their knock-down propensities, he preferred having recourse to the cutting of my lord's timber instead, sending the proceeds to Paris. Count George, however, in the pursuit of his noble passions, enlarged his friendships, admitting even usurers to the benefit of his private acquaintance.

Thus it came about that Mr. Severin one day received the youthful landlord's ultimatum: "Send me another thousand florins a year, or go to the devil." Mr. Severin was soon resolved. He knew he had cut the timber till never a tree remained, and he preferred his bodily safety to the stewardship he held. So he quitted his post, being succeeded by the young Count's private secretary, a certain Mr. Wenceslas Hajek.

Mr. Wenceslas at the time--it was in the year of Grace 1835--was a young man of eight-and-twenty, with an experience far beyond his years. A Bohemian by birth, he soon rose to the dignity of an imperial detective, and in recognition of his peculiar talents was sent to Italy as a spy. He had acquired a knowledge of French, and was known to have committed a daring robbery upon a privy councillor of Milan, for which achievement he was not, like an ordinary mortal, sent to prison as a thief, but to Paris on a secret mission for Prince Metternich. He duly reported to his government; but his was a sympathetic temperament, and, pitying the refugees, he failed not to report to them as well. For a while he flourished, receiving pay from both sides; but being found out he was dismissed ignominiously. Thereupon he took a distaste for politics, establishing a private agency for nondescript transactions, the least doubtful of which were the arrangements he brought about between spendthrift nobles and their friends who lent upon usury. In this capacity he came to be introduced to Count George, who found him simply invaluable, appointing him his private secretary before long. Now, Mr. Wenceslas might thus have lived happily ever after, had his natural disposition not again played him the fool. He loved money, and took of his master's what he could. Count George was helpless, since the rascal knew his every secret; it was plain he could not dismiss him, but he promoted him to the stewardship of Zulawce. "I don't care how much of a blackguard he is, so long as he forwards my revenues," this distinguished nobleman thought within himself, continuing his pursuits in Paris.

It was in the month of May, 1835, that Wenceslas Hajek made his entry at Zulawce. He had scarcely an eye for the vernal splendour of the grand scenery which surrounded him; but he certainly felt impressed on seeing the peasantry on horseback ready to receive him into their village. It was with a queer look of surprise that he gazed upon those giant figures with their piercing eagle eyes. They were clothed in their best, wearing brown woollen riding-coats, dark red breeches, black sandals, and high felt hats with waving plumes, sitting their small spirited steeds as though they had grown together with them. Among mountaineers the Huzuls are the only equestrian people, and none of their Slavonic neighbours go armed, as they do, with the gun slung behind them, the pistol in the belt, and the battle-axe to hand. Mr. Wenceslas knew he trembled when these well-accoutred peasants approached his vehicle. He had intended to treat them to his most gracious smile, and smile he did, but it cost him an effort ending in a grin.

Only one of the peasants bared his head--an old man, white-haired and of commanding stature, who lifted a proud face to the newcomer. He had pulled up by the carriage door, and his clear, undaunted eyes examined the features of the steward. That was Stephen Woronka, the village judge. "Newly-appointed mandatar," he said, "you are sent by our lord; therefore we greet you. You come from afar, and we are not known to you; therefore, I say, we men of Zulawce do our duty by the Count, expecting him to do the same by us. Neither more nor less! We greet you."

Mr. Hajek understood the import, for a Slavonic dialect had been the language of his childhood, and on the long journey through Galicia he had had opportunity to pickup some of the country's speech. But, more than the words, it was the spirit which impressed him, and he framed his answer accordingly. "I shall be just," he said; "neither more nor less! I greet you."

The old judge waved his hat, and "Urrahah!" cried the peasants, the shrill; crisp sound rising from two hundred throats. They discharged their pistols, and once more an exultant "Urrahah!" filled the air. It sounded like a war cry; but peacefully they turned their horses' heads, and, together with the travelling carriage, proceeded to the village inn.

There, on an open space beneath a mighty linden tree, the rest of the people stood waiting--old folk and lads, women and children--all wearing their Sunday best. When the carriage had stopped, and Mr. Hajek, still smiling, had alighted, he was met by the village priest, or pope, with a bow. The Reverend Martin Sustenkowicz was loyally inclined, and anxious to express his feelings in a proper speech, but somehow his intention often was beyond him; and in the present instance, attempting his salutation with unsteady feet, he bowed lower than he meant to, and speech there was none. Hajek took the will for the deed, and turned to an aged woman who offered bread and salt. He affably swallowed a mouthful, and thereupon ordered the innkeeper, Avrumko, in a stage whisper, to tap two casks of his schnaps.

He fully believed thereby to please the people, and was not a little surprised at the judge's deprecating gesture. "With your leave, new mandatar, we decline it," said the latter. "It may be all very well in the lowlands, but not with us. We men of Zulawce do not object to schnaps, but only when we have paid for it ourselves!"

There was something akin to scorn in the mandatar's face, though he smiled again, saying: "But my good people, I am here to represent Count George, your gracious lord. Is not he your little father? and you are the children who may well receive his bounty."

The old judge shook his head. "It may be so in the lowlands," he repeated, "but we are no children, with your leave, and the Count is nowise our father. We are peasants, and he is lord of the manor; we expect justice, and will do our duty, that is all!"

"But my good judge, Mr. Stephen----"

"Begging your pardon," interrupted the latter yet again. "This also is of the lowlands, where they 'Mister' one another. I am plain Stephen[^[1]] up here. And how should you know that I am good? We would rather not be beholden to you. We will drink the Count's health, paying for it ourselves."

He beckoned to the innkeeper; great cans full of the beverage were brought speedily, and the people sitting or standing about were nowise loth to fall to. Hajek felt posed, but once more he recovered himself, and went about among the villagers, smiling right and left. But the more he smiled, the darker he grew within. He really began to feel afraid of these proud, gaunt creatures, with their undaunted eyes. And he did not like the look of their arms. Why, every one of these 'subjects,' as the Galician peasant in those days was styled in official language, carried a small arsenal on his body.

"Why do you go about with pistols?" he inquired of the judge.

"We like it, and may require it," was the curt reply.

"Require it!" said the mandatar, with the smile of innocence. "Why, what for?"

"You may find that out for yourself some day," said old Stephen, and turned away.

Hajek shivered, but overcame the feeling, passing a benevolent look over the assembly. They were engaged with their schnaps now and heeded him not. One of them only--a tall, lean fellow with shaggy red hair--stared at him with an expression of unmitigated dislike.

The mandatar went up to him, inquiring mildly, "Who are you, my friend?"

"The devil may be your friend," retorted the man grimly. "I am Schymko Trudak--'Red Schymko;' but what is that to you?"

"Well, am I not one of yourselves now?" returned Hajek still anxious to conciliate. But he began to see it was no easy matter, and he cast a disconcerted look about him.

His eye alighted on a man who carried no arms, and otherwise appeared of a different stamp. Tall and powerful like the rest of them, his expression was gentle; he was fair-haired, and his eyes were blue. He wore a white fur coat with gay-coloured broidered facings, a black fur cap, and high boots--the holiday garb of the Podolian peasant. Hajek went up to him. The man took off his cap and bowed.

"What is your name?"

"Taras Barabola."

"Do you live in this village?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not in service, surely?"

"No!" and as modestly as though he were but a farm labourer, the young peasant added: "I own the largest farm but one of the place."

"But you are from the lowlands?"

"Yes; I came from Ridowa."

"Then what made you settle here?"

"I--I--loved--I mean, I married into the farm," he said with a blush.

"Do you approve of these people?"

The young man reddened again, but replied: "They are different from those we are used to in the plain, but not therefore bad."

"I wish they were more like you!" said the mandatar fervently, and passed on. He would, indeed, have liked them to be different; more humble, and not carrying arms for possible requirements--more like this Taras in short!

And presently, looking from the window of his comfortable room in the manor house, he examined with a queer smile the thickness of its walls. "A stout building," he muttered; "who knows what it may be good for? Still, this were but poor comfort if things came to the worst. As for playing the hero, I have never done it; but the son of my mother is no fool! I must act warily, I see; but I'll teach these blockheads what a 'subject' is, and I shall take care of myself!"

CHAPTER II.

[THE STUFF HE WAS MADE OF.]

The ensuing weeks passed quietly. The people gave their turns of work[^[2]] for the Count as they had always done, but the mandatar did not appear to take much notice. For days he would be absent in the district town, or in the villages round about, amusing himself with the officers of the Imperial service. The peasants hardly ever saw him, but they spoke of him the more frequently. On the day of his entry they had made up their minds that the new bailiff was a sneak, "but we shall be up to his tricks;" yet, somehow he rose in their estimation. True, there were those--the old judge to begin with--who continued in their distrust, but a more generous spirit prevailed with many as the days wore on. "Let us be just," they said; "he has done us no harm so far." And being laughed at by the less confident they would add: "Well, Taras thinks so too, so we cannot be far wrong!" This appeared to be a vantage ground of defence which the opponents knew not how to assail; old Stephen only would retort, angrily, "It is past understanding how this lamb of the lowlands should have got the better of every bear among us up here. But you will be the worse for it one of these days, you will see!"

The judge spoke truth; it was a marvellous influence which the young stranger had acquired in the village, and well-nigh incredible considering the people he had to deal with. But if a miracle it was, it had come about by means of the rarest of charms, by the spell emanating from a heart, the wondrous honesty of which was equalled only by its wondrous strength--a heart which had but grown in goodness and true courage because its lot had been cast amid sorrows which would have brought most men to ruin or despair.

Taras Barabola was born at Ridowa, a village near Barnow, the son of a poor servant girl whose lover had been carried off as a recruit and remained in the army, preferring the gay life of a soldier to hard labour at home. Amid the hot tears of affliction the deserted mother brought up her child, and not only trouble, but shame, stood by his cradle. For the Podolian peasant does not judge lightly of the erring one, and his sense of wrong can be such that Mercy herself would plead with him in vain. It was long before the unhappy girl found shelter for pity's sake, and little Taras, from his earliest days, had to suffer for no other reason but that his father was a scoundrel. It appeared to be meritorious with the people of Ridowa to scold and buffet the frightened child, as though that were indeed a means of proving their own respectability and combating the growth of sin. None but themselves would have been to blame if, by such treatment of the boy, they had reared a criminal in him, to be the disgrace and scourge of the village. But it was not so with Taras, because amid all his trouble a rare good fortune had been given him. The poor servant girl that bore him was possessed of a heroic spirit. And when the little boy followed his mother to church, she standing humbly in the porch, whilst he, childlike, would steal forward till the sexton flung him back as though his very breath defiled the sacred precincts; or when attempting to join other children in their play about the streets he was kicked away like a rabid dog, and nothing seemed left but to take his grief to the one heart beating for him in a cruel world;--that heart would grew strong in the suffering woman, lending her words so generous, so wise, that one could have believed in inspiration were not a mother's love in itself grand enough to be the fount of things noble and true. Many a one in her position would have bewailed her child--would have taught him to lay the blame upon others, sowing the seeds of cowardliness and revenge. But she--well, she did cry; no child ever was more bitterly wept over; but this is what she said: "Taras, grow up good! Do not hate them because of their unkindness, for it is deserved! Nay, my child, if you suffer, it is because your father and I have wronged them; they think ill of you for fear you should become what we were! Yet you are but a child, knowing neither good nor evil, and all they can say against you is that you are the child of your parents; that is why they ill-treat you! But one day you will show them what you are yourself, and they will then treat you accordingly, after your own deserts! And, therefore, oh, my child, do not repay them with evil: be good and do the right, and they will love you!"

Thus she wept, thus she entreated him, and, young as he was, her words were engraven on his brain and sunk deep into his soul. It was not in vain that, in order to save her child, she had staked the one thing left to her in life--the love of that child. Her own great love for him was her safeguard that his hatred for others, which she strove against, should not fall back upon her, who owned herself guilty, and for whom she said he suffered. Taras continued to love his mother; and when he inquired what it could have been whereby she had wronged all the righteous people, and she told him he was too young to understand, he was satisfied. But her words lived in his heart, laying the foundation of a marvellous development of character, teaching him, at an age when other children think but of eating and playing, that he must believe the world to be just, and that his own act must be the umpire of reward or punishment to follow. Thus he suffered ill-will without bitterness, but also, knowing he had not himself deserved it, without humiliation; and when, having reached his tenth year, he was chosen to be the gooseherd of the village--not, indeed, with the goodwill of all, but simply because no other serviceable lad had offered--he burned with a desire to gain for himself commendation and approval. And he did gain it, because he worked for it bravely, but also because of a fearful experience which happened to him about a twelvemonth later, shaking his young soul to its inmost depth.

It was an autumnal morning; he had driven forth his geese with the grey dawn as usual. They fed on a lonely common; a cross stood there by the side of a pond, but not a cottage within hail, and the foot-path which traversed it was rarely used. The boy had his favourite seat on a stone by the water, at the foot of the cross; he was sitting there now contentedly eating some of the bread which his mother had given him, and whistling between whiles on a reed-pipe he had made for himself.

He was startled by a heavy footfall, and, turning, grew pale, for he that approached him was a spiteful, wicked old man, Waleri Kostarenko by name, one of the worst of those who delighted in bullying him. "You are but a cur!" he would call out when the lad passed his farm, and more than once he had set his dogs at him. And one day, finding him at play with his own grandchildren, he beat him so mercilessly that the little fellow could scarcely limp home for bruises. Nor was it any regard for morality he could plead in wretched excuse. Taras's mother had been a servant on his farm, and had been proof against his wiles, so he was the first to cry shame when trouble overtook her, and like a fiend he delighted in ill-using her child. Taras got out of his way whenever he could, and on the present occasion took to his sturdy little legs, as though pursued by the caitiff's dogs. It was not merely the loneliness of the place which made it advisable to seek refuge in flight, but the fact that the old man, as the boy had seen in spite of his terror, was in a worse condition than usual. There had been a merry-making the day before in a neighbouring village, and his unsteady feet showed plainly that the power of drink was upon him.

"Is it you, little toad?" he roared, "I'll catch you!" But the boy was too fleet for him, and he knew pursuit was vain. "Lord's sake," he cried, suddenly, "I have sprained my foot! Taras, for pity's sake, help me to yon stone!"

The boy turned and looked; the old man had sunk to his knee, a picture of suffering, and the boy did pity him, coming back accordingly. "What is it?" he said, "what can I do for you?" At which Waleri, bursting upon him, caught him exultingly. "Have I got you?" he shrieked, clutching his hair and treating him mercilessly.

"For heaven's sake," cried Taras, "spare me!" But pity there was none with the old wretch; beside himself with hatred, he held the boy with one arm, ill-using him with the other wherever his fist could fall. Taras struggled vainly for awhile, but with a wrench of despair he got free at last. He escaped. Waleri ran after him for a step or two. The geese were wild with terror, and one of the creatures had got between the man's feet; he fell heavily, knocking his head against the stone by the cross. The boy heard a piercing cry; he saw that his enemy was on the ground, but not till he had reached the further end of the common did he turn once more to look back. The old man lay motionless by the stone, the geese pressed about him, stretching their necks with a noisy cackle. He felt tolerably safe now from his enemy, for even if it were but another trick of his meanness he could scarcely overtake him at that distance; but as he stood and gazed a wild fear fell upon the boy, his heart beating violently.

"He is dead!" The thought flashed through him as a shock of lightning, and he felt dragged back to the scene helplessly. He retraced his steps towards the cross, and stood still within ten yards or so. A cry burst from him of pure horror--he saw the blood trickling over the upturned face. He pressed together his lips, and went close--slowly, tremblingly--quite close. The man was evidently unconscious, his face corpse-like and fearful to look at; there was a deep cut on the forehead, and the purple blood flowed copiously over the distorted face, trickling to the ground.

The boy stood still with labouring breath, as though spellbound. Horror and disgust, joy, scorn, revenge, and yet again compassion, went through him, the good rising uppermost in the great conflict that shook his soul. He thought of his mother, and bending down to the water he bathed the forehead of the unconscious man. The blood kept flowing. He tore off the sleeve of his shirt, and, making a bandage, pressed it upon the wound. Walen groaned, but did not open his eyes. "He is dying!" thought Taras, but strove as best he could to stop the bleeding, crying for help at the same time with all his might.

A young peasant, the son-in-law of the village judge, riding by at some distance, heard his calling--the wind lengthening out the sound. He came dashing up, and what he saw might well fill him with surprise. "And you, Taras--you trying to save him!" he cried, when the boy had told his story simply and truthfully. It was more than he could understand. But he turned to the sufferer, sending Taras to the village for assistance. The boy returned with the judge himself, together with Waleri's son and some of his servants.

They took up the wounded man and carried him to his home, the judge looking at the boy repeatedly with unfeigned wonder. "Taras," he said at last, "I think if He whom they call the Christ were alive, He would just be proud of you, I do indeed! That is to say, we are told He is alive, and I daresay He will repay you for this!" At which the boy blushed crimson, remembering what a struggle it had cost him; he did not deserve any praise, he thought.

But from this hour the people thought well of him in the village; all were anxious to show their approval, and those that had spoken kindly of him before were quite proud of their discriminating wisdom. Waleri recovered, continuing to hate him; but this utter ingratitude made others the more anxious to befriend him. The judge especially, henceforth, stood by the lad, giving him a place as under-servant on his own farm; and, he being looked upon as the chief authority of the village, his example told naturally. But of far more consequence than these things was the influence of that occurrence upon the inner growth of the boy. So far, he had simply believed his mother, that one must deserve kindness by being good; now he knew it by his own experience. "Yes," he said to himself, "justice is the foundation of things;" and more than ever he tried to fulfil his every duty to the utmost. But the golden opinions he gathered were his gain in a double sense; for there is no greater help toward well-doing than the knowledge that one is believed in, and all the clearer grew that fair creed within him which his mother had taught him concerning the world and its retribution. What at first had been only a sort of childish self-interest, grew to be the very backbone of his character: he could not but try and be good, just, and helpful. It could be said of him, without a shade of flattery, that no servant-lad ever had been so well behaved as he; and when his mother died, the fifteen-year-old youth had as many comforters and friends as there were people in the village. The stain on his birth even grew to be cause of praise. "Why, look you," the judge would say, "this boy is really no proper child at all; anyhow he is quite unfathered, and could be as rascally as he pleased, for there's none to cast it up to him. I might give him a box on the ear at times, but that could not make up for a father's thrashing. And, in the face of all this, this Taras is just the best boy in the village. He will be a great man one of these days, I tell you! My prophecies always come true--you will find out what stuff he is made of before you have done with him, and then please remember I said so."

And the time came when the young man gave evidence of the stuff within him, but that which brought it out was a sore trial to the brave-hearted youth. He was barely eighteen, and had come to be a ploughman on the judge's farm, when one day the Imperial constables brought an old soldier into the village, Hritzko Stankiewicz by name, a wretched creature with a worn-out body and a rotten soul. Begging and stealing, he had found his way from Italy to Galicia, where the police had picked him up, and now he was being delivered over to his own parish of Ridowa. It wad Taras's father. The judge, in well-meant pity, was for concealing this from the young man, but the latter had heard the name often enough from his mother, and he went at once to the gaol where the vagabond had been located. The wretched man quaked when his son stood before him, and fearing he had come to take vengeance for his mother, the miserable coward took refuge in denial, insulting the woman he had ruined in her grave. Pale as death, and trembling, Taras went out from him, and for several days he went about the village mute and like one demented.

The following Sunday after church the men of the parish gathered beneath the linden tree in front of the village inn, after the usage of times immemorial, the day's question being what had best be done with the returned vagabond. "It seems plain," said the judge, "that we cannot keep the thieving beggar in our midst. Let us send him to Lemberg, paying for his maintenance. He won't like it; but it is a great deal more than he has deserved. It is the best device, I warrant." The men agreed. "It is," they cried, lifting their right hand in token of assent.

At this moment Taras stepped forth. His face was ghastly, as though he had risen from a sickbed. "Ye men," he cried, with choked voice, folding his hands, "pity me; listen to me!" But tears drowned what further he had to say, and he sank to his knees.

"Don't, don't!" they all cried, full of compassion, "you need not mind, we all know what a good fellow you are."

But Taras shook his head, and with a great effort stood upright among them. "I have to mind," he cried, "and in my mother's behalf I am here, speaking because she no longer can speak! He is my father though he denies it! Only him she trusted, because he was her affianced lover, and never another! If I were silent in this matter, it might be thought of her that after all she was a bad woman, and her son does not know his own father. Therefore, I say, listen to me: I do know! and as my mother's son I take it upon me to provide for my father. Do not put him into the workhouse, he cannot work. And if I take care of him, he will not be a burden to the village. For God's sake, then, have pity on me--and leave him here!"

There was a long pause of silence, and then the judge said, addressing the men: "We should be worse than hard-hearted if we refused him. But we will not be gainers thereby; the parish shall pay for Hritzko what it would cost us did we send him to Lemberg. It shall be as this good son desires; and God's blessing be upon him!"

For eight years after, the miserable wretch lived in the village. It was a time of continued suffering for Taras. Every joy of youth he renounced, striving day and night to meet the old man's exactions; and all the reward he ever had was hatred and scorn: but he never tired of his voluntary work of love. "My mother has borne more than that for me," he would say, when others praised him. "One could not have believed how good a fellow can be!" said the people of Ridowa, some adding in coarse, if real pity, "'Twere a kindness if some one killed the old beggar!" But the suggested "kindness" came about by his own doing--he drank himself to death. At the age of six-and-twenty Taras was free.

"Now you must get yourself into a snug farm by marriage," advised the judge. "You understand your business, you are a well-favoured fellow, and, concerning your character, my Lord Golochowski himself might say to you: 'Here is my daughter, Taras, and if you take her it will be an honour to the family!' There is that buxom Marinia, for instance, the sexton's girl; or that pretty creature, Kasia----"

But Taras shook his head, and his blue eyes looked gloomy. "Life here has gone too hard with me," he said, "for me to seek happiness in this place! A thousand thanks for all your kindness; but go I must!" And they could not get him to change his mind; he looked about for a situation elsewhere.

Two places offered--the one with the peasant, Iwan Woronka, at Zulawce, the brother of Judge Stephen; the other with a parish priest on the frontier. Pay and work in both places was the same. He would be head-servant in both, and pretty independent; the latter for the same sad reason--that both the peasant and the priest were given to drink. Nor could he come to any decision in the matter by a personal inspection of the farms, for really there was no preference either way. So he resolved to submit his fate to that most innocent kind of guidance which, with those people, decides many a step in life. He would take the priest's offer if it rained on the following Sunday, and he would go to Iwan if it were fine. But the day of his fate poured such floods of sunshine about him that doubt there could be none, and he went to Zulawce.

It was no easy beginning for the stranger. The people laughed at him freely, his garb and his ways differing so entirely from their own; they even called him a coward because he carried no arms and spoke respectfully of Count Borecki as the lord of the manor. The fact was that Taras just continued to be the man he had always been, taking their sneers quietly, and the management of the farm entrusted to him was his only care. Iwan Woronka was old and enfeebled, his tottering steps carrying him a little way only, to the village inn, his constant resort. It was natural, therefore, that the farm had been doing badly. His only son had died, and Anusia, his daughter, had striven vainly to save the property from ruin. She blessed the day when the new head-servant took matters in hand, if no one else did; for not many weeks passed before the traces of his honest diligence grew apparent everywhere. "He understands his business," even Iwan must own, though over his tipple he kept muttering that the sneaking stranger was too much for him. But that Taras was neither a coward nor a sneak all the village soon had proof of, when on a bear hunt, with not a little danger to himself, he saved the old judge's life, killing a maddened brute by a splendid shot in close encounter. This and his evident ability in the fulfilment of his duties gained him most hearts before long. "You are a good fellow, Podolian," the people would say; and not a year had passed before they swore behind his back that there was no mistake about his being a real acquisition to the village.

Anusia said nothing. She was a handsome girl of the true Huzul type, tall, shapely, lissom, with dark, fiery eyes. High-spirited and passionate in all things, her partiality for the silent stranger made her shy and diffident. She went out of his way, addressing him only when business required. He saw it, could not understand, and felt sad. Now, strange to say--at least it took him by surprise--by reason of this very sadness he discovered that Anusia was pleasant to behold. It quite startled him, and it made him shy in his turn when he had to speak to her. But one day, riding about the farm, he without any palpable reason caught himself whispering her name. That was more startling still, and he felt inclined to box his own ears, calling himself a fool for his pains. "You idiot!" he said, "your master's daughter, and she hating you moreover!" And having mused awhile, he added philosophically--"Love is only a sort of feeling for folk that have nothing to do. Some drink by way of a pastime, and some fall in love." He really believed it; his life had been so sunless hitherto, that no flower for him could grow.

Well, love may be a sort of feeling, but Taras found that he could do nothing but just give in. Then it happened, one bright spring morning, that he was walking on a narrow footpath over the sprouting cornfields, Anusia coming along from the other end.

"How shall I turn aside?" they both thought; et neither quite liked to strike off through the budding grain.

"'Twere a pity to trample upon the growing blades," murmured he, and proceeded slowly.

"It is father's cornfield," whispered she, and her feet carried her toward him.

Presently they came to a standstill, face to face.

"Why don't you move out of my way?" she said, angrily.

He felt taken aback, and was silent.

"I have been looking over the fields--the wheat by the river might be better," continued the damsel.

"It might," owned he, "but it is not my fault."

"Is it mine?" cried she.

"No, the field was flooded."

"That is your excuse!" retorted the maiden. "I think the seed was bad. You are growing careless!"

"Oh!" said he, standing erect, "I can look for another place, if that is all." He quite trembled. "I believe I hate her," he said to himself.

"Yes, go! go!" she cried, her bosom heaving, and the hot tears starting to her eyes. Another moment, and they had caught one another, heart to heart and lip to lip. How it could happen so quickly they never knew. But the occurrence is not supposed to be unprecedented in the history of this planet.

It was a happy hour amid the sun-flooded fields. They both believed they had to make up for no end of past unkindness. But, being sensible, they soon took a matter-of-fact view.

"You will just have to marry me, now," said Anusia; "it is the one thing to be done. I will at once tell my father."

And so she did; but Iwan Woronka unfortunately did not consider her marrying his head-servant the one thing to be done. She was his only child and his heiress to boot, and he had long decided she should marry his nephew Harasim, Judge Stephen's son--a young man who might have been well enough but for his repellent countenance and his love for drink. But Iwan argued, "Good looks are no merit, and drinking no harm;" and therewith he turned Taras off his farm.

The poor fellow went his way without venturing to say good-bye to Anusia, or letting her know where he could be heard of. It cost him a hard battle with himself; but he knew the girl's passionate temper, and he wanted to act honestly by his master. But the victory was not thus easily got.

It was some two months later, a splendid summer night. The moon was weaving her mellow charm about the heathlands, lighting up the old tin-plated tower of the castle at Hankowce with a mysterious light, till it sparkled and shone like a silver column. It was the abode of Baron Alfred Zborowski, and Taras had found service there as coachman and groom. He did not sleep in the stables at this time of the year, but on the open heath, where the remains of a watchfire glowed like a heap of gold amid the silvery sheen. A number of horses were at large about him.

The night was pleasantly cool, but the poor fellow had a terrible burning at the heart as he lay wakeful by the glowing embers, thinking of her who was far away. There was a sound of hoofs suddenly breaking upon the night, and a figure on horseback appeared with long hair streaming on the wind. "Good heavens!" cried the young man trembling; "is it you, Anusia?"

"Taras!" was the answer, and no more.

She glided from her horse, and his arms were about her.

"Here I am, and here I shall stay," she said at last. "I have scarcely left the saddle since yesterday. It was Jacek, the fiddler, that told me where I should find you. I shall not return to my father--not without you. And if you will not go back with me you must just keep me here. I cannot live without you, and I will not--do you hear? I will not! I want to be happy!"

She talked madly--laughing, crying on his neck. And then she slid to the ground, clasping his knees. But he stood trembling. He felt as though he were surrounded by a flood of waters, the ground being taken from under his feet. His fingers closed convulsively, till the nails entered the quick--he shut his eyes and set his teeth. Thus he stood silent, but breathing heavily, and then a shiver went through him; he opened his eyes and lifted up the girl at his feet. "Anusia," he said, gently but firmly, "I love you more than I love myself! and therefore I say I shall take you back to-morrow as far as the Pruth, where we can see your father's house, and then I shall leave you. But till then"--he drew a deep breath, and continued with sinking voice, "till then you must stay with an old widow I know in this village. I will show you the way now; she will see to your wants."

The girl gazed at him helplessly, passing her hand across her forehead once, twice; and then she groaned, "It is beyond me--do you despise me?--turn me from you?"

"No!" he cried; "but I will not drag you down to misery and disgrace. If you stayed here, Anusia, you could only be a servant-girl in the village where I work. We should suffer--but that is nothing! Marry one another we cannot; not while your father lives, for the Church requires his consent. You could only be my--my----. Anusia, I dare not!"

Whereupon she drew herself tip proudly, looking him full in the face. "I am a girl of unblemished name," she said. "If I am satisfied to be near you----"

"You! you!" he gasped, "what do you know about it? You are an honest girl! But I--good God, my mother----. Go! go!" And there was a cry of despair; then he recovered himself "God help me, Anusia, it must be. The woman that will take care of you now lives next door to the church, the old sexton's widow, Anna Paulicz--this way!"

The girl probably but half understood him. As in a dream she moved toward her horse, seized the bridle, and turned back to Taras mechanically.

She stood before him. Her face was white as death; she opened her colourless lips once, twice, as though to speak, but sound there was none. At last, with an effort, a hoarse whisper broke from her, "I hate you!"

"Anusia!" he cried, staggering. But answer there was none--the thundering footfall of a horse only dying away in the night.

Harvest had come and the harvest-home. The Jewish fiddlers played their merry tunes in the courtyard of the castle at Hankowce, and far into the evening continued the dancing and jumping and huzzaing of the reapers. The baron and his coachman were perhaps the only two of all the village who took no pleasure in the revelry--the one because he had to provide the schnaps and mead that were being consumed, the other because his heart was nowise attuned to it.

Dreary weeks had passed since that impassioned meeting on the heath, but the girl's parting words kept ringing in poor Taras's ear. "It is all at an end," he said, "and no use in worrying." But he kept worrying, and that she should hate him was an undying grief to his heart. It was little comfort that he could say to himself, "You have done well, Taras; it is better to be unhappy than to be a villain."

Comfort? nay, there was none! for what self-conscious approval could lessen the wild longings, the deep grief of his love? And so he went his way sadly, doing his duty and feeling more lonely than ever. He did not grudge others their merry-heartedness, but the noisy expression of it hurt him. For this reason he kept aloof on that day, busying himself about his horses, plaiting their manes with coloured ribands, but anxious to take no personal part in the feast. But the shouts of delight would reach him, clashing sorely with his sorrowing heart. Then the poor fellow shut the stables, and, going up to his favourite horse, a fine chestnut, he pressed his forehead against the creature's neck, sobbing like a forsaken child.

He was yet standing in this position when a well-known voice reached his ear--a man's voice, but it sent the blood to his face. Could he be dreaming? but no, there it was again, and a ponderous knocking against the door, which he had locked. He made haste to open--it was Stephen Woronka, the judge.

Taras was unable to speak, and the old man on his part could only nod. He looked mournful. "Come!" he said, after a brief pause that seemed filled with pain.

"Where to?" faltered Taras.

The judge appeared to consider explanation needless. "I have already spoken with your master; he allows you to go on the spot. Your things can come after you. My horses are ready to start."

"I cannot," murmured Taras, turning a step aside.

Old Stephen nodded, as though this were just the answer he expected. "But you must," he said, "we cannot let the girl die, Iwan and me. It is no light thing for us, to let her marry you, for you have just nothing--a poor stranger--and," he added, with a sigh, "my Harasim might be saved by a good wife. However, we have no choice now and neither have you!"

"Then she is ill?" shrieked Taras.

"Yes--very; come at once." And such was Stephen's hurry that he barely allowed Taras to take his leave of the baron. The judge drove, and so little he spared his horses, that the vehicle shot along the moon-lit roads like a thing demented.

"Let me take the reins," said Taras, after a while.

"No!" returned the judge sharply, adding more gently, as though in excuse: "Anxiety would kill me if I were at leisure."

"Then she is dying!" groaned the young man in despair.

"The Lord knows!" replied old Stephen huskily. "We can but do our duty in fetching you. Though she will not see you, she says, raving continually that she will kill you or kill herself if ever you come near her.... What is it that took place between you?" he cried, raising his voice suddenly and turning a menacing countenance upon Taras.

"That I must not tell," returned the latter firmly.

The judge gazed at him angrily, but nodded again, "I am a fool to ask you," he murmured. "You have either been a great villain to her, or--or--just very good.... Whatever it was, it is between you two, and you must settle it with her."

Nothing more was spoken that night. In the early morning, when the horses where having a most needful rest, they only exchanged some indifferent remarks. And starting once more, they hastened towards the purple hills, as fast as the panting creatures could carry them. But it was evening before they crossed the Pruth and approached the village. The air was sultry; clouds hung low in the heavens, hiding the moon.

The judge pulled up before they reached Iwan's farm. Taras dismounted. "I thank you!" he cried, seeking to grasp the old man's hand.

But Stephen withdrew it, shaking his head. "I cannot be wroth with you," he said, "but there are things that go hard with a man.... You don't owe me any thanks, however. I have now repaid you for that shot of yours which saved my life. We are quits."

"But I shall thank you while I live," cried Taras, walking away quickly in the direction of Iwan's farm. He stood by the door with bated breath; it was opened for him before he could put his hand on the latch, by Iwan Woronka.

"She--she is alive?" faltered Taras.

"Yes, but only that. Step in softly, she knows nothing of your coming."

He did step in softly, but his heart laboured wildly. The room was lit with a subdued light, and he could barely distinguish the figure of the stricken girl.

"Who is coming?" she cried, with trembling accents. "Who is it?" once more, with awe-burdened voice.

But answer she needed none. A terrible cry burst from her, and darting like a wraith from her couch she flew past him, vanishing in the night.

He followed her; but the hiding darkness without was such that he could scarcely keep in sight the white glimmer of her figure, although she was but a few yards ahead of him, on her way to the river. His hair stood on end when he knew the direction she took, and his every limb felt paralysed. It was but a few seconds, but she gained on him, and he saw he could not reach her in time.

"For God's sake, stop!" he cried, with the voice of horror; "you shall never see me again."

But it was too late. He saw the white figure sink, and rise again mid-stream. He was in after her, and reaching her, caught her by a tress of her floating hair. She struggled violently to free herself from his hand, and it could only have been the maddest despair that gave her the power. But he kept fast his hold--it was all he could do; and thus they were carried awhile, side by side, on the bosom of the icy mountain stream. Taras felt his grasp grow weaker in his two-fold struggle against the river and against the girl. A fearful picture flashed through his brain; he saw himself and his loved one two corpses washed ashore, old Stephen bending over them in sorrow. The pangs of death seemed upon him, but he held fast the tress of hair, and with his arm strove to keep himself and her afloat.

She yielded at last, her body floating as he pulled her; the power of life seemed to have left her, and with a mighty effort he brought her to land.

They were fearful days that followed. A burning fever ran its course in the girl's body, but the sickness of her soul seemed more devouring still. "I am dying--dying for shame!" she kept crying. "I love him--I hate him!" But as the fever spent itself, the struggle of her heart grew weaker. And at last she lay still, weary unto death, but saved, and her mind was clear. She wept blessed tears, and suffered him to touch her.

She suffered it, but did not return his caresses. "Taras!" she sobbed, "do you despise me?"

"Despise you? Good God!" he cried, covering her hand with kisses.

"Ah, yes--but you might--you ought!" she wept. "No only, because----," a burning blush overspread her pallor. "But do you know why I struggled so desperately when your hand was upon me in the river? I knew you would hold fast, and I wanted to drag you down with me in death. Can you forgive it?"

"Yes!" he cried, and his face shone.

"As sure as you wish your mother to be at peace in her grave?"

"Yes, Anusia!" he cried again.

"Then I may kiss you," she said, twining her arms about him.

That was their troth plight; and soon after they were married.

Thus the stranger had become the owner of the largest farm but one in the village. Yet no one grudged him his good fortune; even Harasim appeared to have submitted to his fate. And but rarely was there an attempt at making fun of his garb; he had acquired their mode of address, saying "thou" to young and old, but he could not be prevailed upon to adopt the Huzul's dress. But no one disliked him for it, the people had ample proof apart from this how faithfully he had adopted the interests of his new home, and even if they did not openly confess as much to themselves it was very evident he was benefiting them largely. Without in the least thrusting himself upon them, or pushing his views, this blue-eyed, quiet stranger in the course of a few years had become the most influential man, even a reformer of the parish; in the first place because of his ever helpful goodness, in the second place because of the rare wisdom governing his every act.

But it was not without a struggle with himself that he came to feel at home in his adopted village; everything here seemed strange at first, and some things unheard of--their dress, their speech, their mode of life, their food, the way they reared the cattle and tilled their fields; nay, every domestic arrangement. A farmer should be able to move his limbs freely; but these men did their ploughing and threshing in tight-fitting breeches, in doublets that were the veriest straight-waistcoats; and the breeches, moreover, were scarlet--perhaps to delight the bulls they ploughed with. They wore their hair flowing, and their beards were long; and no man of them was ever seen without his array of arms. It quite frightened him to see them go tending the cattle with the gun on their backs, or discourse with a next-door neighbour axe in hand. "What on earth is this dangerous nonsense for, with a passionate, easily-roused people?" Taras would ask himself. And that such was their temper was shown by their very speech. In the lowlands people, as a rule, speak measuredly, in well-ordered sentences; but these men flung their notions at each other as though every statement must leave a bump or cut upon the other's head.

Nor was this all: their ways in some things appeared to him past conception. They seemed like grown children for carelessness, sending their sheep or cattle into the mountains miles away, with only a lad or two to mind them--was it in consideration of the prowling wolf and bear? These visitors, indeed, were not slow in carrying off what pleased them, whilst others of the scared cattle strayed into hopeless wilds or came to grief in some rocky solitude. Less startling than this manner of cattle-keeping was their agriculture; yet even this raised Taras's wonder. Their ploughs were peculiar, and their seasons of sowing, harvesting, threshing, all differed from his every experience.

A man of poorer quality would simply have shrugged his shoulders, saying it was no concern of his. But Taras began to consider and to compare, and it was quite a relief to his mind--nay, a joy to his heart--to discover that, though much with them was peculiar, his new neighbours must not just be looked down upon as fools. He understood that the people of Zulawce had a good reason for setting about their various field labours at other times than did the farmers of the plain. It was because their seasons differed. And he perceived that the Podolian plough, broad and shovel-like, was fit for the rich, soft earth of the lowlands, but not for the stony, upland soil of Zulawce. The people there, then, were right in substituting a strong, digging wedge of a ploughshare, being unreasonable only in this--that they would use this same plough for their low-lying fields by the Pruth, where the earth was rich and yielding. It was much the same with their manner of feeding. The Podolians have rye and beef; the Huzuls up in their mountain haunts must be satisfied with oats and sheep. Now the people of Zulawce just followed the Huzuls' example, although they reared cattle, and could grow both wheat and rye. And, again, their clothing was ill-adapted to their needs, and their carrying arms uncalled-for and foolish, but it was neither more nor less with them than simply preserving the habit of their upland neighbours. The Huzul must carry his gun, for his life is a constant warfare with bears or bandits. Now, at Zulawce things went more peaceably, but the belligerent habit remained. This mixture of the reasonable and unreasonable was most apparent in their ways with the cattle. It was natural that they should keep their live stock on the hills, utilising the land round about their village to its utmost agricultural possibilities; but it was stupidly careless to provide neither fold nor capable herdsmen. The Huzuls had no choice but to leave their flocks at large for want of hands, an excuse which could not be pleaded at Zulawce.

Now Taras was fully aware that these things could, and must, be mended, but he also knew it would be hopeless to attempt convincing his new neighbours of anything by the power of speech. On the contrary, advice, however excellent, which cast a slur on their habits would be the surest means of rousing both their anger and their opposition. So he strove to teach them by the force of example, letting his fields be a sort of model farm in their midst. And his strongest ally in this silent labour of love was their own self-interest waking a desire of emulating his gain. They watched him in the spring, they came to borrow his plough in the autumn, and by the next season they had provided themselves with a ploughshare like his. It was the same with other things. They began to perceive it might be an advantage to see to the safety of their grazing cattle, without much inquiring into their own reasons for adopting a plan they had neglected or despised so far. And Taras was the very last to remind them that they owed him any thanks, it being to this man the fairest of rewards that his silent endeavour should bear fruit.

But the recompense he coveted was not his in all things; he would find himself baffled, yet he renewed his quiet conflict unwearyingly, seeking to overcome that savage spirit of contention, that love of avenging themselves, prevailing with the men of Zulawce. If two had cause of quarrel it was a rare proof of moderation to allow the village judge a voice in the matter. And whatever the object of contest might be, a strip of land or a fowl, the stronger took possession. If the other succeeded in ousting him, or if the judge managed to arbitrate, it was well; if not, the stronger just kept his booty, and that, too, was considered well. As for appealing to law, it appeared out of the question; the far-off Emperor was welcome to his crown, but that any appointed authority in his name should dispense justice at Colomea they simply ignored. They would, indeed, have thought it an insult to have to do with any magistrate--their very thieves were too good for that; they would thrash the rascals and let them go. And as for their relations with their count, it was a natural state of warfare, if not with him personally, then with his steward or mandatar, old Gonta; and shouts, of victory filled the air whenever they succeeded in wresting from him the smallest tittle of his claims. That any mandatar ever should attempt to worst them they had little fear, for did they not carry axe and gun? But this state of things seemed utterly horrible to Taras, whose course of life had taught him to look upon Justice as the lode-star and centre of all things. He could not understand these men, till he perceived that concerning their personal character also he must seek explanation in the fact that they clung to the peculiarities of the mountain tribe, be it in virtue or in vice.

The more he grew acquainted with the upland forest, and the more he saw of the Huzuls, the better he learned to judge of his neighbours in the village. Neither wealth, nor extreme poverty are known in those pine-covered haunts; envy, therefore, in these solitudes has no power to separate the hearts of men. Life goes hard with each and all alike--privation, the inclemency of the weather, the wild beast, being the common foes of all. The individual man makes a mark only in so far as he has power to overcome these foes; hence a feeling of equality and oneness, based upon the similarity of all. And whereas the people of the lowlands once a week only, on Sundays and in their churches, are taught to look upon men as equals in the sight of God, these highlanders know of no other church but their own wide forest, in which they bow the knee to no man, if ever they bow it to Him of whom they vaguely believe that He dwelleth above. It is natural, therefore, that they know of no difference of rank in men, using the simple "thou" to each and all alike. Now the men of Zulawce were not so circumstanced; some of them were masters, and some of them were serving-men; some knew poverty and some knew wealth; but the spirit of the tribe continued with them. A little envy, a little respect for riches, had found a footing with them; but, nevertheless, a strong feeling of equality survived, and they were too proud to cringe before any man; the rich peasant was addressed as familiarly as the beggar. Their speech was rough; but the feeling whence such roughness sprang was not in itself despicable. And it was the one point in which Taras yielded his habit to theirs, adopting their ways in this, at least, that he also said "thou" to everybody, and was satisfied that from the judge to the meanest of his own farm labourers all should say "thou" to him.

But it was not merely the pride of freedom, it was that inveterate habit of avenging themselves in matters of right and wrong which had come to them from the parent tribe. The Huzul is bound to fight for himself. A man who any moment may meet some desperate outlaw in the mountain wilds must be prepared to defend himself or perish. And not merely in such cases the Huzul must be his own protector. Supposing two men far up in the mountains, a hundred or more miles away from the nearest magistrate, fall a-quarrelling over a strip of pasture-ground, shall he who is wronged appeal to law? Granted he were willing to undertake the tedious journey, it might be a year or more before some law officer could put in an appearance up there for taking evidence on the spot. Justice from her appointed centres cannot easily reach such outlying regions. But supposing even a magistrate's verdict had been obtained, what power on earth can force the loser to abide by it? The Emperor's authority?--he barely knows his name, and the far-off majesty is little enough to him--or coercion? But who is to take a body of armed constables on impossible roads to the very heart of the mountain-range, merely to make sure that a slip of pasture-ground for the feeding of a score of sheep shall belong to Sfasko and not to Wasko! Why, even if it could be done what were the gain? Sfasko, indeed, might rejoice if the servants of the law had got there, for Wasko would have the keeping of them, and Wasko must give up the contested land. But no sooner than their backs were turned, Wasko, by right of the stronger, would pay him out for it, turning Sfasko's victory to defeat. Under such circumstances, then, and because no law can be enforced there, it is natural that the children of the forest should manage their own justice, each man for himself. But to Taras it appeared a deplorable state of things that the more civilised peasants of Zulawce should also require to fight for themselves. So he set about an all but forlorn hope of reforming their minds, striving earnestly, and making little impression save on his own suffering soul. Twice he succeeded in persuading the quarrellers to submit their suit to Judge Stephen's decision, and this only because the men in question had benefited by his generous kindness and did not like to lose it. In most cases he failed entirely; the people still anxious, perhaps, of retaining his goodwill, would listen to him with some show of patience, but took matters into their own hands nevertheless, calling him an innocent lamb of the lowlands for not knowing that a bear had his paws to use them.

But for all that, these contentious creatures had found out that the "innocent lamb" was nowise wanting in manliness. They liked to take his advice on general things, and elected him to the civil eldership as years went on, which greatly added to his influence; and with might and main he continued to strive for love of peace in the parish. Somehow or other, the men by degrees did not fly to arms quite so readily, perceiving that in most cases they did better to submit to Judge Stephen, abiding by his decision, or rather by that of Taras; for the judge, himself prone to wrath, would pass them over to the younger man in order to save his own temper.

"You have introduced this nonsense here," he would say; "it is meet, therefore, you should have the bother of it. 'Twere easier to settle if they had come to blows first."

But Taras was only too glad to be thus "bothered," sparing neither time, nor trouble, nor patience; and at such cost it was given him more and more to convince the contending parties of the justness of his judgments.

But so far he had succeeded only in little things. In matters of more importance he was unable to prevent the shedding of blood--as, for instance, when he that went by the name of Red Schymko fell out with his brother Waleri concerning the right of pasturage on a certain field. That was considered a great matter; and not till Schymko had been maimed by a blow from Waleri's axe, in return for which he lodged a bullet in his brother's thigh, did they permit the judge and elders to have any voice in the matter. Judge Stephen and his coadjutors were most anxious to pass righteous judgment, examining matters carefully; but as their verdict could not otherwise than be in favour of the said Waleri, it resulted in Schymko's marching his armed labourers to the contested field by way of maintaining his claim. And the matter ended in Waleri's yielding, leaving Red Schymko in possession after all.

It was concerning this business that Taras very nearly lost his eldership by reason of a word of sensible advice. It was just before the yearly election, when Schymko, with his labourers, had taken possession of the field, that Taras said to him, "If you will not abide by the judge's verdict, you can but appeal to the magistrates of the district." "Go to law!" roared Schymko. "Go to law!" echoed the people, as though Taras had advised the direst folly ever heard of. But they took it seriously, and when, a few days later, it was a question of readmitting him to the eldership, the general opinion was to the effect that being honest and good was a recommendation certainly, but an elder had need to be no fool! He was chosen, nevertheless; but even his friend Simeon, to whose strenuous exertions his re-election was partly due, could only say, "You see, he is a lowlander--how should he know any better?"

Such experiences made Taras more careful, but they could not discourage him. He saw that even at best it would take the work of a lifetime to lay a foundation of better things with these people. They must be taught in the first place that the authority of their own judge should be unquestioned. He took great care never again to hint at the existence of law-courts, but to educate them up to the lesser point. He gained ground, though very slowly. He could work for it patiently, for had not good fortune smiled on him in all things besides, making his own life pleasant at last and happy beyond many! His homestead seemed a cradle of success, and the children his wife had borne him grew like olive branches round about his table. There was not a cloud in his heavens, and every good seed he had sown was like the grain on his own fields, bearing fruit, some thirty, some sixty fold; surely this one thing for which he laboured would yet come to be added to his golden sheaf!

Returning home in the evening he would rest by the side of his faithful wife, his little boy Wassilj upon his knee, and there was no greater joy to him at such times than to glance back to his own early years and to follow with the inward eye the growth of his life's happiness--a struggling thing at first, but a strong tree now with spreading branches, beneath which he and his might safely dwell. "It is no puny seedling," he would say, looking about him with happy pride, "but even like the strong pine that strikes root the deeper for having chanced upon the hard and rocky soil where no man's favour helped to rear it, and the sun of God's justice only yielded the light towards which it grew!" And his prayer in those days was something after this fashion: "Thou righteous One in the heavens who hast given me many things, if so be that Thou wilt let me keep them, I have just nothing left to ask for but this one thing: that I might teach these people, whom I have come to look upon as my brothers, that Thy will is very beautiful because it is just. There is this foolish old priest of ours always telling them of Thy grace and never a word of Thy justice--how should they understand their duties aright!" ... For himself in those days Taras had nothing to ask for.

Such was Taras Barabola at the time when Mr. Wenceslas Hajek made his entry at Zulawce--one of the happiest and most upright of men.

CHAPTER III.

[THE RIGHT WRONGED.]

It is often asserted that on meeting any one for the first time a voice within will warn us of the good or evil to be the outcome of such meeting. Now Taras had no such foreboding. The new mandatar had impressed him rather favourably; but apart from this, his sense of justice would oppose Judge Stephen's disparagement of the new bailiff. "Our Count," he would say, "has come into his possessions by inheritance, just as the Emperor has got his crown: and it is God who gave them power, for there must be rulers upon earth. It is hard that we should have to yield forced labour, but such is our lot, and it were wrong of us to hate the mandatar because he looks after his master's interest in claiming that portion of our work. He is but doing his duty; let us do ours." The peasants did not gainsay him, especially as Hajek on the coming round of the harvest expected neither more nor less of them than his predecessor, Gonta, had done. The judge had gone to him misgivingly, fully determined to fight his exactions; but there was no need, and to his own surprise matters were arranged in a moment.

Not till the autumn, six months after Hajek's arrival, did a cause of conflict present itself, when the tribute of the live stock fell due, the arrangement being that on the day of St. Mary the Virgin each peasant, according to his wealth, had to bring a foal, or a calf, or a goose. Now the former steward had never exacted this tax to the day, but was willing to receive it when the cattle had increase. The judge and the elders would go to him and state when each villager might hope to bring his due, and therewith the mandatar was satisfied. In accordance with this, old Stephen, with Taras, and Simeon Pomenko, his fellow elder, repaired to the manor house, the judge making his statement.

Mr. Hajek listened quietly and blandly, and then he said, "On St. Mary's day the tribute is due; if there were any arrears I should be constrained to levy them forcibly."

"Mandatar," cried Stephen, flushing, "have a care how you interfere with old usage!"

"It is an ill-usage."

"Ill-usage to go by the times of nature?"

"You should see that you are prepared."

"I see you are prepared to give good advice," retorted the judge with wrathful sarcasm; "perhaps you speak from experience! In your country the cows may calve at a mandatar's pleasure, they don't do so here!"

Hajek changed colour, but not his mind. "It behoves me to watch over the Count's interests," he said, slipping away to the safety of his inner chamber.

The men went home in a state of excitement, the ill news spreading rapidly through the village. Before long all the community had gathered beneath the linden, angry speeches flying while old Stephen delivered his report. "We must stand up for the time-honoured usage," he cried; "and as to any forcible interference, let him try it! We have guns, and bullets too, thank God!"

"Urrahah!" cried the men, brandishing their weapons. One only remained quiet, one of the elders--Taras. He allowed the commotion to subside, and then he begged for the word. "It comes hard upon us I own," he said, "for it finds us unprepared! The old usage was reasonable and fair, no doubt; but whatever of hardship any change may involve, we must consider which way the right inclines--the written right I mean, and I fear in this case it will speak for the Count."

"And who has settled that right," cried Stephen, hotly, "but the Emperor's law-makers. What do they understand about cattle!"

"Little enough, no doubt," owned Taras, "but these same law-makers have also made it a matter of writ that serfdom with us is abolished, and that we peasants have rights which the Count shall not touch. If we would enjoy the law's benefits, we must put up with its hardships."

"But where shall we get foals and calves all of a sudden?"

"Well, that we must see. I can provide some, and perhaps others of the larger farmers are willing to do the same. Or I will lend the money to any respectable man of ours that may need it if he can buy his foal or calf elsewhere. This can be managed. The chief point is the right, and that must be upheld for our own sakes, even where it goes against us."

He spoke quietly, firmly, and failed not to make an impression. The men began to weigh the question more soberly, Taras's offer of assistance going a long way with the less wealthy. There was none but Judge Stephen holding out in the end. "You are sheep, all of you," he cried, "following this great lamb, and you will be shorn, I tell you!" But since the majority outvoted him even the judge had to yield.

And thus the tribute was delivered on the very day, at a heavy tax to Taras's generosity; for while many could not have made it possible without his proffered help, there were others who improved the opportunity gratuitously, since he was so willing to step into the breach. It was simply his doing, then, that by St. Mary's Day not a man was in arrears.

Mr. Hajek was prepared to own this when Taras appeared with a foal on his own behalf. "That was good of you, Podolian; I see it is you who brought them to reason," said the mandatar, adding approvingly, "I liked the look of you on our first meeting. I am glad I was not mistaken!" Whereupon Taras bowed, but his answer was anything but a humble acknowledgment of praise. "The right must be upheld," he said, solemnly.

That was in September. About a month later Hajek sent for the judge and elders, receiving them with his blandest smile. "After All Souls', and throughout the winter, you owe me eight labourers a day for forest work, do you not?" he said. "Well, then, make your arrangements and let me have a list of the men I am to expect. On the morning after All Souls' I shall look for the first eight to make their appearance."

"The forest labour certainly is due," replied the judge, "that is to say, it was; but since all the timber has been cut, the obligation dropped. Or are we expected to make new plantations now that winter is upon us?"

"Certainly not," said Hajek, "but if the men are due to me, I may employ them as I think fit. I have sold their labour to the forester of Prinkowce."

"That is unjust!" exclaimed Stephen. "We owe forest labour to our own count, and in his own forests only!"

Mr. Wenceslas pretended not to hear, picking up his papers and preparing to retire. "So I shall look for the men on the morning after All Souls'," he said and vanished.

"There will be bloodshed if you insist," cried Stephen after him, but the mandatar was gone.

The men went their way perturbed.

"Well, Judge," said Taras, as they walked along, "this is hard. We must try and advise the people justly, but to do so we must first examine the documents in your keeping--I dare say his reverence will help us."

"Podolian!" cried Stephen, angrily, "leave us alone with your suggestions! We want no documents to be looked into. It is a glaring wrong, and if proof be needed"--he snatched at his pistol--"here it is!"

Taras mused sadly. "Will you take any bloodshed upon your conscience?" he asked quietly.

"Will your conscience answer for the wrong?" retorted the judge.

"Certainly not!" exclaimed Taras. "But in the first place there is but one just means of redress if we suffer--the authority of the appointed magistrates; and in the second place we must make sure which way the right lies--we shall find out by examining the papers."

Stephen resisted to his utmost, but as Simeon also agreed with Taras he was obliged to yield; he fetched the deeds, and the men called upon their parish priest.

Now Father Martin was an amiable man, glad to leave things alone in life--his favourite schnaps always excepted, with which he meddled freely. And he was always ready to express his views, but his opinion was apt to be that of his latest interlocutor. For both these reasons he could after all throw no great light upon the matter, which was the more to be regretted as the question left room for doubt, the information contained in the documents amounting to this only: "The men of Zulawce owe forest labour to their count."

"There you see!" cried Stephen, triumphantly, "to their count. What could be plainer--and not to the forester of Prinkowce!"

"Of course not," assented his reverence, "how could the mandatar think of selling your labour?--ridiculous!"

"Owe forest labour to their count," said Taras, meditatively. "If there is no clause to limit the place, the Count may be within the law if he says: 'Having no forest at Zulawce of my own now, I sell the labour which is due to me.'"

"Of course," cried the pope, "he has lost his forest, poor man, shall he lose his profit besides?--ridiculous!"

"If he has no forest, he cannot expect us to work in it," objected Stephen, doggedly.

"Naturally not," affirmed his reverence; "even a child can see that! Where is the forest you are to work in?--ridiculous!"

"There is no lack of forest at Prinkowce," said Taras.

"No, no, plenty of it," declared the pope; "why, the place is covered with woods, partly beech, partly pine. And, after all, I suppose it may be pretty equal to you whether you do the work here or----"

"All honour to your reverence," broke in the judge, angrily; "but this is just nonsense; your judgment, I fear, is awry with your schnaps."

And the amiable man adopted even this opinion, owning humbly "it was Avrumko, that miserable Jew, with his tempting supply ..."

But the men went their way none the wiser for their shepherd's willingness to solve their difficulty. Simeon upon this attempted to reason with the judge, suggesting their applying to the magistrates for decision. It was not without a real struggle with himself that old Stephen at last gave in.

"To stand up for his right, and knock down the man who wrongs him, this is the true Huzul way," he cried, passionately, "but if you will try the law, like a coward, see what you get by it."

But here Taras held out. "No man can appeal to the law," he said, "but he who is sure of his right. I am not! I cannot tell whether the right in this case is on our side or not. And, therefore--God forgive me if it is wrong, but I cannot otherwise--I shall propose to the people to yield the forest labour at Prinkowce."

"You shall not, brother!" cried Simeon, urgently. "You shall not! Remember that you are no longer a man of the lowlands. We men of Zulawce love not to bend our necks."

Taras flushed. "Your taunt is not altogether just," he said, gently, yet firmly. "True, we of Podolia are more peace-loving, even more humble than you. It is because we have borne the yoke. But the feeling of right and wrong is as strong with us as with most men, perhaps all the stronger for the wrong we have suffered. You determine between right and wrong with your reason only, we feel it with the heart. And the right is very sacred to us."

"Then why not stand up for it now?"

"I would if I saw it. But my understanding is at a loss, and the voice of my heart is silent. Therefore I cannot appeal to a decision by law, but must counsel a giving in."

And so he did on the following Sunday, when the community assembled beneath the linden. The men listened to him in silence, none dissenting nor assenting. After him Simeon arose to propound his views; but when the word "magistrate" had fallen from his lips their scornful shouting interrupted him. "No lawsuit for us!" cried the men of Zulawce. At this point the judge made up his mind to come forward with his opinion, battling down his resentment at having been defeated before. Some applauded, but most shook their heads. "Taras," they cried, "tell us yet again why you would have us give in." He repeated his reasons slowly and distinctly. Again there was silence. It appeared uncertain what decision the men would arrive at.

The judge prepared to put the question to the vote. "Men of Zulawce," he said, "it is your first duty to reject anything that must be to the disadvantage of the community. Whoever of you agrees with Taras, let him lift his hand." The majority did so. The judge did not believe his eyes. This result was indeed surprising; not only had these men voted against their own interest, but they denied the very character they bore. The fact was that Taras's opinion had come to be gospel truth to the village ever since his stepping so generously into the breach on St. Mary's Day.

The old judge positively shed tears of vexation when he had to pass the resolution arrived at, and at once declared his intention to retire from office. It was the men's united entreaty only that prevailed with him not to do so; but as for that rascally mandatar, he would not cross his threshold again, he swore.

For this reason it fell to Taras to arrange with Mr. Wenceslas, and give him a list of the men. Hajek made it an opportunity of patting Taras on the back, saying approvingly, "Once again you have shown yourself a capital subject." But this time Taras forbore bowing. He retreated a step, fixing the mandatar with a look, and said, slowly, "We are keeping our conscience clean; I hope you can say as much for yourself, sir."

Winter wore on, and the forest labour at Prinkowce was yielded quietly day after day; but the good understanding between old Stephen and Taras seemed at an end. Their relations had steadily improved in those eight years, since Taras had lived in the village as the husband of Anusia. The old man by degrees had conquered his offended pride and the disappointment of his dearest wishes. He had even learned to entertain as warm a regard for the stranger as did most of the villagers. But his friendship yielded to a renewed feeling of coldness after that public voting. He never spoke to him now except on matters of business, and then in the most cutting way he could command; it seemed hopeless to attempt a reconciliation. "Taras is a good man," he would say, "and I myself am answerable for his being among us. But he is wrong if he expects us, bears as we are, to be as lamb-like as he is--very wrong, for it is against our nature."

And the old man stuck to his opinion. Taras actually was not invited when, about the middle of December, the men of Zulawce, headed by their old judge, went hunting the bear in order to procure their Christmas dinners. "Either he or I," Stephen had said, and Taras was excluded. That hunting expedition is a regular high day and festival with the Huzuls, in spite of, or rather on account of the danger it involves. It generally spreads over three days, but on the present occasion the men returned on the second day, sad and silent. They brought two giant bears with them, it is true, but also a dying man. Judge Stephen, with his wonted impetuosity, had pushed ahead too recklessly, his gun had missed fire, and an infuriated brute had grappled with him. The bear was shot, but not till the brave old man had received his death wound in the bear's embrace, and it was a question whether he would reach the village alive. "Make haste," he was heard moaning, as they carried him home; "I must hot die on the road; I have yet a duty to perform in the village."

They knew not what he meant, but understood when he begged them to stop before the house of Taras, who came rushing from his door, and sank to his knees, sobbing.

"Weep not," whispered the dying man; "but listen to me. You once saved my life, you are the most upright man in the village, you have been the best of husbands to my brother's child, and yet I have been wroth with you. Not because you supplanted my hopes, I swear it; but because I have at heart the welfare of this village. In this sacred cause I now would speak to you. You will be made judge when I am gone--I cannot hinder it, or indeed I would! Not because I hate you, but for love of the village, and, ay, for your own sake, Taras! For it must end ill if the judge, the leader of all, is of another caste than the men he rules. It cannot be helped now. They will choose you, and you will accept. But let me tell you one thing--be sure that among men in this world it is exactly the same as with the beasts of the forest. The stronger will eat up the weaker, the evil one will destroy him that is good, the only question being that of strength. Whoever cannot fight for himself is lost.... But you--you will not understand--you cannot believe it! I must be satisfied with that which you can understand, and one thing you can promise. Hold fast by our rights; guard them against the oppressor, and suffer not that the necks of free men be bowed to the yoke. Give me your word that you will yield up peace rather than the right, if it must be fought for."

He lifted his hand with a great effort, and Taras clasped it in his own.

"It is well," said the dying man. "You will keep your word."

With a burst of wailing they earned the dead judge into his house. On his face rested an expression of great assurance, born of the good faith in which he had died. For never has promise been kept more truly than that which was pledged to him as the shadows fell.

CHAPTER IV.

[TAKING UP THE BATTLE.]

Spring had returned upon the mountains. Some of the higher summits, it is true, still wore their crown of snow, glittering now in the sunshine of April; but the little village gardens of Zulawce were looking bright with early flowers, and on the slope toward Prinkowce the graveyard had burst into bloom where they had laid Judge Stephen to his rest. The spot was carefully tended, and marked with a well-wrought stone cross, as Taras had ordered, who was judge in his stead; for Harasim, Stephen's only son, had not troubled himself about it: drink was doing its work with him, and if his farm was kept in tolerable order it was due simply to the care of his cousins, Anusia and her husband. Taras had taken this burden also upon himself, though life pressed heavily on his shoulders; for it grew more evident to him, day after day, that it was no light thing to be judge of Zulawce while Wenceslas Hajek, as Count Borecki's land steward, had power in the village. Again and again the dying speech of Stephen rang in his ears.

As for the mandatar, he had rejoiced on learning that Taras had succeeded the old judge; this gentle Podolian, who had always been on the yielding side, seemed the very man for his plans. His fury naturally was all the greater on discovering his mistake. The 'capital subject' certainly never lost his temper or threatened violence, but every unfair demand he opposed with an inflexible "No," which was all the more effective for being given calmly, almost humbly, and fully substantiated with good reasons. On one occasion, however, his imperturbation was in imminent danger; Hajek had patted him on the shoulder, saying, with a knowing wink: "Well, my good fellow, suppose you allow me two labourers more; it shall not be your loss." Taras upon this gave the rascal a look which took the colour out of his face, and made him turn back a step, trembling.

From that hour there seemed enmity between the two, and the more the one strove to encroach, the more the other met him with refusal. But while Taras succeeded in maintaining a stern calm, the mandatar again and again was seen foaming with rage. It was so upon a certain occasion early in April, and for a trivial cause. Hajek was making a plantation, and wanted the villagers to allow him a quantity of young trees from their forest.

"We are not bound to yield that," said Taras, quietly.

The mandatar paced his floor, apparently beyond himself; but a discriminating observer might have doubted the sincerity of his rage.

"Don't force me to take high measures," he roared. "Why should you refuse me a few wretched saplings? I shall just take them, if you hold out."

"You will do no such thing," returned Taras, as quietly as before.

"Do you think I am afraid of your guns and axes?" Hajek's words rose to a shriek, as though he were half-suffocated with passion, but his eye was fixed on the peasant's face with a watchful glance.

"No," said the latter, "I am thinking that there are magistrates in the district. We shall never have recourse to violence, even if you should make the beginning."

"This is palaver."

"I mean what I say," said Taras, drawing himself up proudly. "While I am judge here, the men of Zulawce shall not take the law into their own hands on whatever provocation.... But why speak of such things? The trees you cannot have, so let me take my leave, sir."

"Go!" growled the mandatar, but a queer light transformed his features no sooner than Taras's back was turned. "That is useful to know," he said to himself with an approving smile. "This man is quite a jewel of a judge.... No, there is no need to be wroth with you, my good Taras! So, after all, my first impression of you was the right one!... Old Stephen could never have had a better successor!"

But Taras, the judge, went home with a heavy heart. He had no thanks for his battling, save in his own conscience; the men of Zulawce had scarcely a word of acknowledgment. On the contrary, they considered him far too yielding on many points; and, as they viewed matters, there was truth in their charge. Severin Gonta and the late Count, for the sake of peace, had not made good every claim to the very letter; but Hajek demanded every tittle that was his by right of institution, granting not an hour of respite, and foregoing not a peck of wheat; and Taras as a matter of duty never opposed him in this. It was quite correct, then, if the people said that the new judge insisted on their yielding all dues far more strictly than any of his predecessors ever had done. Indeed, it was only the love and respect he had won for himself in the village that kept under any real distrust or open accusation. For he was all alone in his work, no one helped him by explaining things to the people, not even that shepherd of his flock whose duty it fairly might have been. The reverend Martin sat on his glebe as on an isle of content, all because of that strange man, Avrumko, who kept supplying him so freely; and any sympathy he might have given was thus drowned.

But Taras continued bravely and hopefully, comforting his wife when her courage failed. "The right must conquer," he would tell her; "and for the rest, have we not an Emperor at Vienna, and God above?"

"But Vienna is far, and God in heaven seems further," said she, disheartened.

"Not so far," cried he, "but that both will hear us if we must call for redress. But things will not come to such a pass; even a mandatar will scarcely dare to subvert the right and do violence."

He was mistaken. Hajek dared both. It was about a month after that conversation concerning the trees. Taras in the early morning was in his yard, giving orders to his two servants, Sefko and Jemilian, concerning the sowing of the wheat, when he was startled by a dull report, which quivered through the air, a second and a third clap succeeding.

"Gunshots!" he gasped.

"Some one out hunting," said Sefko.

"No!" cried Jemilian; "it is near the river. Could it be 'Green Giorgi' with his band?" referring to a notorious outlaw of those days, a deserter, George Czumaka by name, who wore a green jerkin.

"No!" cried Taras, in his turn, and making for the road. "In broad daylight he would never dare.... What has happened?" he interrupted himself, changing colour. A young farm labourer, Wassilj Soklewicz, came dashing along wild with terror.

"Help! help!" he shrieked. His clothes were torn, and he looked white as death.

"What is it?" repeated Taras, seizing him by the arm.

"Help!" groaned the poor fellow. "They have just killed my brother Dimitri!"

"Where? Who?"

"The mandatar ... on the parish field!" said Wassilj; continuing brokenly: "We had gone there early this morning, my brother and I, together with the two sons of Dubko, to work on the field as you told us. We had taken our guns with us, intending to have a shot in the afternoon. We had just put the oxen to the ploughs when the mandatar arrived with a number of men, all armed. 'Get ye gone,' he cried; 'you are trespassing on the Count's property.'"

"'Begone yourselves!' returned my brother Dimitri, seizing hold of his gun, which he had laid down, we doing likewise. 'This field has been parish ground time out of mind; I shall shoot any one that says the contrary.'

"The mandatar at this fell back, but urged on his men from behind, and they attacked us with guns and scythes. We sent our bullets amongst them, and the foremost of the party, Red Hritzko, turned a somersault and lay still on his face. One of us had hit him. But they also fired their guns, and my brother fell, shot through the heart!... They were too many for us, and they turned upon as with their butt ends. But we got away!..."

The poor youth told his tale amid gasps and sobs, and before he had finished a crowd of villagers had gathered. From their houses, from their fields round about, the men came running, gathering about their judge. Most were fully armed, and all were wildly excited; for the parish field is sacred ground with every Slavonic community; he who dares touch it is not merely an offender against their property, but against their very affections; it is all but sacrilege in the eyes of these men.

Taras also felt his soul upheave, but he conquered his wrath, knowing the people. "If I lose self-possession," he said to himself, "blood will flow in streams to-day!" So he faced the men, who were for pressing on to the scene of the outrage. "Stop!" he cried, "we shall go in a body! Call the elders and the rest of the men."

The command was scarcely needed, for they were coming, every man of them, and the wives and the children. Wrathful cries filled the air, the women wailed, and children shrieked with an unknown fear. The mother of the young man who had been shot, a widow named Xenia, came rushing along; she had torn the kerchief from her head, and her grey hair fell in tangled masses round her grief-filled face. "Avenge my child!" she implored the judge, clasping his knees.

He lifted her, speaking to her gently; and turning to Simeon and his fellow-elder he ordered them to let the men fall in. "The heads of families only," he said; "let the women and young men stay here!"

"Stay here!" shrieked Xenia.

"Yes, why?" shouted the excited people. "Let every one follow who is able to lift a gun."

"My orders shall be obeyed," cried Taras, drawing himself up in their midst. "I pledge my head that I shall do my duty!" These words of his were like magic, the people yielded, and the procession formed.

But at this juncture Anusia pressed through the crowd, her youngest child on her left arm, her right hand brandishing a musket. "Take it!" she cried, offering it to her husband; "it is my father's gun and never yet missed fire!"

"Go home, wife," said Taras, "this is not woman's business, I go unarmed."

"Why? why?" yelled the people; but she caught him by the shoulder in wildest excitement. "Taras!" she screamed, "let me not regret that I was saved from the river! It is a man to whom I yielded, and not to a coward!"

"For heaven's sake, woman," cried Simeon, aghast, "you know not what you are saying!"

But she continued: "He who would have peace, since blood has been shed, disgraces his manhood. Will you allow yourself to be killed without striking a blow, lamb that you are?"

Taras stood proudly upright, but his face was livid, his eyes were sunk. His breast heaved with the tumult within, but not a word passed his lips. Thus silently he held out his hand, motioning the woman aside, and she obeyed, confounded.

"Men of Zulawce," he said at last, slowly and distinctly, but with a voice which, from its strange huskiness, no one would have recognised as his, "I speak not now of the dishonour my wife has put upon me; I shall do that by-and-by, in your presence likewise. But now I ask you, will you obey me as your judge, or will you not? Once again, I pledge my head that I shall do my duty!"

"We will," they cried unanimously.

"Then let us go." And the procession started, some sixty men, heads of families, following Taras, who led the way with the two elders, Simeon and Alexa Sembrow, his own successor.

The field in question, the common property of the community, was an irregular square, sloping towards the river, its upper boundary being a coppice which also belonged to the parish. A large black cross rose in the centre.

On stepping from the coppice, through which their road lay, the peasants could overlook the field at a glance. The mandatar with his men had established himself by the cross; he evidently had hired reinforcements, for they numbered some forty. At the lower end of the field, by the river, two of his labourers were seen ploughing with a yoke of oxen; another team stood ready for use by the cross. On the upper part, near the coppice, lay the body of the slain youth, evidently dragged thither by Hajek's men. But when the peasants beheld the corpse, and the armed band below, their fury knew no bounds; a thundering "Urrahah!" burst from them, and they pressed forward.

But Taras was before them, snatching at Simeon's pistol and turning it against his own forehead. "Stop!" he cried with a voice that could not but be listened to. "Another step, and I shall kill myself before your eyes."

They fell back, hesitating; but they obeyed.

The mandatar's men meanwhile prepared for fight, Mr. Wenceslas himself hiding behind them. He let his under-steward be spokesman in his stead, a huge fellow from Bochnia, Boleslaw Stipinski, by name.

"What do you want?" roared this giant; "are you for fighting or for peaceful speech?"

"We have come to defend our right," shouted Taras.

"Your wrong, you mean," retained Boleslaw. "But no matter, we stand on our master's soil, and shall yield it only with our lives. Mr. Hajek is prepared to affirm this to the judge and elders, if they will step forward."

Taras was ready to parley, being followed by Simeon and Alexa. They found the mandatar crouching on a stone, some of his men lifting their guns behind him.

"Tell them to put away their firelocks," said Taras, quietly; "you need not tremble like that; if it were for fight, we had been here sooner."

"Then you are peaceably inclined?" inquired Hajek.

"If you will own yourself in the wrong, offering some atonement for the crime committed."

"And if not?"

"Then we must refer the matter to the court of the district."

The mandatar recovered himself; he even smiled. "Perhaps that will not be necessary," he said. "You are a sensible law-abiding man, Taras, and I daresay you will understand my view of the case quickly enough. You know that in the days of the Emperor Joseph a survey of the property was taken. I have the papers, and therein it is plainly put down: 'The boundary of the parish field is marked by the coppice on the one side, by the black cross on the other; beyond the cross as far as the river the soil belongs to the Count.' So you see I am entitled to claim for my master that part of this field which beyond a doubt is his."

"No," cried Taras; "for when the survey was taken, and until fifteen years ago, the black cross stood close by the river, leaving a footpath for the Count who has always had the fishing in the Pruth. When the old cross was weatherworn the parish erected a new one in the centre of the field. That, sir, is the plain truth."

"May be," returned Hajek, smiling. "I suppose that would be a question for the magistrates to look into; in the meantime, I shall act upon the evidence of my own eyes. It was natural that I should request the men I found ploughing here to take themselves off. They fired their guns and killed one of my men; what could we do but fire ours? and I shall keep the two yoke of oxen to indemnify the Count for his loss. There, I have done."

"But we have not," said Taras, solemnly, baring his head. "I call the Almighty to witness that we are grievously wronged! And I protest that we could never own you in the right! It is in obedience to our Lord the Emperor, and in obedience to the law of God that we have refrained from violence. But both the Emperor and the Almighty will see us righted!"

"Well done!" said the mandatar, with a sneer. "This is a finer flourish than ever fell from the lips of Father Martin; the pope might fairly be jealous of you!"

Taras felt outraged; but he repressed the reproof that rose to his lips, and moved away in silence.

"Well!" cried the peasants when their leaders returned to them; "does he yield? or will you permit us now to offer him proof of our right after our own fashion?"

"No!" said Taras, "you shall follow me back to the village; we must convene a public meeting. But, first, we must carry the dead man into his mother's house, and you, Simeon, meanwhile, ask his reverence to join us with the Host."

"But what if I find him incapable?" objected the elder.

"No matter, it will not affect that which is holy."

Within an hour the community had assembled under the shade of the lime tree, outside the village inn. Father Martin, too, had arrived in full vestments, carrying the pix. It being yet early in the day, the elder was fortunate in finding him in his right mind.

But before Taras opened the meeting he had a domestic matter to settle. His wife lay at his feet, and her repentance was as passionate as her wrath had been.

"Trample upon me," she wept; "cast me from you, I have fully deserved it!"

But Taras lifted her up--kissed her. "I forgive it," he said, "but not again!"

And then he went to speak to the people: "There is not a shadow of a doubt as to our right," he said, "and therefore the district court will be on our side. Self-avenging yields tears and bloodshed only, and is likely to leave us in the wrong. I shall start this very day for Colomea to demand justice against the mandatar, and you shall swear to me now that you will keep the peace while I am gone."

Father Martin elevated the Host, and the men, kneeling, took the oath.

By noon Taras had set out on his way. He had taken his best horse and borrowed another on the road, but the distance being a good fifty miles he could not reach the town before noon the following day. A courier from the mandatar had forestalled him.

The district governor, therefore, Herr Ferdinand von Bauer, a comfortable elderly gentleman, was not exactly pleased to see the village judge, and would have none of his statements. "I know all about it already," he said, "there is no need to repeat it." But Taras insisted on substantiating his charge with fall particulars, which appeared to differ from the account that had been rendered to the governor. Anyhow this comfortable gentleman began to shake his head, and to pace the floor of his office. At last he pulled up in front of the peasant, examining his face. "Is this the truth you are giving me?" he demanded gruffly.

Taras met his glance fully. "It is the truth," he said solemnly, "so help me God!"

"Humph! humph!" was all the answer vouchsafed, and the governor again fell to pacing the floor, till after a while he once more stood still in front of Taras. "Be hanged, both of you!" he said amiably. "I mean both lord of the manor and peasantry. Can't you ever keep the peace! A nice thing to have to arbitrate between you by way of resting one's old bones!" To be a district governor in Galicia, to his idea, plainly was not a bed of roses. "Go back to your people," he continued more gently, "I am unable to decide from a distance, but will send a commissioner to take evidence on the spot. Meanwhile, you can bury your dead, since we cannot bring them back to life, whatever we finally decide."

The judge returned quieted. The peace of the village had been kept, in spite of the towering rage of the peasants at having to stand by and let the mandatar till the field that was not his. The part beyond the cross, which Hajek left to the villagers, was ploughed and sown presently by Taras's men. "A man of the law will soon be here," he comforted himself and others, "and then we shall be righted."

A fortnight had elapsed when the expected official made his appearance; but this, unfortunately, did not mend matters. It was a certain district commissioner, Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, called the "snake" by his colleagues, which appellation fitted both his character and his gait, for in the presence of a superior this man never did anything but wriggle. He may have owed his advancement either to this peculiarity or to the number of his years, since preferment went by seniority, but never to his merits; for, whatever might be said of his cringing and deceitful nature, it was impossible to say aught for his capability, or even his desire of doing well. And having, moreover, a reputation for being frightened at the shadow of a hen, not to say at the sight of an infuriated peasantry, this commissioner plainly was the man for his mission!

And he did not belie his fame. The question of murder he disposed of in an off-hand way. "Both sides have had a man killed," he said, "let us suppose that they are quits. I may presume they killed each other, and since they are dead we cannot punish them; so that is settled." After a similar fashion he decided the question concerning the field. "I find the mandatar in possession for the Count," he said, "and he can prove his claim from the title-deeds. I must, therefore, give judgment in his favour."

"And if we had ejected him forcibly," cried Taras, bitterly; "if we had not refrained from righting ourselves by means of bloodshed, we should have found that possession is law?"

"Well, well," said Mr. Kapronski, trembling at this outburst, "I am sure it is very praiseworthy that you did not have recourse to violence. And I did not say that possession was law; indeed, it is not always. The field may really be yours; in that case, you must just file a suit and fight it out against the lord of the manor, leaving him in possession meanwhile."

The peasants demurred, but Taras urged silence. "Is that all you have come to tell us?" he inquired of the commissioner.

"Well, yes--certainly.... No, stop; there is something else. You shall see how anxious I am to judge fairly. The two yoke of oxen which the mandatar has seized shall be returned to you this very day. I have so ordered it, for justice shall be done. But be sure and leave the Count in possession; now do, or you will offend grievously."

He had jumped back into his vehicle, in a great hurry to be gone. He considered he had done his duty, and drove away, greatly relieved to see the last of these people with their battle-axes and guns.

Taras for some hours was disconsolate, but his faith in justice restored him. He called together the people. "The right will right itself," he cried. "I trust in God and believe in the Emperor. We must go to law!"

But his influence seemed gone. "It is your fault," they exclaimed, "and you must bear the consequence! We men of Zulawce carry a cause with gun and axe, and not pen-and-inkwise. It is just your tardiness that lost us half the field, we will not lose the other half by a law-suit. Or, at least, if you will try the law, do so at your own expense."

"I am ready for that," said Taras. "A man standing up for the right must not stop short of victory, even though he should be ruined in the attempt."

Again he went to Colomea and called upon the district governor. But Herr von Bauer turned on his heel. "We have done our part," he said curtly; "if you are not satisfied there is an attorney in the place."

"I do not understand," replied Taras, modestly but firmly. "I want the law to see us righted and is it not you who, in the Emperor's stead, are here to dispense it?"

"You great baby!" snorted the governor. But good nature supervened; he came close to Taras, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "Let me make it plain to you," he said. "If you go and kill the mandatar, or if he kills you, it will be my business to come down upon you with the law, even if no complaint has been urged, for that is a crime. But if you and your peasants assert that a field is yours, which the steward of the manor has possession of we can only interfere if you bring an action, preferring your complaint through an attorney, for that is a matter in dispute. Now do you understand? if so, go and instruct your lawyer. Do you take it in?"

"No," said Taras; "the right surely must be upheld, whether life or property be touched; and to the men of Zulawce that field is as sacred as my life is to me. Is not justice in all things the world's foundation? and does not he who disregards it wrong the very law of life! Can it be the Emperor's will that such wrongdoing is not your business?"

"Dear! dear!" groaned the magistrate; "have I not always said, it's a precious business to be a district governor in Galicia? Why, you are just savages here--no notion of how the law works! But you don't seem a man to be angry with, so begone in peace."

Taras quitted the office, standing still outside. Disappointment and a sense of personal injury surged up within him with a pain so vivid, that he had to wrestle with it for fear he should burst into a shriek like some wounded animal.

But he recovered himself and went to seek the lawyer. He soon found him--Dr. Eugene Starkowski--a sharp-witted attorney, who at once caught the gist of the matter. He shook his head. "It was foolish," he said, "to move a landmark! But I will see what I can do for you."

"How soon can we expect a decision?"

"Some time in the autumn."

"Not before!" exclaimed Taras.

"No, and you will be lucky if more of your patience is not required. It will not be my fault, but you see the gentlemen of the court like to take it easy."

"Take it easy!" echoed Taras, as one in a dream, staring at the lawyer in helpless wonder. "Take it easy!" he repeated wildly. "Oh, sir, this is not right! Justice should flow like a well which all can reach, for it is hard to be athirst for it."

Starkowski looked at the peasant, first with a kind of professional interest only, but with human sympathy before long. He smiled--"I will really do my best for you," he said, and his voice was that of a man comforting a grieving child.

And he did his best, using his every influence to expedite the matter. In most lawsuits at that time in Galicia six months would slip away before even a writ was served upon the defendant, but Mr. Hajek, in the present case, received his within a week. To be sure, he was entitled to a three months' delay to get up his defence, and he availed himself of it to the day--for what purpose, the poor peasants presently had reason to suspect. On the very last day of the term allowed to him he sent in his reply, pleading in exculpation the reasons he had given to Taras, and demanding in his turn that a commission should be appointed for the examining of witnesses on the spot.

Taras's counsel was not a little surprised. To examine the peasants upon their oath was the one means within the reach of the law for arriving at the truth concerning the alleged removing of the cross which marked the boundary. It plainly was in the mandatar's interest to prevent this if possible, and to take his stand on the ocular evidence in his favour, as given in the title deeds. Strange that he should propose the very means of settling the contest which of all was most likely to go against him! Dr. Starkowski could not make it out. "He is a fool," he thought, "unless, after all, he is sure of his claim, or, indeed, has bribed his witnesses." And both conjectures appeared to him equally unlikely, the former because of the solemn soul-stirring manner with which Taras had invoked his help; the latter because of the good opinion Mr. Wenceslas enjoyed in the district town. For his Parisian antecedents were not known there, and society had admitted him to its bosom as an amiable gentleman of irreproachable character.

But since both parties were ready to be put upon their oath, there was nothing else to be done. And the same genius of justice who in the spring had so capably decided that there was no one to be accused of murder, was despatched in the autumn to act for the civil law.

"Examine matters carefully, Mr. Kapronski," said the district governor; "take the depositions of every individual witness, impressing them with the sanctity of the oath. Go into the case thoroughly--there is no danger to yourself--and be sure not to hurry it over."

The commissioner, with an obsequious wriggle, departed on his mission. "The old fool," he said, when seated in his vehicle, "as though it did not depend on a man's sagacity much more than on his taking time! I'll see through the business in less than two hours, I will."

He was expected at Zulawce, and all the community had turned out to receive him--men, women, children, not to forget Father Martin, who, let it be said of him, for once had eschewed his favourite solace, and was perfectly sober. Mr. Hajek, too, had arrived, followed by the gigantic Boleslaw and a number of labourers on the estate. The commissioner drew up amongst them, and alighting beneath the village linden, called for a table from the inn.

"That is the first of my requirements," he said to the mandatar; "the second I have brought with me," pointing at a puffing clerk, who was seen descending from his seat by the coachman, with a huge parcel of red-taped foolscap and an inkstand large enough to bespeak the importance of the proceedings. "The third requisite," continued the commissioner, "a crucifix, no doubt these good people can provide."

They procured one from the nearest house. It was placed upon the table.

"To add to the solemnity," whispered the clerk, "two burning candles ..."

"No need," interrupted the commissioner. "I myself will be a light to their understanding." But his voice, as he turned to the people, quivered with anxiety. "I have come," he said, "to find out where the black cross, now in the centre of the so-called parish field, may have stood sixteen years ago. This is all the evidence I care for. So whoever of you has no testimony to offer on this head may take himself off--have the goodness to retire, I mean!"

A few labourers from the lowlands only obeyed this injunction, no one else moving. All eyes were fixed on him, such proceedings, indeed, not being an every-day spectacle.

"It is alleged," resumed Mr. Kapronski, "that the cross in question was removed from its formed position fifteen years ago. Now, those only can affirm or deny this who were not children at the time. I will listen to no one, therefore, who has not passed his thirtieth year. I mean, all that are younger, I will ask them kindly to retire."

No one stirred. Kapronski looked about with an uncertain gaze. Happily, Taras came to the rescue.

"Have you not understood?" he cried, with far-reaching voice. "Whoever has not reached his thirtieth year is not wanted."

It sufficed. First the girls ran away, followed by the women and children, the young men leaving reluctantly. Some two hundred of the villagers were left, forming a dense crowd round the table.

"And now, listen," continued the commissioner. "Whoever has no clear personal recollection where the cross stood sixteen years ago, let him lift his right hand."

Only two hands were lifted--those of the leaders of the contending parties. "I came to the village eighteen months ago," said the mandatar. "And I ten years ago," said the judge.

"Never mind!" cried Kapronski, hastily. "Please stay; these men might----" he surveyed the stalwart assembly with evident embarrassment, and then added, "you have a right to watch the proceedings! Please, Mr. Mandatar, step to the right of the table; and you, Mr. Taras, to the left."

"Now then, listen!" he repeated, addressing himself once more to the people. "Whoever of you remembers for a certainty that sixteen years ago the black cross stood where it now stands, in the centre of the field, let him step to the right, taking his place beside Mr. Hajek. But whoever, on the contrary, is sure of recollecting that the cross sixteen years ago stood by the river and was removed thence to its present place a twelvemonth later, let him step to the left side, joining your judge."

The division took place amid ominous growls, which broke into exclamations of unbounded wrath and indignant imprecations when the opposing parties stood facing each other. "You curs!" cried the peasants, brandishing their axes. For not only was the mandatar supported by the labourers and farmers of the manorial estate, but, contrary to all expectation, some of the villagers had gone to his side--drunkards and others of low character. Now, whatever these might be thought capable of, no one had given them credit for such open treason against the community--the very worst of crimes in the eyes of those people, to whom no bond is more sacred than that between man and man for the common weal. And what carried their disgust to its height was the fact that the son of their own old judge had joined the enemy. Harasim Woronka, too, had taken his place beside the mandatar, not won over by bribery like the rest of them, but by his own thirst for revenge: it seemed an opportunity for crushing the hated stranger. Harasim was fast going to ruin, and in his fuddled brain the thought kept burning: "If it were not for Taras I might be judge this day, besides being Anusia's husband and the richest man of the village." And whatever benefit he had received at the hands of the noble-hearted stranger had been like oil to the fire of his hatred. Too cowardly for an open act of revenge, he had lent a willing ear to the tempter coming to him in the guise of Boleslaw; but what little good was left in his degraded soul must have pleaded with his conscience even now, for he stood trembling visibly.

"You miserable woman of a man!" roared the insulted peasants; "you disgrace your father in his very grave!" Harasim grew white, his hands clutching the air like a drowning man, for not a more terrible reproach can be offered to a child of that race. Indeed, he would have owned his wickedness there and then by returning to the ranks of those to whom he belonged by kinship and destiny, had not Boleslaw interfered, seizing the wavering object with his huge hand and holding him tight.

"Murder!" roared the peasants, making an onslaught against the giant. It seemed as though the fury of bloodshed were let loose.

The three men by the table looked upon this scene with greatly differing sensations. The commissioner had grown ashy, being ready to swoon. Mr. Hajek, on the contrary, quivered with elation, but strove to hide his sense of victory beneath a mask of aggrieved consternation, saying to the representative of the law: "There, now, is it not almost impossible to maintain one's right with such people?" The virtuous creature would have felt doubly elated had one of the uplifted axes silenced Harasim for ever.

But that, to his disappointment, was prevented by the resolute and magnanimous courage of Taras, the judge. The treachery of Harasim had hurt him more than any of the others; but for a moment only did he yield to his feelings, duty coming to his rescue and making him strong. "Forbear!" he cried, with powerful voice. "Forbear," echoed the elders, and with them he faced the enraged peasants. They fell back, leaving a space between the two parties.

Kapronski kept shaking and quaking; his blanched lips opened and shut, but they framed not a sound. Luckily for him, an incident--partly ludicrous, but in truth most sad--at this juncture diverted attention from his own miserable self; for, when the parties once more stood facing each other, they perceived what had escaped their infuriated senses before, that one man had not joined either side, but was left standing in the middle--the village pope, Martin Sustenkowicz. Nor did the shepherd of Zulawce at this moment look like the happy peacemaker between his belligerent parishioners, being too plainly of a divided mind, and dolefully unsettled.

"Why, your reverence," cried the under-steward, "what are you about! Did you not swear to me yesterday that the mandatar was in the right?"

"Ah--hm--yes--yesterday!" stammered the pope, with a dazed look at the peasants, and taking an uncertain step to the other side.

"Stop! not this way, little father!" broke in Alexa, seizing him by his caftan; "did not you tell me this very morning: 'The field is yours most certainly, for with my own hands I consecrated the new cross fifteen years ago'?"

"Hm--ah--yes--consecrated!" groaned the poor man helplessly, a distracted figure in their midst. The mandatar took pity on him.

"Move this way," he said, with wicked sarcasm, "there is room behind the table right away from the contending parties. We have no candles to solemnise the scene, let the light of your countenance make up for it, illumining this crowd of witnesses."

The commissioner meanwhile had partly recovered, and had found his voice, though a husky one. "I must administer the oath," he said, "for you have given evidence by taking your position either on this side or on that. Let any one who cannot swear to his deposition show it by lifting his hand."

Not a finger moved.

Kapronski gasped. He was anxious to get over the business, but this state of things seemed to force from him some kind of exhortation. "My good people," he cried, "why, perjury is no joke! There's a Judge in heaven you know, and--hm--I mean--we punish any one convicted of swearing falsely. And--it seems plain--only one of the parties can take their oath honestly. So do consider, I entreat you! Now then--which of you cannot--hm--ought not, to swear?"

But his well-meant speech fell flat. The only witness whose hand seemed to make an upward movement, Harasim Woronka, let drop his arm when the overpowering Boleslaw whispered in his ear: "Wretched coward, shall Taras rejoice after all?"

The commissioner wiped his brow--this was more than he dared report to his superiors. "Unheard of case!" he groaned, turning to the mandatar. "Hadn't we better get the priest to speak to the people?"

"By all means," replied Mr. Hajek, with his most pious mien; "I have no doubt he will vastly influence the sleeping conscience."

But Taras shook his head. "Mr. Kapronski," he said, "it is a sad thing for people to be shepherded as we are. You see with your own eyes what manner of man he is. But we poor peasants have no voice in the matter, we can only strive to reverence the holy things, if we cannot reverence him who dispenses them. Therefore we try to avoid anything that must lower him in our eyes, for it is not well when the people are given cause of mockery. Nay, it is not well, God knows! Judge for yourself, sir, would it be fit to let him speak to the people at this solemn moment? For is not an oath an awful thing, terribly awful?"

Kapronski breathed, relieved. Were not the peasants the accusers in this matter? If they, then, were satisfied to have no further exhortation, he was not accountable for any consequences. He stepped forward. "I put you all upon your oath," he said, baring his head, and every one present followed his example. And having once again stated the matter to be sworn, the peasants, one after another, passed in front of the crucifix, giving their names and lifting three fingers of their right hand, saying: "I swear." But the mandatar's party after them, to a man, took the oath likewise. It was done quietly and quickly.

The commissioner pulled out his watch. "An hour and forty minutes," he said, triumphantly. His vehicle had stood by in readiness. He mounted at once, and quitted the village with all possible speed.

CHAPTER V.

[THE WRONG VICTORIOUS.]

Autumn, as a rule, is by far the most pleasant season in the Galician highlands. The winter there is long, dreary, and trying; the spring cool, and all too short; the summer exceedingly hot, and liable to thunderstorms almost daily. But in the autumn Nature wears a genial face in the uplands, with a delicious continuance of sunshine, when the airy dome is scarcely ruffled by the breeze, and wondrously clear; day succeeding day of this gentle splendour till late in November sometimes. Not so, however, in the year we are speaking of. In that season the birds had left early for their southern haunts, the earth looking bare and cheerless all of a sudden; the sun had hidden within heavy clouds, and the whirling snowflakes were at their chill play before September was well out. Brighter days once more supervened, but they were bitterly cold, ushering in a fresh fall of snow and a dismal twilight of the heavens, which seemed determined to last.

The people sat gloomily by their firesides, growing the more alarmed at this early show of winter as they listened to the tales of the old folk among them, who remembered a similar season in their youth--the winter of 1792--which was a terrible visitation in that country, beginning as early as the present one. In that year the cold grew so intense that men scarcely ventured outside their cottages, because every breath they drew went like daggers to their lungs, and their limbs were benumbed in the space of a few minutes, so that even in trying to get from one end of the village to the other some had been frozen to death. And the snow drifted in such masses that the dwellers in the glens were hopelessly shut up, some actually dying of starvation. Thus ran the terrible tale; but the old folk at Zulawce were like old people everywhere, and the dread experience of their youth grew in horror with the receding years. The spectres of fear roused by these memories kept glaring at men and women within the lowly cottages.

Distress and suffering seemed at hand; and the poor were the poorer for the loss of the common field, the produce of which would have yielded them a welcome share. But more than this, the harvest had failed in part, and the cold overtaking the land so early threatened to destroy the winter crop. Thus the future was as clouded as the present, and want might be looked for. Had such trouble befallen the men of the lowlands they would have borne it sadly and meekly, bowing their heads before the Lord of the seasons. But not so the defiant natures at Zulawce, questioning their fate indignantly, and looking about for one who might bear the brunt of their anger; for, with the strong, affliction is apt to blaze forth in wrath. Their scapegoat was easily found; for who else should be to blame for the loss of that field if not Taras, their long-suffering judge!

Grievous days had come to him, and he would not have known how to bear his burden, but for the conviction upholding him that the decision of the court could not long be delayed now. This alone gave him the strength to continue his sorrowful duty day after day. The mandatar pitilessly went on grasping at every pound of flesh he might claim; the community either could or would not yield it. If Taras tried to reason with them to submit to the forest labour, which again had been sold, they retorted it was not their duty, and even he might know now what came of being too docile towards a rascally land-steward! Besides they had not the strength for it now, they said, half-starving as they were; and but for him the produce of that field by the river might now be safely stored in their granaries. And on his replying that, in that case, he must discontinue his office, they said scornfully their little father Stephen had been a judge for fair days as well as foul; it was a pity that he was gone, since his successor evidently was not like him in this. And Taras felt this taunt far more deeply than even the passionate appeals of his wife. He resolved to see the matter to its end; and, since there seemed no other means, he had the required forest labour done by his own men, or by others willing to work for his pay.

"We can afford it," he consoled his more prudent wife, "and if I thus step into the breach for the parish it is not as though I took it from the property which you have brought to me, since I have added to it honestly by my own diligence. And I shall have a right to expect indemnification when better days shall have come round. God surely will see to our being righted, and He will lessen the burden we now have to bear. Besides, a verdict must reach us before long, and there cannot be any doubt but that the court will see that the village has been wronged."

The verdict, however, was still delayed. Week after week passed amid suffering and dejection, and Christmas to the villagers brought nothing of its own good cheer. For the grim snowstorms continued, and if at intervals the skies would brighten, it was only to usher in still sharper frosts.

It was on the Epiphany of 1837 that the rigorous cold unexpectedly came to an end. Quite early on that day the people had been waked from their sleep by strange noises in the air, and rushing from their houses, were met by an unwonted warmth. It was the south wind so ardently longed for. It did not blow long enough to bring about any melting of the snow, folding its merciful wings all too soon; but the terrible cold nevertheless appeared to have received its death blow, the temperature not again sinking much below freezing point.

And in happy mood old and young that morning went to church; men even who had been sworn enemies for years would look at each other pleasantly at the welcome change. Taras also beheld brighter faces, and heard kinder words than had fallen on his ear since the sorrowful springtime. Indeed, so strong and general was the feeling of relief and of gratitude due to the Almighty, that even the pope was seized by the wave and carried to a shore of contrition he had not reached for many a year. Mass had been read, and the people were about to depart, quite accustomed to the fact that Father Martin, on account of his own sad failing, would excuse the sermon; but they were startled by his request to resume their seats, and he actually mounted his pulpit. Poor man, he could not give them much of a discourse, but such as it was it lent expression to their own feelings, and could not fail to touch their hearts.

The people, who were in a good frame of mind, after church gathered in groups outside. There was the weather to be talked about, and the sermon, and the lawsuit; concerning the latter, some of those even who bore Taras the deepest grudge were heard to say, "Who can tell but that it may end well after all."

And the most cheerful was Taras himself. He moved about from group to group, kindly words passing to and fro. "Let us trust God," he kept saying; "He has dispelled the fearful cold; at His touch the wrong, too, will vanish. My heart tells me so! The verdict cannot be delayed much longer, we may even hear of it before the day is out."

These words had scarcely fallen from his lips, when that happened which, however frequent in fiction, is rare enough in actual life--his expectation was realised there and then. Up the road from the river a sledge was seen advancing, driven by a peasant and carrying, it appeared, a large bundle of fur-rugs. No human occupant was visible when the vehicle stopped amid the staring peasantry, but the rug-bundle began to move, throwing off its outer covering, a bear-skin; a good-sized sheep-skin peeling off next, revealing as its kernel a funny little hunchbacked figure, an elderly townsman rather shabbily clad. He rose to his feet, inquiring, with a great deal of condescension: "My good people, is the judge of this village anywhere among you?"

The stalwart peasants laughed at the puny creature, and even Taras, moving up to the sledge, could not repress a smile. "And what do you want with him?"

The stranger pursed his mouth; his hand dived into his pocket and produced an alarming pair of spectacles, which he put upon his shrivelled nose, plainly desirous of adding dignity to that feature, and then he said slowly, almost solemnly, "A man like you should say 'your worship' to me! I am Mr. Michael Stupka, head clerk of Dr. Eugene Starkowski."

Taras shook from head to foot, and clutching the man, he stammered, "You have come to tell as the verdict! you have got a letter for me!"

And all the peasants pressed round them. "Ah!" they cried, "we have got the field back, no doubt!... Long live Taras, the judge; he was right after all.... But do read us your letter."

The terrified clerk all this time endeavoured to free himself from the iron grasp that held him as in a vice. "Stand off!" he groaned. "I have brought you the verdict--yes; but ..." He faltered.

Taras grew white. Hardly knowing what he did, he, with his strong arm, lifted the little man right out of the sledge, putting him down on the ground before him. "No," he said hoarsely, "it cannot be! The verdict surely is in our favour?"

"Why, dear me, can I help it?" wailed the dwarfish creature. "Are you savages here, or what! Ah, you are strangling me ... it is not my fault, I am only a clerk and of no consequence whatever ... I assure you! And Dr. Starkowski tried his best. Moreover, the matter need not rest here; don't you know that there is such a thing as an appeal?"

But Taras evidently did not take in this hint any more than he had understood the preceding words. One thought only had laid hold of him, and he reeled like a stricken man. "Lost!" he groaned hoarsely, the ominous syllable being taken up more shrilly by the peasants, who pressed closer still.

The clerk, meanwhile, had produced the documents of which he was the bearer, the one being a writ of the court, the other a letter of Dr. Starkowski's. "There!" he cried, thrusting them under Taras's nose.

Taras was striving to regain his composure. "We are usable to read writing," he said, gasping. "You must tell us what the lawyers have got to say. To whom have they adjudged the field?"

But Mr. Stupka did not feel it prudent to answer this question right out. He broke the official seal, putting on a look of the greatest importance. "With pleasure, good people," he said condescendingly, "with pleasure! I'll read it to you, and translate it presently into plain language. The legal style, you know ..."

But Taras interrupted him. "To whom?" he repeated, more emphatically.

"Well, I should say," stammered the luckless clerk, "I should say ... to the lord of the manor, so to speak."

"It is a lie," shrieked Taras; "it cannot be!" But the peasantry veering round, cried scornfully: "Did we not tell you that going to law is a folly? You have done it now!"

Utterly beside himself with the passion of his disappointment, the judge clenched his fists and set his teeth in the face of the mocking crowd, but the two elders laid their hands on him gently. "Do not give way," begged the faithful Simeon, "try and bear the blow; let us hear the verdict first, and then we will consider what next can be done."

The clerk spread out the document. "In the name of the Emperor!" he began, translating the somewhat lengthy preamble. The villagers loyally had pulled off their caps; Taras only thought not of baring his head. Simeon endeavoured to remind him, but the judge shook him off. The honest man looked at him doubtfully, and receded a step. The others did not notice it, too intent upon the verdict.

It was a long piece of legal rhetoric, substantiating every statement with a flourish of evidential reasoning, in the German language, which in those days was the medium for judicial transactions throughout that conglomerate of Babel-tongued countries going by the name of Austria. It was no easy undertaking to translate the strangely intricate periods of official verbosity into the simple vernacular of the listeners; but Mr. Stupka, being as clever as he was small, contrived to make himself understood. The verdict amounted to a dismissal of the case, because the plaintiffs could not bring forward sufficient proof to uphold their claim. The description of the field in the title deeds, it said, was in favour of the party in present possession, and if a number of witnesses upon their oath had given contrary evidence, their testimony was invalidated by counter-evidence upon oath likewise. It was not the court's business in civil cases to start an inquiry whether false witness possibly had been tendered; it was rather the duty of the court to decide which evidence weighed heavier in the scale, and the balance had inclined in favour of manorial rights. It seemed strange, also, that the village judge, as had been reported, should have opposed the exhortation of the witnesses by means of the pope....

Up to this point Taras had listened in silence and motionless, but now a shudder ran through his body, and he clenched his fists. "Ye adders," he panted; "ye deceitful adders!"

"Bear it," whispered Simeon, entreatingly, putting his arm round his reeling friend. But Taras scarcely needed the admonition as far as keeping silence was concerned, for his eyes closed; he seemed on the point of swooning.

And moreover, the clerk continued, it was a fact that among those who had given their oath in favour of the manorial claim had been several heads of families of the village, men, therefore, who tendered witness against their own interest. Such evidence could not easily be set aside. Considering all these points, therefore, the case was dismissed, the plaintiffs to bear the costs, as was meet and just.

"Just!" echoed the men in savage scorn, Taras alone keeping silence. His hand went to his heart suddenly, he staggered and fell heavily, as a man struck by lightning.

For hours he lay in a swoon. They had carried him into his house; but neither the lamentations of his wife, nor their united endeavours to restore animation seemed to penetrate the dead darkness that had fallen on his soul. And when at last he opened his eyes his words appeared to them so utterly strange that they were more frightened still. "The very foundations are giving," he kept crying, "the holiest is being dragged low!" And he, in whose eyes no one ever had seen a tear, was seized with a paroxysm of weeping. He bemoaned his terrible fate, and between his sobs he called for his children, to take leave of them, he said. And he repeated this request so urgently that they could but humour him. It was a pitiful scene, and one after another the neighbours went away shudderingly, Simeon Pomenko only watching through the night by the sufferer's couch. But in the village the news spread that the judge, for sorrow, had gone out of his mind.

Not till the following morning did this piece of information come to the ears of the mandatar, Mr. Hajek having spent the night at Zablotow, playing at cards with the officers of the hussars. His under-steward, Boleslaw, impatiently lay in wait against his return, never doubting but that the news would fall on delighted ears, and he was not a little surprised at the mandatar's evident dismay, Nor was this put on; for the Count, still enlarging his acquaintances at Paris, had, through his friends the usurers, got introduced to their solicitors, and Hajek knew he must send him the wherewithal to stem the scandal of a prosecution, whatever he might wish to keep back for himself. So money, more than ever, was the need of the moment; and having succeeded in one villainous trick, he might hope to develop his talents for the further fleecing of the peasantry, and it was highly important, therefore, that the community should be represented by a judge who, at the risk of whatever loss to himself, was bent on keeping the people from offering violence.

"Gone out of his mind? Dear me, I am sorry," he said, honestly too. "But I daresay report has exaggerated the fact. He may have had a blow, but I do not believe he is the man to go mad. Go to his wife and tell her, with my compliments, that I shall be pleased to send for the best doctor at Colomea at my own expense."

The man hung back. "I am no coward," he said presently, "and I think I could face any dozen of the peasants, if you wished it. But as for this woman--sir, do you know she is a regular Huzul, quite a spitfire of a temper--and a man after all has only one pair of eyes to lose!"

The mandatar did not care what risk these optics might run; the man had to carry his message. He was relieved, however, on entering the judge's house. The two elders, Simeon and Alexa were with the sufferer, and he appeared to be listening to their words. The storm had not yet subsided which tore his soul, and threatened to change the very drift of his being. He who his life long had stood like a rock against the surges of trouble, who had won happiness and prosperity through steadfast endurance, was sobbing and wailing like a child, and his friends could not but tremble for his reason as they heard his pitiful plaints. "I have striven to pass my life in honour," he would moan, "and now it must end in shame! And what of my poor children, since I have no choice but to follow the dictate of my heart?"

He saw the under-steward enter cautiously, and his pale face grew crimson at the sight. Simeon rose hastily to send away the unwelcome visitor, but Taras interfered. "Glad to see you, friend Boleslaw!" he cried, cuttingly. "What good news has brought you hither?"

The giant delivered his errand, stammeringly.

"Send for a doctor--indeed--at his own expense!" repeated Taras. "Well, I did not require this proof to tell me that the mandatar is an honest man!" And therewith he closed his eyes, lying still like a sleeping babe.

Boleslaw paused. "Shall I----" he began presently, addressing the elders. But at the sound Taras opened his eyes. "Leave this house!" he cried, with a voice of thunder, and the powerful man quaked, making good his escape.

Taras watched his retreat, smiling strangely. "This message is something to be thankful for! You, my friends, could not help me, but this insult brings me back to myself. I shall fight against my ghastly destiny while yet I may!"

"What destiny?" said Simeon, soothingly. "Do look at it calmly. You have, in a just cause, done your utmost to see us righted; and you have failed honourably. What else could there be said?"

"What else?" reiterated Taras. "And since it is a just cause--but what use in talking!... I daresay you thought I had lost my reason, because I have cried and wailed like a woman--did you?" His friends endeavoured to look unconcerned. "But, I tell you," he continued, with trembling voice, "it will be well if you never have occasion to find out that, though reeling, my mind was terribly clear!... I will try to spare you the discovery. I want to see that clerk again."

"He has left," returned Simeon; "he thrust his papers into my hand when you had fainted, and turning his horses' heads he made the utmost speed to leave us. The poor creature was really quite frightened; never in his life again would he carry a verdict to savages, he said."

Taras could not help smiling. "Then I must ask the pope to read me that letter," he said. "Leave the room, I shall be ready to join you in a few minutes."

"Do not exert yourself just yet," entreated Simeon.

But Taras looked up sternly. "Do not hinder me, man," he cried, "cannot you see that my very fate is at stake!"

The men left him misgivingly.

"What do you think of it?" said Alexa, as they stood waiting in the yard.

"God knows!" replied Simeon, troubled. "But I cannot forget how he refused to uncover when the verdict was being read."

The voice of Anusia was heard, who would not let her husband go from the house. "You will be fainting again!" she lamented. But Taras, though white as death, stepped forth, treading firmly.

The three men walked away to call on Father Martin; but on entering the manse his housekeeper, Praxenia, met them with a tearful face. She was an elderly spinster from the village who had presided over his domestic concerns since the popadja had departed this life, leaving the pope a widower.

"God o' mercy," she sobbed, looking at Taras, "it's a blessing that you, at least, have got back your wits. They said in the village that you had lost them. But you are all right, I see--would I could say as much for the poor little father. He is quite off his head, I assure you; regular mad if ever man was!"

"He will come round again, no doubt," said Taras. "I daresay he has had a glass too much."

"Ah, no," wept the good spinster; "that were nothing since we are used to it! He has not had a drop since yesterday, poor old man, who never could do without his tipple; it is that which frightens me! He is lying quite still now, staring blankly, and talking a heap of nonsense between whiles."

"Humph," grunted Simeon, "that certainly looks alarming. I have known him these twenty years, he never showed such symptoms."

"Didn't I say so--a very bad sign, surely! And all on account of that sermon, would you believe it? But let me tell you how it happened. I had gone to his room quite early yesterday morning--would I had bitten my tongue off first! though my going in was quite innocent-like. 'Little Father,' I said, 'there's a thaw setting in, and the parish is just beside itself with joy.' 'Beside itself? dear! dear!' he said, 'I must go and see,' and off he trotted. But very soon he came back again, his eyes positively shining. 'Naughty, naughty, little father,' I said, 'you have gone and been at Avrumko's--very naughty, so early in the day, and before reading mass!' But he insisted that he had not been near the inn, and that nothing but the common delight had so excited him. 'Ah! Praxenia,' he said, 'what a day to have seen--all the village is praising the Lord for His goodness. I must give them a sermon to-day, I must, indeed!' 'Little Father,' I said, severely, 'you had better not attempt it; you know it is beyond you now, and the people will only laugh at you; don't you remember how it was five years ago?' 'I do,' he said, ruefully, 'but I shall do better to-day.' There was no convincing him, he locked himself into his study, and through the door I could hear him at his sermon--pacing his floor I mean--vigorously, till the bells began ringing for service. I went to church, not a little anxious, you will believe me, and when he mounted his pulpit, as he had threatened, I said to myself: 'You'll stick fast, little father, and be sorry that you ever went up.' But not he--well you were there yourselves, and you know how beautifully he got through it, never once blowing his nose or scratching his ears--the beautifullest sermon ever spoken, though I say it, and moving all the parish to tears! I walked home proudly to look after his dinner, poor man, and said to myself he should have as many glasses now as he liked. But what was my surprise on going to his room presently, to find him weeping there, shedding the biggest tears. I ever saw. 'Ah, Praxenia,' he sobbed, 'to think of the Lord's goodness in giving me this day. I have not deserved it, miserable old tippler that I am!' What was I to answer? I got his dinner ready, putting his bottle beside it; and he sat down at my bidding, but never a morsel he touched, his eyes looking brighter and queerer than ever. 'Have a drop, little father.' I said, 'I'm afraid you are faint-like.' 'No,' he said, sharply, pushing the bottle from him. Then I knew that something was wrong. And all the rest of the day, till late in the evening, he kept walking about his room, muttering the beautifullest words--preparing his sermon, he said, when I asked him. Not till late at night could I get a spoonful of soup down his throat, making him take to his bed--no great battle, for although he is hardly more than sixty, he is just a child for weakness when the schnaps is out of him. 'Now you must go to sleep,' I said, sternly. But not he! He folded his hands, lying still, with his shining eyes, muttering at times. He is going to die, I tell you!"

The men were endeavouring to dissuade her from this mournful view, but were less certain of their own opinion when they stood by the bedside. The poor pope's appearance had changed alarmingly since yesterday. The face was worn and white, the wrinkles had deepened, and there was a strange light in his eyes.

But he knew Taras. "Ah--is it you?" he murmured.... "'And he judged Israel in the days of the Philistines twenty years.' ... The bells are ringing.... I must preach to the people.... What is it you want?"

"I came to ask you to read a letter to me, but I am afraid you are not well, and it is rather a closely-written epistle."

"Epistle? yes," returned the pope, catching at the word. "The first of the Corinthians.... 'Though I speak with the tongues of angels, and have not charity.... believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.... Charity never faileth.' ..." And on he wandered.

The men saw it was hopeless, and left him. "It is strange," said Simeon; "our pope never spoke such edifying words while he had his wits about him. It does seem alarming."

But Taras's thoughts ran on a different track. He started. "I must go to Colomea," he said. "There could not be much in a mere letter, after all. I must see the lawyer myself as soon as possible."

He appeared so fully determined that his friends could but listen in silence, and even Anusia saw he must have his way, though she demurred. "It were far better to leave the thing alone," she said. "If you are bent on making a sacrifice for the parish, give them the field we bought two years ago, it will make up for their loss, and it were better than losing everything through the lawyers."

"You are the best of wives," he said, "but you do not understand. It is not merely about the field which is lost: but my fate, and yours, and the children's is at stake."

"What is this you are saying?" she cried, alarmed; but he had touched his horse, and the sledge was flying along the road towards the district town.

He entered the outer office of Starkowski's the following day, but no sooner had Mr. Stupka caught sight of him than he flew from his chair, disappearing in an inner chamber with the startled cry: "Heaven help us! a ghost ... the dead judge!"

But the attorney came forth undaunted. "I am pleased to see you," he said, shaking hands. "I felt pretty sure my clerk had been exaggerating in reporting you dead. I suppose it was the painful disappointment which stunned you?"

"More than this," said Taras, "it was the bitter consciousness that this verdict must change all the future current of my life, unless, indeed, it can be annulled. I have come to find out whether this is possible. Maybe your letter said something about it--I cannot read."

"No, the letter was only to tell you the costs," explained Dr. Starkowski, "one hundred and twelve florins. But there is no hurry whatever, you may pay me at your convenience. I had nothing further to tell you, for I never advise carrying a suit into a higher court unless there be some hope of a successful----"

"Sir," interrupted Taras, speaking slowly, and his voice was hollow, "think well before you tell me--you do not know how much there is at stake."

The man's manner, and still more his distorted face, staggered the lawyer. "Of course, I may be mistaken," he said; "but the examination of the witnesses, from which I hoped everything, has proved a bad business for us, and yet it appears the commissioner tried every conscientious means for arriving at----"

"Conscientious means!" cried Taras; but conquering his rising anger he described the scene which had taken place outside the village inn, Kapronski not so much as putting up his horses; and how the peasants had their own shrewd guesses how much had been paid by the mandatar to every rascal who had forsworn himself. "Sir, I hope you will help me in this trouble!" he said, in conclusion.

These simple words, breathing their own truth and sadness, went further with the lawyer than the most urgent entreaty. He had followed the legal profession for many a year, but the sense of the utter sacredness of his calling had perhaps never been so strong with him, nor his desire to see justice done more earnest, than at this present moment when that peasant had told him his tale. He promised to forward an appeal to the higher court at once. "There is yet another way we could try," he said; "you could inform against the perjurers. But if we failed in bringing the charge home to them, you would be in danger of imprisonment for libel yourself. I do not like to risk that, so we had better try the appeal."

"Do what seems best to you," said Taras. "I trust you implicitly. But what a world is this if a man can be put into prison for making known the truth! Is not truth the foundation of justice? Can the world continue, if falsehood and wrong carry the day?"

The lawyer no doubt could have given an answer to this question--a sad, painful answer--but somehow he felt he had better be silent. He contented himself with assuring this man, who seemed a very child in the ways of the world, that he would not fail in his most faithful endeavour, and set about the matter at once, moved by a feeling he scarcely could analyse. The appeal was on its way to the upper court at Lemberg before Taras and his servant had reached their upland home.

They were nearing the Pruth in the evening of the following day when the sound of bells came floating towards them, and a red glow appeared through the dusk where the ground sloped away in the direction of Prinkowce. "Something on fire!" cried the man, pulling up the horses.

Taras peered through the twilight, and, bowing his head, he crossed himself piously. "Drive on," he said; "it is the torches at the cemetery. They are burying the pope."

And it was so. Father Martin had died that morning, and they were laying him to his rest already, as they are wont in the mountains. There was no great show of mourning, poor Praxenia's sorrow, perhaps, being the only honest sadness evoked. "Ah!" she kept sobbing, "if it were not for that sermon, he might be here to conduct his own funeral! It is the sermon he died of, and not old age, as the apothecary said." But the peasants had their own idea concerning the cause of his death. "It is the wretched schnaps Avrumko has introduced," they said. "If the rascal gave us unwatered stuff, we might live a hundred years, like our fathers before us."

Slight as the feeling of mourning was, it ye sufficed to turn the people's thoughts into a different channel, the loss of the pope thus acting as a palliative to the loss of the law-suit; and the question who should be Father Martin's successor was discussed with real interest. It was not mere curiosity which stirred them, for in the person of the pope a good deal of a parish's fate is bound up in those parts, and the congregation has no voice in the matter. They can but wait and see. But the men of Zulawce were soon relieved of any anxiety, and had every reason to be satisfied.

Not a mouth had passed when the desolate manse once more was inhabited, and it was a young pope who had come to pitch his pastoral tent in the upland parish, having till then been curate-in-charge of Borkowka, a village in the plain. Leo Woronczuk was his name, and it spoke well for him that his late parishioners accompanied him in procession as far as the wooden bridge over the Pruth, where Taras, at the head of the peasants, stood waiting to receive him. But what pleased his new flock more than anything was the fact that the stalwart young shepherd did not arrive singly, but with a blooming wife--the most good-natured of popadjas, to all appearance--and three round-cheeked, chubby little boys. For the Galician peasants are apt to be prejudiced against a pope who is either a bachelor or a widower, or, worse still, a monk of the Order of St. Basil, thinking it impossible for such a one to enter into the every-day joys and sorrows of his people, or to understand their more earthly needs.

Now, Father Leo had a heart for these things, and this not only because he himself was blessed with a wife and three jolly little boys! He was no brilliant star in the theological heavens, no paragon of superhuman virtues; he was a simple village priest--a man among men--with warm-hearted sympathies; and if his intellectual horizon did not extend immeasurably beyond that of his peasants, he at any rate had a clear-headed perception of all ordinary points and bearings within that sphere. It was not without diffidence that he accepted his new charge, influenced chiefly by the peremptory need of income, his late curacy having been sadly inadequate in this respect, considering the growing wants of his family; and, if the truth must be told, the bad reputation of that upland parish, which might have tempted a priestly soul of more enthusiastic ambition, only tended to discourage him; he, poor man, not feeling himself divinely commissioned to make up for the many years' failings of his predecessor. He would far rather have been called to shepherd a people of a less demoralised kind than appeared to be the case here, where a number of men, on the very face of things, were guilty of wilful perjury. But once having accepted the charge devolved upon him by his superiors, he had made up his mind, like a brave man, to do his duty as best he could, be it pleasant or otherwise.

And he made it his first aim to look into the apparent want of integrity among the people; to discover, if possible, who might be trusted and who not. He set about it quietly, without thrusting himself into people's confidence; nor did he think it necessary to frighten them into a higher state of morality by firing their imagination with grievous accounts of the punishment to come. His sermons were peculiarly simple, suitable in every way to the hearers' daily life--"a peasant almost could preach like that," said the people when he had dismissed them without once thumping the pulpit. But they discovered by degrees that, if his eloquence did not come down upon them thunderously, there was that in his words which might cling to them like good and sensible advice; while, on the other hand, he, not a little to his joy, could see that these people, after all, were not so black as they had been painted. Leaving the one vice out of the question, which in that country is as common as air and water--the wretched tendency to drunkenness--the worst these highlanders could be accused of was their defiant spirit so apt to break out into violence.

The pope soon found that they were not without a conscience, and that they had a true feeling of right and wrong, though it might be somewhat dulled by the unpruned egotistical instincts of human nature left to its own luxuriance. Not many weeks had passed before Father Leo was sure in his own mind which had been the perjured party on that fatal day in September, but he avoided individual accusation. Nor was it more than a moral certainty with him, as though he could take his oath that the black cross had not always stood in the centre of the contested field. But however strongly he felt in his honest mind that a vile wrong had been committed--robbing a poor, untaught, and easily misguided people not only of their property but, what was worse, of their good conscience--he yet repressed his wrath, and never by word or look showed the mandatar how entirely he abhorred him. Nor was this reserve the outcome of mere selfish prudence, but rather of a wise perception that he could do more for the furthering of right and justice and the peace of his people in thus forcing the miscreant at the manor house to observe a show of good will.

Hajek, indeed, was deceived. He thought he had taken the measure of the new pope in believing him to be an honest but rather blockheaded parson, whom he treated accordingly with a certain amount of flattery, and even of deference. The mandatar would graciously yield a point whenever Father Leo, on behalf of the people, petitioned for a respite, or even for the lessening of an irksome tribute, assuring him that he was quite as anxious as himself to maintain the peace of the parish. The fact was, that while the suit yet hung in the balance, and a further examining of witnesses was a prospect to be dreaded, it was important that the village priest should think of him as an honourable man, not prone to harsh dealings, far less to open violence, or such a thing as an instigation to perjury.

Thus Taras by degrees found an unexpected ally in the pope, nay more, a true-hearted friend. The saddened man would not have looked for such happiness, and when the unsought gift had come to him he met it almost timorously. It was a good honest friendship which sprang up between these two equally honourable, yet entirely different natures; but a friendship which, for all its truth, left the last word unspoken, because neither of them, whatever their mutual sympathy, was able to enter into, the inmost depth of the other's being.

But the more the pope saw of the judge, the greater was his joy at having met such a man upon earth, a man so guileless and spotless, in whom selfishness was not, who seemed guided only by his own sense of justice and duty, and whose strength was the outcome of his great faith in the moral equity upholding this structure of a world. "A true, godly man," the pope would say to himself; but somehow the heretical thought would follow, "Why, this man does not even need the Christian's belief in a future life in order to be what he is." This feeling could not but breed certain doubts, but it did not lessen his hearty admiration of his friend's purity of nature, nor his longing to help him. He did what he could to ease the heavy burden of his dealings with the mandatar, coming forward as a mediator whenever it was possible; and he never lost an opportunity of proving to the villagers that their judge had acted righteously throughout. Taras was Father Leo's senior, but there was something of a parent's tenderness for his child in the pope's constant readiness to stand by his friend. Indeed, Taras would often appear to him in the light of a grown boy whom no evil thing had come nigh to corrupt.

"I could understand him," the pope would say, "if he were fourteen instead of nearly forty." And greater than his delight in the man was his surprise sometimes that he should understand so little of human nature and the way of the world. He took this for granted, but he was mistaken. Taras was not wanting in the power of seeing things as they are, but only in the capability of turning such perception to any use. He was one of those rare beings who must ever follow their own inward prompting, who cannot be bent in this or that direction by any outward compulsion; but who, for this very reason, are so easily broken and bowed to the dust. There is much sadness in life, though little of real tragedy; but what of it the world has known has ever had for its heroes such natures.

But neither did Taras fully understand his friend. He would have blessed the day which brought Father Leo to the village, even if the latter had remained a comparative stranger to him; for the late pope's unworthy conduct had touched him far more deeply than any one else in the village, because his instincts for everything good and holy were so much keener. He knew well enough that many a village pope was no better than Father Martin had been; but he had felt to the depth of his true soul that it was a terrible perversion of what ought to be, if a village judge out of reverence for the sanctity of the oath sees it laid upon him to oppose an exhortation of the people by their own priest. It was an unspeakable relief to him that things had changed in this respect, and that the man who had come to represent the spiritual interests in the parish was of good report and fit to be an example; his gratitude rising to boundless devotion on perceiving that in word and deed the honest pope was bent on sharing his burden--yet he could not always understand his friend.

The pope, to give an instance, might endeavour to correct some black sheep by saying: "You are not a bad man on the whole, it's just the drink which is ruining you; it were a great thing if you could overcome that failing!" At which Taras would think that this was an untruth, because the man was bad in other respects besides the drink; that the pope was quite aware of this, and how could it be right to depart from the full truth, even with a good object in view? Or, if Father Leo endeavoured to arbitrate between two quarrelling parishioners, he would tell them: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God!" endeavouring to bring about a compromise even if the one, whether erroneously or feloniously, had been coveting the other's property; but can it be right, thought Taras, to connive even in part at a wrongful intention for the love of peace? And if the pope was anxious to obtain some benefit for the people, he would not only listen patiently to the richest self-praise of the miserable mandatar, but might even enhance it by some word of his own; yet, shall a man fawn on an evildoer for the sake of mercy? These questions occupied the judge seriously, and one day, when they had been at the mandatar's together, he could not but unburden his heart to his friend.

The pope smiled, saying: "It is written, Be ye therefore wise as serpents."

"Yes," cried Taras, "and harmless as doves!"

"Certainly," returned the pope. "It would be wrong to meet any one with the serpent's wisdom in order to overreach him. I never do that, and to the best of my knowledge I strive to advance the good and to fight what is evil. But since I have to do with sinful men and not with angels, I must be content very often to fight with human weapons."

Taras shook his head. "How could deception ever be right in order to further a good cause?" he exclaimed.

"Nor is it," returned the pope. "But if I can keep back the wicked man from further wickedness by speaking civilly to him, and not contemptuously, I am not wronging nor deceiving him, but on the contrary doing well by him."

The judge walked on in silence, saying at last, gently but firmly, "I cannot see this; deception can never be right. I do not understand you."

At which the pope might look up at the towering figure by his side, saying tenderly within himself, "He is simple as a child!" But what shadows even then were overlying Taras's soul not even Leo could know, though a strange fear at times stole over him that this soul, so childlike and so pure, was undergoing a conflict with the powers of evil, and was being worsted. There were outward signs of such battling: Taras hardly ever now smiled; he would sit for hours in moody silence, with a stony look in his eyes, and his healthy countenance was being marred by the furrows of anxious care. Anusia, too, would come to the manse with her trouble, saying sorrowfully, "He hardly sleeps now, for day and night this worry is upon him, making an old man of him before his time."

"But what is it?" said the pope; "I am at a loss to know."

"Why, what should it be but this cursed lawsuit," sobbed the passionate woman, clenching her fists. "Would I could strangle the mandatar and all the tribe of lawyers along with him!"

The pope rebuked her, nor did her explanation satisfy him. "It cannot be the lawsuit that so weighs on him," he said; "for he speaks about it calmly, hoping for a favourable verdict from the court of appeal. I do not see what can thus oppress him, unless it be his troubled relations both with the mandatar and with the people, which are improving daily though, for I am doing my best to heal the breach," he added, with some complacency.

The honest man had not the faintest idea that, however successful he might be, he was only lessening his friend's outward burden, that which lay on his shoulders so to speak, and which he had strength enough to bear, whereas there was a burden crushing his heart and leaving him utterly helpless in his silent despair; for Taras kept his deep trouble hidden even from the eyes of the priest, his spiritual guide, feeling, perhaps, that the fundamental difference of their natures must keep them apart on the soul's deepest issues. "I should only sadden him," he said, "and make him angry; but I could never convince him, nor could he talk me out of it. No one could, for the matter of that, not the Almighty Himself, I fear; for if He can look on quietly when wrong is being done here below, I do not see that even He could do away with the consequences!"

Matters had come to an ill pass with Taras even then. He had grown calm outwardly, but the fearful thought which had overpowered him so utterly on his first learning that the court's decision had gone against the parish had not left him. If it was not added to in these months of weary waiting, while the verdict was being reconsidered, neither did it lessen. And as he went on with his duties day after day, waiting for an answer from the court of appeal, he was like some traveller traversing an endless desert beneath an angry sky. The air is heavy, and the thunderous clouds sink lower, he hastening onward through the friendless waste; onward, though the storm will break and the flashes of heaven are charged with death. No shelter for him anywhere; on, on, he hastens, though his doom await him--no hope, unless a strong wind from the healthy east be sent to drive the dark clouds asunder ... But how should he hope for such kindly blast while the hot air is heavy about him, and cloud draws cloud athwart the heavens? He can but bear up and continue, a weary traveller, utterly hopeless, and conscious of great trouble ahead!

CHAPTER VI.

[APPEALING UNTO CÆSAR.]

Autumn had come; again the season was cold and gloomy. Taras had waited patiently, but he had not the courage to face the long, dull twilight of winter if he must pass it nursing the one desperate thought. So he went to the pope and begged him to indite an inquiry to the lawyer.

Father Leo looked him in the face anxiously. The man appeared calm. "You are thinking too much of the law-suit!" he said, nevertheless.

"Not more than need be," replied Taras. "I have long settled in my mind all concerning that question."

The pope wrote the desired letter. The reply came at the end of a week. He had done what he could, said the lawyer, to urge the case forward, praying especially for a re-examination of the witnesses; but he had received no answer so far.

Taras heaved a sigh when the pope had communicated this letter to him. "It will go hard with me in the winter," he said sadly.

But the pope could not know the full import of these words. "You have done your duty," he said, "and that will comfort you."

"There is no comfort in that," said Taras, "though it may help one to be strong. A man who has laid his hand on the plough of any duty must go on till the work is done."

The winter proved hard, indeed, for the waiting man, but the heavier the burden weighed on his soul the more anxious he seemed to hide it.

"He has ceased groaning as he used to do," Anusia said to her friend, the warm-hearted, fat little popadja; "and he seems to take pleasure in a pastime, rather unusual with him; he has become a hunter for hunting's sake."

Taras, in that winter, would be absent for weeks at a time, pursuing the bear. But his three companions, who were devotedly attached to him--Hritzko and Giorgi Pomenko, the two sons of his friend Simeon, and the young man, Wassilj Soklewicz, whose brother had been shot on the contested field--could tell little of the judge's cheer. "He is even more silent in the forest than at home," they said; "and if he takes any delight in the hunt it is only because he is such a good shot. He cares nothing for the happy freedom of life up yonder, nothing for the excitement of driving the bear; but his face will always light up when he has well-lodged his bullet."

The winter was not yet over, and Taras was again absent hunting, when one day--it was in March, 1838--the pope received a large letter from the district town. The lawyer had addressed the decision of the upper court to him, giving as his reason that he had understood from Father Leo's inquiry in the autumn, that he also sympathised with the judge, Barabola. "I pray you, reverend sir," wrote the lawyer, "to make known to him the enclosed verdict as best you can; for I am afraid the poor man will be crushed and not easily lift up his head again. The legal means are exhausted, the lawyer can do nothing more; let the pastor, then, come in and heal the wound."

The good pope was troubled, his apprehension nowise lessening on hearing how the first verdict had overpowered his friend. "Poor man," he said; "poor dear child! how will he take it?"

With not a little trepidation, therefore, he went to see Taras upon his return from the mountains, endeavouring to prepare him for the bad news by a rather lengthy and well-considered speech. Taras however, behaved otherwise than the pope had anticipated. He grew white, and the deep furrow between his brows appeared more threatening, but his voice was firm as he asked, "Then the upper court has upheld the first verdict?"

"Yes," said Father Leo, gently. "But you must not take it too much to heart, you have tried honestly."

"Let me know what they say," interrupted Taras, as calm as before, but it might have been noticed that he leant heavily on the table beside which he was standing.

The pope produced the writ, reading and explaining. The court dismissed the appeal, seeing no reason why the trial should be repeated, it being fully evident that the former examination had satisfied the demands of justice. The lower court's verdict, therefore, must be upheld.

Taras had listened to the end with the same rigid mien. "Thank you," he said, when Father Leo had done. "But now leave me alone. You too, Anusia; I must think it over."

"What use in farther troubling?" demurred the pope. "Dr. Starkowski says especially that the legal means are exhausted; which means that there is nothing further to be done. You must submit to the will of God."

"We will come back to that presently," said Taras, with a ghastly smile, which quite frightened the pope. "You shall not be cheated out of your sermon, but not now ... not now!" He repeated the words almost passionately.

Father Leo still hesitated; but Anusia interfered. She had been sitting in a corner, weeping; but now she rose. "Stay, pope," she entreated, taking hold of Taras's hand. "Husband," she cried, shrilly, "fly into whatever rage you like, thrash the rascal at the manor house till he cannot move a limb, if it will ease you; but do not hide your wrath within yourself. Do not look so stony; it kills me, husband. I am maddened with fear! I know why you would have us leave you--you are going to lay hands on yourself!"

"No!" cried Taras, solemnly. "God knows, I have no such thought." But again the smile played about his mouth. "Be at peace, wife," he added; "I have never stood in more grievous need of health and life than now. Leave me."

They saw they must obey, but they remained standing outside the closed door, listening anxiously. They hoped the terrible tension of his heart might be lessened now by the pouring forth of his sorrow, but they heard nothing save his measured step. It ceased at length, and all was still.

"Come!" said the poor wife, dragging the pope to a small window which gave them a peep into the room. They saw Taras, sitting still, resting his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He sat motionless.

"We had better leave him to fight it out," said Father Leo, "his is a strong heart, and he will get over it."

But Anusia could not conquer her fears. "I must watch him," she moaned, the hot tears trickling down her face. "It is more than you think! Why, he is like a child at other times, never hiding the thoughts that move him; and now he cannot even speak to me or you!"

The pope endeavoured to comfort her, but it was ill trying when he was anxious enough himself. He left her presently to visit a sick parishioner who was waiting for him, returning in about an hour.

Anusia had not stirred from the little window. "He only moved once," she whispered, hoarsely, "and it was awful to behold. I watched him, hardly daring to breathe, and saw him rise slowly and lift the fingers of his right hand to heaven. His face was stony, never a muscle he moved, but his eyes could not hold back the tears, and they ran heavily down his death-like cheeks--ah, Father Leo, it must have been an awful oath he swore to himself--and now he sits rigid as before, staring hopelessly."

"That won't do," murmured the pope, opening the door rather noisily and entering. He was resolved not to leave the room again, even if Taras should dismiss him peremptorily. But there was no fear of that.

The judge rose, and met him quietly, almost serenely. "You are right, Father Leo," he said, "it is no use to keep on troubling! I have well-nigh worn out my brains, and am not a bit further than before!... There is just one thing though I want to know: you told me the lawyer had written that all the legal means were now exhausted--are you sure? are these his very words?"

"Yes; it is quite plain."

"But I am not certain. For I remember that our own judge, at Ridowa, when I was a boy, had a protracted law-suit with a cousin of his about some will that was questioned. The district court decided in his favour; but the cousin appealed, and the court at Lemberg was on his side. The judge thereupon took the case to a supreme court at Vienna, and there he obtained his right. So you see there must be judges at Vienna, who are over the court at Lemberg."

"Taras," cried Anusia, "surely you are not thinking of going to law at Vienna? Whoever could pay the costs?"

"Wife," he said solemnly, "if you knew what is at stake, you would ask me on your knees to plead the cause at Vienna if we were beggars ever after. However, I must first find out about it. Not that I doubt Dr. Starkowski, for he is honest, and will have written nothing but the truth; but I must have it from his own lips."

He was not able to set out for Colomea on the spot, having to arrange with the mandatar first concerning the spring labour due by the peasantry. And matters were not so easily settled as in the autumn, for Mr. Hajek was relieved of his fears as to a possible re-examination of witnesses, and showed his true colours. He would no longer heed Father Leo's suggestions, but set him aside as a meddling priest who had better not poke into mundane concerns. It was, therefore, not without much yielding to unfair demands that Taras could come to an understanding with the rapacious steward, after which he was free to depart on his journey, carrying with him in a leather belt all the ready money in his possession--the silver thalers and golden ducats he had inherited of old Iwan, or gained by his own industry.

On his entering the lawyer's office, the enlightened Stupka no longer took alarm; but all the more frightened was the kind-hearted attorney himself.

"Why, man!" he cried, aghast, "you look ten years older than when last I saw you. Is it the lawsuit which so worries you? You must not give way like that. Remember that you have a wife and children, and not only a parish, to live for."

"It was an evil year," said Taras; "but I have not come to make complaints to you, sir, but only to settle two points. Firstly, what is it I owe you?"

The lawyer brought down his ledger and named the sum--close upon two hundred and fifty florins. "We have to bear the costs, you see," he said in excuse.

"Never mind," said Taras, undoing his belt and counting out the money. "Now for the second point. You have written to our Father Leo that nothing more can be done. But are there not higher judges at Vienna?"

"Not for this matter," returned Starkowski; "there certainly is a high court of justice at Vienna, but cases can only be taken thither when the district court and the provincial court of appeal have differed in their verdicts!"

"That is bad," said Taras. "But you spoke to me of another way last year--a prosecution for perjury."

"Yes, but I did not advise it, and would not advise it now," cried the lawyer, eagerly. "Can you not see that none of these witnesses will own to being perjured, and you will hardly succeed in bringing the crime home to them--for where is your evidence? And even if you had evidence, in the case of some who may have betrayed themselves by their own foolish talk, and could get them convicted, you will hardly escape going to prison with them. For those whom you failed to convict would be all the more spiteful, and would have you up for libel. And for what good in the end?--the field would remain Count Borecki's after all!"

"It is not that I am thinking of now," replied Taras. "I do not seek restitution, but simply the right." It was evident that he strove hard to speak calmly. But when he opened his mouth again the words fell stammeringly from his lips: "You tell me, then--there is--no help left--none?"

"None whatever," said the lawyer, "unless the Emperor----"

"The Emperor!" interrupted the peasant, almost with a shriek. And exultation broke from his eyes; he stood erect, transformed in every feature as by magic. So sudden was the change, from dire despair to uplifting hope, that he staggered and reeled as under a blow. "The Emperor!" he repeated, exultingly.

"Well, yes--but in fact--you see, the Emperor----" said the lawyer, taken aback.

But Taras paid no attention. "Oh, sir," he cried, and was not ashamed of the tears that flowed down his face, "what a fool I have been! People looking to me, and calling me their judge, and I never thinking of this! And how I racked my poor brain, and suffered, and strove with the awful future, and all for nothing! Why, of course, there is the Emperor; but I only thought of him while there was happiness; and when trouble came and the clouds hid the light of heaven, I forgot that the sun is behind them. I was even angry not to see it shining, and was wroth with the Emperor, because the men of the law, who are but his servants, could not help me! But I know better now. I know the Emperor will make it all right, let him but hear of it--why, it is his very duty, laid upon him by God himself! His servants may go wrong, but he will see the truth; they may judge ill, but he will be righteous, being above them all.... Ah, sir, forgive my being thus beside myself and weeping like a child! But if you knew what thoughts went through me but a moment ago, when you told me there was no farther help!... But, thank God, you have remembered the Emperor, while yet it was time--while yet it was time! For even a week hence, if I had gone away in my hopelessness, it might have been too late!"

"Too late!" repeated the lawyer, astonished. "What do you mean?"

"Ah! do not ask me, sir," cried Taras, brushing the tears from his face. "I would rather forget all about it; it was a nightmare, an evil dream. How foolish of me! The very darkest plans I could think of, but never of this simple help, as simple as prayer itself. For who are our helpers in this life but God and the Emperor? God paramount and hearing our cry, but not reaching down with His own arm from heaven in every instance, because He has appointed the crowned one in His stead, who is to judge men and rule them in His name. But the Emperor is not omniscient, like God. One must go to him and tell him one's trouble, which I shall do now. And for his understanding me the better, I will ask you, sir, to put it into writing, that he may have it all down on paper what I have to tell him."

Thus sobbed and talked the peasant, running on, positively beside himself, as though heaven had opened with a great vision of help; and, fall of gratitude, he seized the lawyer's hand, bowing low to kiss it. But Starkowski drew back hastily, stepping to the window. He was startled, and almost dismayed. His mentioning the Emperor had been rather accidental, and he could never have dreamt of thus rousing the man. He felt morally certain that it would be quite useless to petition the Emperor, not that he doubted that the peasants really had been wronged in the suit. But how was the Emperor to see this, in the face of two verdicts? Every groat the judge would spend on that errand, every effort and particle of time, would be just thrown away. "It must not be," he said to himself. "I must get him to see it." But then the thought would rise whether it were not a wicked thing to destroy the poor man's hope--his last hope, to which he clung so pitifully. He remembered the words Taras had spoken a year ago, and these were strange hints which had fallen from his lips just now. Yet the lawyer had not an idea what awful resolve had ripened in the despairing soul of this man; he only perceived that he would leave no means untried, no violence even, to get back the field the parish had been robbed of--and this was bad enough to be prevented, if possible.

He believed he saw a way out of the difficulty. "Well, then, Taras," he said, "we will try the Emperor. I will draw up a memorial for you, and we can send it to Vienna. You, meanwhile, go quietly back to your people. There is no need to leave your family and your farm and your public duties on that account. The Emperor will see what it is all about from the document; there is no need to plead in person." At any rate, we shall thus gain time, the good man was hoping; he will calm down meanwhile, and will be able to bear his disappointment when it does come, perhaps a year hence.

But in laying this pretty plan, he had not considered the man he had to do with.

"No," replied Taras, with his own inflexible firmness. "I will gladly take your advice, but not on this point. My whole future is at stake, and the welfare of my wife and children. How could I trust to a happy chance? I shall go to Vienna myself, to see the Emperor and present the petition."

"Do stop to consider!" urged the lawyer. "And what chance is it you are talking of? I shall forward the memorial by post safely, and shall get it presented by a trustworthy man--a friend of mine----"

"Why, this is a whole string of chances," interrupted Taras. "The letter may be lost, or tampered with--one has heard of postbags being robbed. And your friend may fall ill, or die, before he can do what you request. But even if he were able to do it, and had the best of intentions, how should he speak for me, as I would myself? He would say a pleasant word, perhaps, thinking of you, his friend, or because he is in the presence of the Emperor; but he cannot possibly be anxious about my case. I must speak for myself!"

"But how should the Emperor understand you, not knowing a word of the Ruthenese?" inquired the lawyer, a little exasperated.

"Now, that can never be true!" cried Taras. "That is, I beg your pardon, some one must have told you a tale. It stands to reason that the Emperor can speak our language. Is he not the father of all his subjects, and are not we of them? And you would have me believe a father will not understand his children? No, no; that can never be! It is settled, then, that I shall go to Vienna, and I beg you to write out the petition for me; I will call for it this day week. I shall hardly get away before that, for I must set things in order before I leave."

There was no dissuading him. He returned to Zulawce, and neither his wife's entreaties nor the pope's remonstrance made the slightest impression on him. They both felt grateful on perceiving that a change had taken place in him; but both were equally set against his intention, though for different reasons. Anusia, for her part, did not doubt the likelihood of the Emperor's effective interference; but a journey to the far-off capital appeared to her as dangerous and venturesome as an expedition to the moon.

"Who can tell what might not happen on the road?" she said to the popadja, into whose sympathetic ear she poured her fears. "He may fall among thieves; or he may starve in some wilderness; or sorcerers may catch him with their wicked spells, and I shall never see him again. And even if he were likely to get through all these dangers, how is a man to find his way on such a journey and not be lost?"

Father Leo's apprehensions were not quite so desperate, although even he considered the journey a venture; but his chief fear was this--that it would be useless.

"The Emperor cannot possibly come back with you in person," he argued with his friend; "and how is he to know, without personal inspection, where the black cross stood these years ago? He can only inquire of the local authorities, our friends at Colomea; and how should they tell him anything different from what they have already decided? They must stick to the verdict to escape censure, if for no other reason."

But Taras had an answer to every objection. To his wife he said, "It is not the sorcerers you fear, but the sorceresses." And to Father Leo he said, "You know most things better than we do, no doubt; but even you have had no experience with emperors." It was plain he was bent on going.

The following Sunday he called a meeting of the men. "My own farm," he said, "I have entrusted to the care of my friend Simeon. He has offered to act as my representative also in parish affairs. But I cannot accept that; the parish must not be without a judge for so many weeks, perhaps months. I therefore resign my office, but I advise you to choose him in my place."

His friends opposed him, none more eagerly than Simeon himself. But Taras was not to be moved, and since his enemies failed not to second him, the resolution was carried, Simeon being chosen by a majority of votes. He accepted the office, declaring that he would hold it until his friend returned.

A few days later Taras again stood in Starkowski's chambers. The lawyer gave him the memorial to the Emperor, and a private letter addressed to a friend of his. "Go by this man's advice in everything," he said; "he is a man of high standing at Vienna, and will counsel you well, being himself of this country."

"Very well," said Taras; "I will do as you wish me; otherwise I should have gone straight to the Emperor's. No doubt every child at Vienna could show me his house."

"But you don't expect the children at Vienna to understand your Ruthenese!" cried the lawyer; adding, with a sigh, "God knows what will become of you!"

"I have no fear," said Taras, solemnly. "How should a man fail to gain his end who tries to do what is right?"

CHAPTER VII.

[PUT NOT YOUR TRUST IN PRINCES.]

This had happened early in April. Taras had taken leave of his wife with the promise of letting her hear as often as possible, and he kept his word faithfully during the first stages of his absence. As early as the third week a letter arrived, dated from Lemberg, and written for Taras by a fellow-villager, a certain Constantino Turenko, who, as a soldier, had had the rare luck, in the estimation of the Zulawce folk, of rising to the dignity of a corporal. "Since my friend Taras is unable to send you a letter of his own contriving," this military genius wrote, "and since I am as clever at it as the colonel of the regiment himself, I send you word that he hopes you are well, as this leaves him at present. I have shown him all over the place; he never saw such a town in his life. You had better tell my people and Kasia, who used to be sweet on me, that they may expect me home in the summer on furlough. I shall bring my regimentals--won't they just be proud of me! Everybody says I am a fine soldier." Poor Anusia was thankful for even that much of news of her husband. In May another letter arrived from Cracow, indited by a musical hero of some church choir, also stating that Taras was well, but adding he was running short of money, and that he desired a remittance under his, the singer's, address. Father Leo, however, knew better than to carry out this injunction. It was the last news of the absent traveller which reached the village.

They waited, but the summer came and not a word of Taras. "It is a long day's journey to Vienna," the pope would say to Anusia, "and he might not easily come across a man there who understands the Ruthenese, and is not too grand to write a letter for him, so we must not be anxious."

But when even the harvest was over without bringing a sign of life, Father Leo himself grew uneasy, and was less confident in calming Anusia. And the poor thing, besides her waking fears, was harassed by nightly dreams of the most vivid apprehension, the least appalling of her visions being those in which she beheld her Taras captivated by some pretty Hungarian, but alive at least; but more often she would see him dragging along the weary roads utterly starving, and sometimes her dreams showed him dead in a ditch. With these tales of woe she came to the manse almost daily, and Father Leo did his best to console her. The pretty Hungarian he found it easiest to dispose of, assuring the distracted wife that Taras's way did not lead him through Hungary at all; and, as for the starving, he believed it unlikely, considering the two hundred florins the traveller had taken with him, but death certainly was a contingency against which no hapless mortal was proof. And when this latter vision mournfully overbore the previous ones, the poor woman lost all her youthful energy, fading away with her grief, and Father Leo, for very pity of her, wrote to Dr. Starkowski, imploring him to procure some news. The good-natured man readily promised to make inquiries at Vienna, but week after week passed and nothing was heard, nor did the lost one himself return.

It was autumn, the first frost was felt, and it was Saint Simon and Saint Jude's. Everywhere within sight of the stern mountains the people look upon this day as the herald of winter; the women see to their larders, and the men assemble to fix each household's share of firewood from the common forest. This being done, Simeon, the new judge, had gone to the manse to arrange with Father Leo concerning the pope's due. That was soon settled, but the two men continued in mournful conversation, and Father Leo scarcely had the heart to dissent from the judge's doleful remark that the miserable field had cost the village not only one of its stalwart youths, but another and more precious life as well, inasmuch as it seemed beyond a doubt that poor Taras had perished. Sympathy with his fate thus kept them talking, the dusk of evening descending with its own stillness, broken at times by the wailings of Anusia, who once again had come with her troubles to the kind-hearted popadja.

There was a knock at the outer door, and almost simultaneously they heard the poor wife's shriek--: "Taras!" They flew from the room.

It was a mystery how Anusia had recognised her husband without seeing him or hearing his voice, or even his footfall; but it was himself. "Are you quite well?" he cried, as he caught her to his heart. "I have seen the children already!"

The friends fell back reverently to leave the husband and wife to each other; but then they also pressed round him to shake hands joyfully, and the popadja hastened to light her lamp. But when Taras entered the lighted apartment a heartrending shriek broke from Anusia, and the friends also stood horrified. Poor Taras looked sadly worn--old and grey, and life's hope, as it were, crashed out of him. His powerful frame was emaciated; the sunny hair showed colourless streaks; the furrow between the brows had grown deeper still, and the eyes looked hollow in the haggard face.

"You bring ill news, brother!" cried Simeon, aghast.

"Ill news!" repeated Taras. He endeavoured to smile, but failed sadly; and when the tears sprang to every eye about him, he, too, sat down and let his own trouble flow unhindered.

"My poor, dear darling!" sobbed Anusia, covering his head with her kisses and her tears--"come back to us a grey-haired man!"

But her grief helped Taras to recover himself, and now he did smile. He drew down his wife beside him, stroking her own brown hair gently. "Is not that like a woman," he said, striving to appear light-hearted, "to make a fuss because the man she wedded must turn grey in his time! The glory of youth is treacherous, my dear!... But tell me about yourselves now, and about the village."

"Tell us about yourself," they cried. "We have died with anxiety these months past. Where have you been all this time?"

"It was not possible to come back sooner," said he. "It is a long journey to Vienna, and I had to wait many a day before I could see him----"

"The Emperor! Did you actually speak to him?"

"Well--yes--after a fashion! They call it having an audience," said he, with a strangely gloomy smile. "And I would not come away without an answer...."

"Have you got it then? The Emperor's own answer?"

"No; but I know what it is going to be.... However, let us wait and see. I want to know how you have been getting on--and what about friend Hajek?"

"He is not over-anxious to show himself," said Simeon, making haste to add: "I am sure you will see that your farm meanwhile has done well. Your live stock is in the best condition, and the harvest was most plentiful. Your granaries are well filled, and I have eighty florins to give you for corn sold, and thirty for oats. But do tell us; did not the Emperor promise to see to the matter?"

"Promise!" said Taras bitterly, "to be sure he did!... But excuse me," he added, turning to the popadja, "I am quite faint with hunger. I was so anxious to reach home, that I put up nowhere today."

The little woman blushed, and ran to produce an enormous ham, with no end of excuses for her negligence; and, trotting to and fro, she set on the table whatever of hidden treasures her larder contained. But her hospitable intent was ill-requited; Taras swallowed a few mouthfuls, drank a glass of the pope's Moldavian, and then pushed from him the plate which the kind hostess had filled for him in her zeal.

"Why, you have not eaten enough for a sparrow," expostulated the popadja. "Do eat, judge--" correcting herself--"Taras!" But, again blushing, she added: "Why should I not call you 'judge,' for I daresay you will resume office pretty soon."

"No!" he said sharply. "I shall not, and never will"

"Of course you will," interrupted Simeon, eagerly. "You know I only accepted during your absence. I could never be to the village what you have been, and no one else could!"

"I shall not!" repeated Taras solemnly, lifting his right hand; "God knows I cannot!"

They looked at him surprised; there was something in his tone which startled his friends. But Anusia cried joyfully: "I am glad of it, husband. We will live for ourselves now, and be happy again. You must make haste to get back your own bright looks. You shall go hunting this winter as often as you like, it will do you good!"

"Yes," he said; "it will be well," adding, after a while, "and most necessary--most necessary!"

"How so?" inquired the pope; "there cannot be many bears this winter, considering how you hunted them down last season."

Taras had opened his lips, but closed them again sharply, as though he must keep in the word that might have escaped him. And there was one of those sudden pauses of silence, burdened with unspoken thought.

The popadja broke it. "Now tell us all about the journey," she said. "I am sure we are all curious as to your adventures. Tell us about the Emperor--does he really live in a house made of gold?"

"I am afraid I shall have to disappoint you," replied Taras, with a smile. "His house is of brick and stone, and he himself a poor, sickly creature. And, indeed, I had no very wonderful adventures--I did not even fall in with a single sorceress, Anusia, but that may have been because I did not look for any, having eyes and ears for nothing beyond the one aim of my journey. I had no peace or rest anywhere, and would have liked to take post-horses, but could not afford it. So I looked out for coaches and waggons going that way, and took to my own feet when opportunity was wanting. It is slow travelling, either way, but I fell in with other travellers, who told me their troubles, as I told them mine. It is passing strange: the earth seems fair enough, but I have not met a single being who told me he was happy. Men seem to carry their burden everywhere, some more of it, some less, but there is none without sorrow; one finds that out if one goes a-travelling, folks talking to you as to a brother. And I must say, most of those I fell in with approved of my journey, one man only endeavouring to dissuade me. I had better go home again, he said. He was a Jewish wine trader from Czernowitz, who gave me a lift as far as Lemberg. He was most friendly, and would not hear of my paying him; he listened to my story, full of sympathy, but he thought going to Vienna was quite useless. 'There might be some hope,' he said, 'if these were the days of the good Emperor Joseph.' I, however, was not to be frightened from my purpose. 'It is not as though I wanted to petition for a favour,' I said; 'if I did I could understand that much depended on the kind of emperor we have. But I am not going to plead for anything save our right, and that he surely will grant, because it is his duty. A man must see his own duty, be he emperor or peasant.' He was silent after that, and we reached Lemberg."

"There, anyhow, you fell in with a happy individual," said the pope, interrupting him. "You met Constantino Turenko! I, at least, never knew a man to equal him in self-satisfaction."

Taras could not help laughing. "And yet he was not quite happy," he said, "since I found him sorely distressed for money. I had to lend him a florin. Is he here?"

"To be sure!" cried Anusia; "what a braggart he is! Why, he assured me how handsomely he stood treat for you at all the best inns of Lemberg. Of course I did not believe him, but the villagers somehow take his every word for gospel truth. He is quite a hero here, basking in his own glory. You should hear him--'I, a corporal of the Imperial army! Bassama!'"--she endeavoured to imitate the man. "He is a braggart!"

"Yes, his tongue wagged plentifully in my hearing also," said Taras, "especially after he had borrowed my florin! But I was glad, nevertheless, to come across him. It was the first large town I had seen, and I felt lost. You have no idea of such a town, and yet Lemberg is nothing compared to Vienna! He would have liked to detain me; but having rested a day, I proceeded towards Cracow. It was cheerless travelling now, for I could not understand the people any longer--at least not freely; the folk there have a queer way of talking, a kind of lisping it seemed to me, which does not come from the heart at all. I was silent and grew sad, feeling doubly pleased, therefore, in coming across a fellow-countryman, a 'diak'[^[3]] from somewhere near Czortkow, who had run away from his wife because she boxed his ears rather too freely. That is what he told me. He was a mite of a fellow, and informed me he would like to seek his fortune in Russia, if only he could get a little money; but I found presently he was telling me stories, and would do no more than frank him as far as Cracow. That city is not Austrian at all, the Poles there having a little free state of their own. It was a marvel to me how a number of men could live together owning no emperor as the head of all justice; but I have come to see now----" He interrupted himself, again pressing together his lips to keep in the word he would have spoken, and continuing after a pause:--"I was going to say, it is sad to be in a strange country; and hungering for a companion I could understand, I took the little story-teller with me as far as Cracow where I dismissed him."

"How clever of you to see through him," cried Anusia, proud of her husband's penetration. And she told him of the man's letter.

"The little rascal!" said Taras. "But, indeed, my two hundred florins were not such a fortune as you would have believed. Things grew enormously expensive, and there was other trouble besides. I was thankful at seeing again the black and yellow posts by the road--the Austrian colours. It was a poor enough country, on the Polish frontier; but if the people there were to work their hands as they work their talkative jaws, I have no doubt it might be better. I got to richer districts presently; but matters did not therefore improve. I was among the Moravians now, and to hear them speak sounded like a continuous quarrelling, till I perceived that their language still had some words like our own, especially such as bread, meat, and wine, things referring to eating, and the figures also--which was well. It was when I came among the Germans that my heart failed me. A fine people, no doubt, with villages more flourishing than our towns, and fields and farms to rejoice a man's soul; but what a language! Understanding was hopeless. I was driven to signs, moving my jaws when I was hungry and lapping with my tongue when I wanted to drink. But when I would have liked bread they brought me salad, and when I longed for a glass of water they offered me wine. However, I bore it all, anxious only to get along. Towards the end of my journey I fell in with a good-natured waggoner, who was carrying woollen cloths to Vienna, and he gave me a seat. He was a most kindly old man, to judge from his pleasant face; and I think he took a fancy to me, for he kept smiling and nodding as he walked by the side of his horses, I nodding back to him from my seat between the bales. By and by he climbed up beside me; but then we thought it a poor business to be nodding only, and began to talk, he in his language and I in mine, exchanging some of our tobacco between whiles in token of mutual regard. I wished sorely I could understand what he was saying. It seems hard that God should have made men with different tongues, to add to their troubles, when their life on earth is sad enough without it!"

"Why, it is the Tower of Babel which brought it on, don't you know?" broke in the popadja, blushing violently at her presumption.

Taras continued: "I was taken along by this good man for two days--slow travelling, for the waggon was heavily loaded. On the third morning he resumed his smiling and nodding more vigorously than ever, pointing with his whip in front of him, and saying, 'Vienna, Vienna!' I understood, of course, and my heart leapt within me! but I could see nothing as yet except a thick grey haze in the distance, and behind it a ridge of clouds, with domes and peaks sharply defined. I thought it strange, for the air was clear and cool, there having been a thunder-storm in the night. But as we went on, hour after hour, and the cloudy picture continued unaltered, I perceived my error. It was not clouds, but a range of mountains on the horizon. And that haze, as I discovered by and by, was nothing but the dust and vapour for ever rising heavenward from a gigantic city, like the hot breath of a monstrous dragon."

The women gasped and crossed themselves.

"The waggoner hurried on his horses a bit, and kept repeating 'Vienna! Vienna!' getting me to understand by all sorts of dumb show that he had his wife and children there--happy man! I thought of you all, and my heart sank within me at the sight of the great city where no one would understand me. But I repressed these feelings and began to look about. We were crossing a splendid stone bridge, long and wide, beneath which the river was rolling its yellow waves--that was the Danube. Beyond the bridge rose the first houses. They were cheerful to look at, not larger than what we can see at Colomea, with pleasant gardens round about; but I knew we were in the suburbs only. 'I shall soon see the real town,' I thought, 'with the market place: and on it, I daresay, the Emperor's house.' But minutes passed, and an hour had gone, and we were still driving along an interminable street with little gardens on either side, one like the other, though getting fewer, I observed, as we proceeded, while the number of human beings and of vehicles increased steadily. It was a crowd as at Lemberg on market days, and there was a roar in the distance which rather puzzled me, growing louder and louder as we advanced. There were no more gardens now, and the houses were larger, some towering three, even four storeys high, with windows innumerable. I was utterly bewildered to think of all the human beings that must dwell there; and the street appeared endless, men and women jostling each other between the vehicles. And I saw that other streets opened out of this main thoroughfare, with horses and men and conveyances past counting. I clutched the bales between which I was sitting, utterly overpowered with the sight...."

"Ah," said Anusia, sympathetically.

"That street must be miles long; but we were through it at last, and there the city seemed at an end, and, not a little surprised, I saw large tracts of grass all around. At some distance I beheld a rampart, and behind it another city of houses, shining steeples, and a gigantic cupola. The crowd about us increased astonishingly, heaving in and out of the gates. It was a riddle to me, for had we not been driving through the city all along? I looked at my companion and he pointed ahead, saying 'Vienna!' 'Dear me,' I thought, 'then I have only come through a suburb as yet; what, then, will the town be like?' By that rampart they levy custom, and even victuals are taxed! I could not think what those green-coats were after in diving into my wallet, but they found only a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, which they put back, laughing.

"I felt more and more bewildered, and do not know how to describe to you my sensation on entering that city; it was like venturing into a bee-hive. Yet this will scarcely give you an idea. Imagine how it would be if all the needles in the fir-wood up yonder were suddenly changed into human beings, whirling about madly like flakes in a snowstorm! Fancy if all the trees and shrubs were towering houses, closely packed, so that a ray of sunlight could scarcely get through! or how it would be if a thunder-storm were fixed for ever in the heavens above us, the booming commotion never ceasing, day and night!... But I am a fool for trying to show you by word of mouth what Vienna is like; how should you conceive it who have never been there! And I cannot tell you how utterly forlorn I felt. It must have been written on my face, for the honest waggoner took hold of my hand, asking me a question. From his kindly look I seemed to understand that he inquired whether I felt ill, so I shook my head and smiled. But evidently this was not the answer he wanted; he kept repeating his question, and pointed to the houses, and at last he rested his head on my shoulder, closing his eyes and drawing his breath slowly. Then I perceived that he wanted to find out where I intended to put up for the night. The thought had actually escaped me in my great bewilderment. Before I knew what Vienna was, I had believed the matter to be quite simple, intending to look for that Mr. Broza, Dr. Starkowski's friend, to whom I had an introduction, and no doubt he would take charge of me. But somehow I understood now that I could not well be carried all over the city in a great waggon full of bales; and as for setting out to seek the gentleman on foot by myself, I did not think that I should ever have the courage. So I shrugged my shoulders, making eyes of entreaty at my companion. He appeared to understand that I was friendless, and, having recourse to a dumb show of working his jaws, he brought home the question to me whether I desired to be taken to an eating-house. I assented, and, turning from the main thoroughfare, he drove up some quieter streets, stopping at last before an unpretentious building, which had a signboard, and on it a tree with bright green leaves. He cracked his whip, and a man appeared--a servant by the look of him, to whom my good friend explained my need. The man grinned, and, turning to me, inquired in Polish whether I wished for a room. Now, as for the Poles, no one could love them or their language either, but I could have cried for joy on hearing the man, although he spoke but brokenly. He had been to Galicia as a soldier, being himself a Czech."

"A fellow-countryman of our respected mandatar!" cried Simeon.

"Yes; but with this difference, that Frantisek proved himself to be honest. And when I had explained to him who I was and why I had come to Vienna, he assisted me as much as he could, his first good office consisting in this, that he prevailed with his master to board and lodge me for a florin daily. Why, Anusia, there is no occasion to make such eyes, for it was cheap, considering I was in Vienna. And he offered to show me the way to Mr. Broza's the following morning. 'It is too late to-day,' he said, having looked at the letter, 'for the gentleman, I see, lives in the city, and that is a long way off.' 'In the city!' I cried, aghast; 'why, what is this?' 'This is Leopoldstadt, one of the suburbs,' he explained, calmly; and then I learned that the place with the interminable street we had passed before was Floridsdorf. Would you believe it, there are six such places forming the outer precincts of Vienna, and nine regular suburbs--that is fifteen cities enclosing a city! And their inhabitants are almost beyond counting--as many, they told me, as in all the Bukowina and Pokutia together."

"That, no doubt, was a story," interposed Simeon, who was not going to be taken in. But the pope confirmed the remarkable tale. "I have read it in books," he said.

"Well, I leave you to conjecture what the real town was like to which Frantisek took me the following morning. It is worse there at all times than on a market day at Colomea or the most crowded fair; and what seemed to me most horrible, men and beasts--I mean vehicles--go jostling one another in a gloomy twilight, for the streets are so narrow and the houses so high that you have need almost to lie flat on the ground, face upward, before you can see a bit of sky or the dear light of the sun; but no one could lie down, or stand still suddenly, without being run over. Even as it was, I was knocked hither and thither constantly, till Frantisek took me by the arm and helped me along as though I had been a child. Through numberless streets, and past St. Stephen's--a church about twenty times as large as our own--he brought me to a place called the Jew's Square; for what reason I could not make out, for not a single caftan or curl did I see. Mr. Victor Broza lived there in a stately house; but, dear me, the stairs I had to climb till I reached his flat! No beggar with us would thank you for rooms so toilsome of access! Mr. Broza's servant at first treated me superciliously; but when I had sent in my letter I was admitted at once. The man I had come to see was a fine-looking old gentleman, with silvery hair, and wearing gold spectacles. Very noble he looked, but he was not at all proud. And what a comfort to me to speak in my own tongue again without being stared at as a curiosity! But when he began, though all he said was kind and reasonable and well-meaning, my joy was gone. He warned me not to rest too great hopes on the Emperor. 'He is a good man, to be sure,' he said, 'and if your object were to obtain some money-help for your parish, either to build you a church or to alleviate some special distress, he no doubt would listen to you graciously. But he cannot enter into legal questions with his infirmity, poor man. His crown is a heavy burden to him as it is!' 'I do not understand that,' said I; 'if he can be gracious, how should he refuse to be just?' 'Well,' said Mr. Broza, 'matters of law are seen to by his lawyers. That is what they are for.' 'But if they pervert the right?' 'Then it is not his fault.' 'But, surely he will interfere!' 'The Emperor?' 'Yes; who else?' 'Indeed, who else? you may well ask!' he said. 'Your tale is a sad one, I grant, and if ever a case should be looked into I should say it is yours! Ah, if his uncle Joseph were reigning still, or even his father Francis ... the more you tell me, the more I fancy yours is a case for imperial interference; but----' He stopped embarrassed. 'Tell me,' I said; 'is he not able to do it?' I could hardly frame the words, and the blood ran cold at my heart. But Mr. Broza appeared to consider his answer, looking from the window, and saying presently: 'He is troubled with headaches; he is fond of working at his lathe, and he makes little boxes of cardboard.' I stared, open-mouthed, Mr. Broza adding: 'Why should he not, poor man; it is an innocent pastime, and helps him to get through his days....' After that I could not well disbelieve it."

"But he is the Emperor! how is it possible?" cried Simeon and the women.

Taras smiled bitterly. "How is it possible?" he repeated. "I also asked this question, and many another besides, till good Mr. Broza looked aghast at me, and spoke soothingly. 'I understand your feelings,' he said, passing his hand over my hair as though he were trying to calm an excited child. 'You are a fine fellow, Taras, but I daresay the world looks different to you at Zulawce from what it really is.' 'May be, much honoured sir,' I said; 'but I am sure of this, that human beings should act differently to one another than the wild beasts of the Welyki Lys, of which the stronger will always devour the weaker. Every man must see this, be he a poor peasant of Zulawce only, or the Emperor at Vienna.' 'He does see it, no doubt,' cried Mr. Broza, 'and he is always kind. But he can hardly know about every case of individual trouble, can he?' 'No, but that is the very reason why I want to tell him my own sorrow myself.' 'But he would not understand you, you only speak the Ruthenese!' That was a blow! I had refused to believe Dr. Starkowski, and here was Mr. Broza telling me the same thing! 'A father unable to understand his children,' I said; 'it does seem strange; but I daresay he knows Polish?' 'I am sorry to say he does not; he was weakly from a child, and his studies had to be curtailed.' 'Then, does he understand Czechish?' 'Yes, that he knows.' 'That will do, then,' I said joyfully, 'I managed to get along with Frantisek, so I daresay I shall with the Emperor.' But that was not by any means the end of difficulties. 'I must warn you,' said Mr. Broza, 'he gives audience but rarely, the petitions mostly are received by one of his cousins or generals.' That was another blow, but I recovered it quickly, saying: 'Well, then, I shall just keep calling at his house till I can see him.' Mr. Broza at this broke into a smile. 'Do you think you can go to the Castle as you would to the house of your parish priest? There is a time set apart for audience once a week, though they are not very regular about it, and in order to be received at all you must first apply for admission in writing!' 'And I could come every week then, till I saw the Emperor in person?' 'Dear me, what obstinacy! What is the use of your spending your time and money here on such a chance? Give me your memorial, and I will take care to have it presented.' 'Sir,' I cried, 'I thank you; I see you mean well by me, but you cannot possibly know how much there is at stake. I must see the Emperor myself.' And this I maintained in spite of all his reasoning. But he, good man, took no offence; on the contrary, he promised to obtain admission for me at the very next audience. He wanted to know my address, but I did not even know it myself, so Frantisek had to be called to give the name of the inn. Mr. Broza wrote it in a little book, promising I should hear. But I wanted to have some idea how soon I might hope to see the Emperor. 'I cannot tell,' he said; 'it may be some days, it may be weeks hence.' I left him sadly...."

"Well, I should not have waited like that," cried Anusia, hotly; "surely the Emperor goes for an airing once a day like any other Christian! I should have waited outside his house till I caught sight of him, and, going up to him, I should have asked his leave politely to walk beside him a bit, and then I would have told him the whole story. That would have been my plan!"

"And a very stupid one," said Taras, smiling grimly, "though you are my wife. Nor should I blame you, since that same stupidity was mine till I knew better. My heart quaked at the long prospect of waiting, and I knew from sad experience that it was no use to look for much in answer to writing. I said to Frantisek, therefore, 'Do show me the house of the Emperor,' and he went out with me the following afternoon. Once more we went far into the town, past the great church, and through endless noisy streets, till at last we stood before a large building. 'This is it,' he said. 'Nonsense!' I cried; 'why there is not a bit of gold about it anywhere that I can see!' He, however, insisted it was the Emperor's house. When I saw he was in earnest, I looked at the place closely; it was large, but not otherwise imposing, and quite blackened with smoke. 'I'd go in for some house-painting, at any rate, if I were the Emperor; surely he can afford it,' I said to myself, adding aloud to Frantisek, 'Well, then, show me where the Emperor lives!' Whereupon he took me round a square surrounded with tall buildings, and through a gateway into another square, also overlooked by high houses, with sentries on duty at every corner. 'All this is the Emperor's,' he said; 'here he lives with his relations and a great many attendants.' Imagine my surprise. But then I said, 'I cannot but think that he sleeps in one room and feeds in another--so please point out to me where he lives.' Frantisek now appeared to understand, and took me to an open place, in the centre of which rose an equestrian statue in cast-iron; and he showed me a row of windows. 'Very well,' I said; 'now let us take our stand by that entrance door.' 'What for?' said he. 'To watch for the Emperor when he goes abroad.' 'You innocent!' he cried, laughing; 'don't you know that the Emperor never walks out? You may see his carriage, if you are lucky, bursting from the inner court, and dashing through the town as far as a copse on the banks of the river, returning thence at the same quick pace.' He had hardly done speaking when there was a deafening roar, quite startling me. It was the sentry calling out the guard frantically. 'Look! look!' cried Frantisek, 'they are presenting--it's the Emperor returning from his drive!' And while he yet spoke a closed carriage with six horses swept past us and disappeared in the inner court. But for all their fast driving I could see who sat inside--two officers, the elder of them in a plain grey coat, and the younger wearing a whole array of stars and ribands on his breast. 'That will be him!' I thought, but I heard Frantisek say: 'Poor Emperor, to think of his wrapping up in his cloak at this season like an old man in the depth of winter--they say he is always shivering with cold!'"

"I could not doubt that he knew, having lived at Vienna these five years, and I went home sadder still; for he who was wrapt in his cloak looked weary and worn."

"And was that really the Emperor?" inquired the popadja.

"It was; but it was long before I could see him close. For a whole week I waited for a message from Mr. Broza, but nothing reached me. Ah, friends, those were grievous days! I sat for hours in the dull little damp room they had assigned to me, staring at the wall. I had composed such a beautiful speech on my journey, and had learnt it by heart, to address the Emperor, but all that was useless now since he knew not the Ruthenese; so I put together a few words which might serve my purpose. But perhaps he could not even understand that much, and all would be useless and things must go as they would!... Frantisek, I saw, pitied me, for he would give me every spare moment of his time, hoping to cheer me; but how should he have succeeded? although he did his best, taking me all about the great city to divert my thoughts. It was but little pleasure to me, for the noise and bustle was dreadful, and the people stared because of my dress; there was quite a crowd sometimes following me, full of laughter and ill-disguised wonder, as though I were some monstrosity of a bullock. I soon grew tired of sight-seeing, and preferred my own little room, where at least I was unmolested."

"Did Mr. Broza forget his promise?" cried Simeon.

"By no means; he was doing his very best. He told me so when, at the end of a week, I ventured to call again, and I am sure he spoke the truth. 'Your name is down,' he said, 'you will be admitted to the next audience, but the day is not yet fixed. Next week, let us hope!' I continued waiting, growing more heavy-hearted day after day. And then I had even money cares to face! A hundred florins I had spent on my journey, and there was a florin a day of present expenses; how, then, should I return home if I must use up my little hoard waiting and waiting? I began to blame myself for not having followed your advice, and Dr. Starkowski's; and yet, God knows, I had not come to Vienna to please myself. I could not have acted differently. Was it not for the sake of all that is most sacred--my honour, and the good of my soul? Was it not----"

He stopped short, having caught a look from the pope's eye, searching his face intently.

"Well then," he continued, "I went on waiting ten weary days, when at last Mr. Broza sent his servant, announcing that the next audience stood fixed for the following Tuesday week; that was yet twelve days, but I breathed more freely, knowing the day now when the uncertainty must end. Thus humble a man becomes who is being taught by disappointment. I counted the days and hours, and on the Sunday previous to the longed-for audience I went to Mr. Broza, begging him to tell me how I was to behave. 'You mean in the Emperor's presence?' said he. 'Why, yes,' said I. 'But did I not tell you that although there be an audience you must not count on seeing the Emperor himself? The petitions, most likely, will be received in his name by one of the princes.' I had to sit down, for the room went round with me, and it was some time before I could answer. 'You did tell me, sir,' I said, when I was able to speak; 'but I fully trusted the Emperor would be receiving in person this once at any rate; why but for this should I have been kept waiting so long?' But Mr. Broza shrugged his shoulders. 'Let us hope so,' he said; 'but if you do not see him, be sure and hand your petition to the Archduke--he probably will hold the audience. Your conscience may be at ease, for you have done your duty to the utmost--better, I daresay, than any other village judge in Austria.' 'Thank you,' I said; 'but I can do no such thing. I shall give my petition into no hand but the Emperor's own. And if he does not appear this Tuesday, I must wait for another audience, and another, till I see him.' 'But, man, will you not listen to reason? Who is to procure you a standing admission? Such a thing was never heard of!' 'If it is really impossible,' I replied--'and of course I believe you, for you have acted honestly by me--if it is impossible, I shall know what to do.' 'And what may that be?' 'I shall throw myself into the way of his carriage when he drives out. If his coachman is able to pull up in time, I shall then present my petition; if the horses go over me, then it will have been my fate.' He looked at me aghast. 'And you would do that?' 'Certainly.' 'Well,' he said, 'there is no saying what one of you peasants is capable of in fighting for his right.' Presently he added, 'I shall have you conveyed to the Castle on Tuesday, and fetched away again. You must come to me directly after the audience, directly--do you hear?' I promised; but my mind was made up."

"Taras," cried Anusia, "how could you have such thoughts!"

His eyes burned darkly, and he shook the grief-streaked hair from off his forehead. "I may have had worse thoughts," he murmured; but the others hardly understood him. He paused, and went on quietly: "Well, then, the audience. I dressed for it quite early, as a bridegroom on his wedding day, putting on my top boots, and the long brown tunic with the leather belt, and over it my best sheepskin--all white, the one with the broidered facings, you know, Anusia. It was rather hot for fur, suggested Frantisek, who had made my boots shine like a mirror, anxious to do his part; but I knew what was due to the Emperor, and took my fur cap of lambskin as well. The people stared worse than ever when, thus arrayed, I walked from the house to the open carriage kind Mr. Broza had sent for me, and as I drove along folk everywhere stood open-mouthed. I did not much care, for I knew by this time that the Viennese, whatever they may be besides, are the most curious people under the sun. We reached the Castle, and stopped by the entrance opposite the iron statue. A lackey helped me to dismount, bowing to the ground. I knew that the rascal meant it for mockery, and took no notice. At the top of the stair two red-coated halberdiers pretended to start at the sight of me; but I showed my order for admittance, whereupon they directed me to a door opposite. I opened it, and came upon some more lackeys, who affected the same amazement. One of them tried to take from me my stick of carved oak; but I did not part with it. They laughed and pointed me to another door.

"I had reached the audience chamber at last: a long, spacious hall, all white and gold, and full of looking-glasses as tall as a man. I should never have believed such splendour possible--it was dazzling. Some fifty petitioners were assembled there already--old and young, men and women, soldiers and civilians, priests and laymen--some looking anxious and some hopeful. One thing we had in common--we all carried memorials in our hands; but for the rest of it every age was represented, every station of life, and, perhaps, every people of this great Austria. There was a poor tattered gipsy, and beside him a comfortable-looking lady in a silk dress; an old gentleman in threadbare garments, and a young handsome officer wearing the Emperor's uniform; a Jew in his black caftan, a sleek Catholic priest, and many others. They moved about whispering, and behind them stood motionless some of the red-coated halberdiers. I could not but groan at the sight of so many seeking redress. 'Alas!' I sighed, 'it would take the Emperor half-a-day to listen to them all; and of course he cannot do that, weak and sickly as he is,' Yet there was some comfort, too, in there being so many. Some of these people, no doubt, had come a long way, as I had, spending their money for the hope that brought them; and surely, I thought, they would not do it if the Emperor were not known to help readily. And it comforted my weary heart that rich and poor stood there side by side, all waiting for redress. 'We are all alike in the sight of God,' I thought, 'and so we are in the Emperor's, who is His viceroy upon earth--how, then, should he not uphold the right?' This cheered me; I looked up boldly, gazing at the people as they gazed at me.

"We were directed to stand in a half-circle, a man in a green dress-coat assigning to each his place; and I perceived that there were degrees of dignity. I stood at the lower end, furthest from the entrance we were facing, together with two other peasants, by the look of them, also wearing their national costume. The one was rather stout, his dress consisting of light blue breeches, a tight-fitting jerkin, and a cloth cap with a plume; the other, tall and gaunt, wore baggy red trousers, and a long yellowish jacket, holding in his hands a felt hat with a high pointed crown. We had to wait a long time, and I did as the others did, endeavouring to draw my neighbours into conversation. They answered civilly, each in his own tongue, neither of us understanding the other. That was disappointing; but I thought I would at least find out their nationality, and that by the only means I could think of. You know that our soldiers, if they bring home nothing else, return to us with a sad habit of swearing, picking up the country's oaths wherever they go. 'Psie sobaczy!' I said; but there was no response. So my friends could not be of the Slavonic race. 'Kreuzelement Donnerwetter!' they never moved; so they were not German. 'Bassama teremtete!' upon this my stout neighbour in the tight breeches gave a jump, jabbering away at me delightedly; that settled it, he was a Hungarian! But now for the other one in the yellow jacket. 'Merge le Dracul!' no response; he could not be a Roumanian then. I was nearly exhausted, but luckily remembered one more chance. 'Corpo di bacco!' I cried, at which he also flew at me, embracing me wildly--an Italian! But I wished I had been less curious; for they went on talking at me eagerly, to the great amusement of all the company, and I could only nod my head, keeping on with 'Corpo di bacco!' and 'Bassama teremtete!' But why tell you all this nonsense?--There was a hush of silence suddenly, for the great entrance door had opened."

Taras paused, evidently not in order to impress his hearers, but because he was himself overcome with the recollection of that moment.

"The Emperor!" cried Anusia, with a gasp.

He shook his head. "There appeared in the doorway," he continued quietly, but with a tremor in his voice, "a man in the uniform of a general, rather short and white-haired, and some officers of different regiments behind him. My heart all but stood still and sight failed me--I think I should have fallen but for the steadying arm of the Hungarian. It was not the Emperor; for although I had had but a passing glimpse of him, I knew his features from a portrait of his at the inn where I was lodging. That little white-haired general with the pouting under-lip--though he looked right pleasant otherwise--was a relation of his no doubt, being like him in feature; but it was not the Emperor! Ah, beloved! I cannot tell you what disappointment surged up within me, I could not put it in words if I tried for ever! I looked on, half stunned, watching him as he received the memorials. With most of the petitioners he could speak in their own tongue, and if there was one he was unable to understand, one or other of the officers acted as interpreter; but with no individual case was he occupied longer than about a minute, passing on with a gracious word. Some looked relieved, some rather woebegone, as they made their exit, a lackey directing them to a side door. I watched it all through a haze as it were, and perceived that at that rate my turn would be in about an hour's time, counting from his beginning at the other end of the half-circle. I tried to collect my thoughts, but think as I would nothing could alter the resolution with which I had come--to plead with the Emperor and not with his representative. And with a beating heart, but firm of purpose, I watched the prince's approach."

"Ye saints!" gasped the popadja, and Anusia crossed herself.

"At last he stood before me! I bowed low, he nodded and put out his hand for my petition. But I bowed lower still, saying: 'All powerful and gracious Mr. Prince! I know who you are, and that you are here for the Emperor; but to him only can I make my request.' He looked at me surprised, and turned for an interpreter. One of the officers, a captain, with ash-coloured facings, being of the Duke of Parma's regiment, which I knew was drawn from Podolia, stepped up, translating what I said. 'Peasant,' added the officer thereupon, turning to me with a kindly face, 'the Emperor is not to be seen, but it will be all right if you hand your petition to this gentleman, who is the Emperor's uncle, His Most Serene Highness the Archduke Ludwig.' Again I bowed, saying, 'Have the goodness to translate this to the prince. He who stands before you is Taras Barabola, peasant and landowner, lately judge of Zulawce, sometime a happy man, but now despairing. He may be nobody in the eyes of the great ones, but he is a human being in the sight of God, and therefore of His viceroy, the Emperor. He is here praying for his right, thirsting for it as the hart panteth after the waterbrooks. You, sir, are a fellow-countryman of ours, have pity on me and tell him this, word for word.' And the officer turned to the prince, interpreting my speech; whereupon the latter looked at me searchingly, putting a question. 'What is your trouble?' translated the officer. 'Robbery of the parish field,' I replied, adding, 'Tell him it is not merely a question of earthly justice, but that the future welfare of a soul is at stake. He is an old man I see, and will soon himself stand at the judgment bar of God; beg him, as he would desire the Almighty to be merciful to him, to obtain for me an audience with the Emperor.' 'My good man,' replied the captain, 'I am a Podolian myself and have grown up among peasants, being the son of a village priest, so you may believe that I wish you well; but I am not going to translate this speech of yours literally, or this is not the way to address a prince!' 'But you must!' I urged. 'It were taking an awful responsibility on your soul if you refused me; and see, the prince appears to expect it!' So he had to translate it, and never a feature changed in the Archduke's face, but his eyes were fixed on me piercingly. I did not quake--why should I?--but gazed at him fearlessly, my conscience not reproaching me any way. Turning to the captain presently, he spoke a single word. 'Wait!' translated the officer. And the Archduke went on, taking the rest of the petitions and passing from the hall; whereupon the captain came up to me, saying, 'Follow me; the Archduke wishes to hear your story.'"

"What rare good fortune!" cried Father Leo.

"Yes; I suppose so," assented Taras. "We went along a corridor, and up and down some stairs, till we reached the Archduke's room. It was a simple apartment, full of books, and not in any way more princely than Mr. Broza's. He was sitting at a table covered with papers. We were ushered into his presence, I telling my tale and the captain translating. The Archduke's countenance remained as immovable as before; no matter what I was saying his eyes only showed his interest. He put a question or two: how we lived in the village, whether we reared cattle and such like. By and by he addressed a few words to the officer, who then led me away. 'Well?' I said, trembling with hope and fear, when the door had closed behind us. 'Your wish is granted,' replied he. 'Be by the iron statue yonder at four to-morrow afternoon, where I shall join you to act as your interpreter with the Emperor. "Why the man is of another planet," the Archduke said to me, "his confidence must not be shamed!" And he thinks the Emperor will like to see you, and that your Podolian garb will amuse him. He wishes you, therefore, to come in these same clothes to-morrow, and if you have anything in the way of weapons belonging to your dress to add it likewise.' 'For God's sake, captain,' I cried; 'I am coming to plead for the right, and not to show my clothes!' 'Yes, yes,' he said; 'but do as you are told,' adding kindly, 'you may thank your stars for this chance; and even if to-morrow's audience will avail you nothing, you may find it useful to have obtained the Archduke's interest.' 'I cannot understand that!' I cried. 'Well, and I could scarcely explain it to you,' said he, with a smile; 'but it is so.' And so said Mr. Broza, to whom I now went as I had promised; so also said the innkeeper, to whom, with the aid of Frantisek, I had to give a minute account. They all agreed that I was fortunate."

"Why, a child could understand that," interposed Simeon. "The Emperor, no doubt, values his old uncle's opinion."

"May be," said Taras, with a painful smile; "but they did not take it in that way, as I came to understand the following afternoon. You may imagine that I arrived by the iron statue a good while before the appointed time--it is a figure of the good Emperor Joseph. The officer walked up to me by the stroke of four, conducting me through the inner court to a splendid marble staircase, and through many passages to a door blazing with gold and guarded by some of the redcoated halberdiers. We passed a large ante-room, and entered a smaller one, where we were told to wait. The chamberlain in attendance, who looked vastly stupid, kept watching me with furtive sneers, but I did not care; my heart felt more solemnly uplifted than if I had been in a church. There was the sound of a little bell presently; the chamberlain glided in, and returning, he beckoned us to enter." Taras paused and drew a breath. "I think," he continued, slowly, "the look of that room, and of the two gentlemen in it, will be present with me to my dying hour: it was a large, splendid apartment, darkened with curtains, which left a half-light only, shutting out the sun; and at the table sat two officers--generals by their uniform. The one was that same old Ludwig, and in the other I recognised, when he rose, the Emperor! A feeble-bodied man of middle height, slightly stooping, with a good-natured face and blue eyes. He motioned me to come nearer, but I took a few steps only, and fell on my knees, holding up my petition. Oh! I did not kneel merely because it might be the custom, but urged by my own deepest need. For at that moment all the trouble I had battled with for months past surged up within me, and, do what I would, the tears rose from my heart...."

"And he?" cried Anusia.

"He came close to me, seemingly concerned at my emotion. Taking the petition I held out to him, he gave it to the Archduke, and then he addressed a few hasty words to me. 'He tells you to rise and dry your tears,' the captain whispered to me. But I remained on my knees, not to move his feelings, but simply because it was the natural position for mine. 'Thou Emperor,' I cried, 'have pity on me!' He plainly did not know what to say, and putting his hand into his pocket, drew forth a ducat, which he offered to me. 'I want no money; I want justice,' I cried. The Archduke stepped up now, whispering a few words to the Emperor, and then told the captain I was to rise, and that the Emperor would be sure to examine into my case carefully. I obeyed with an effort, but then I begged the captain to say that I would not hold myself assured till I had the Emperor's promise from his own lips. 'I cannot say that,' whispered the captain, alarmed; 'it would be most rude to the Archduke.' Whereupon I repeated the words myself, looking intently in the Emperor's face. Now the captain was obliged to translate, and thereupon the Emperor nodded to me, but burst out laughing at the same time, as though it were quite a joke. I am sure he did not mean to hurt me, for he looked kindness itself, and would not kill a fly if it annoyed him, but his laughter cut me to the heart; I keep hearing it still in my dreams.... No doubt the anguish of my soul was written in my face, but he took no notice. He walked round me, examining me curiously, and putting several questions--who had embroidered this fur of mine? whether I had many furs like that? and several pairs of these boots? did I polish them myself? and so forth. I answered his inquiries, but good God! they stunned my heart.... I think I would have given my life for his asking me a single question which did not refer to my clothes. But not he! And I daresay my fur and my boots would have interested him awhile yet, had not the Archduke again whispered some words to him. He left off questioning, and smiled at me once more with his good-natured smile, again offering me his ducat--not as a charity, as the captain had to tell me, but in memory of having seen him. Thereupon, I took it--this is it, bearing his likeness."

He drew the coin from his belt. They all were anxious to see it, and agreed that the Emperor had a pleasant, good-natured face. "And now you were ready to start for home?" they said.

"Oh, no," said Taras, with a sigh; "for though my object was accomplished, my heart was no wise at ease. I wanted to wait for the Emperor's answer. My petition prayed for a re-examination of the witnesses, and thus much the Emperor might command on the spot, I thought. Mr. Broza tried to dissuade me--it might be months before I should hear, he said, and it would be a waste of time and money. But I clung to my desire, entreating him till he pitied my distress and promised to inquire at the Imperial Chancery whether the Emperor's decision had been received. It was a week after the private audience. The reply was hopeless--not even the petition itself had as yet been filed. 'I must look up that Uncle Ludwig,' I cried in my despair, and had some trouble in finding the captain who had acted as my interpreter--his name is Eugene Stanczuk, and his home is at Kossow, a few miles from Ridowa. I wanted him to take me once more to the Emperor's uncle. 'That is quite impossible,' he said, 'and moreover the Archduke has departed for his residence in Styria; he will not return here for months.' When I heard this I knew that further waiting was vain. I strapped my bundle--honest Frantisek brushing my boots for the last time sadly, and I went to Mr. Broza to thank him for all his kindness and--should he trust me--to borrow some money of him, for I had only ten florins left. 'That shall not trouble you,' he said, counting out a hundred florins to me without even a witness, as though I were his brother. 'Let us hope for a favourable answer in time,' he added, 'but if I have any claim on your gratitude, as you say, promise me one thing--do not let it break your heart if it turns out a denial!' Much as I owed him, this was more than I could promise; I had gone to Vienna with a hopeful mind, and was coming away now broken-hearted."

He ceased, the sadness gathering in his face.

"I do not see that!" cried Father Leo, "there is every room for hope since you have the Emperor's own promise!"

"Have you seen him?" said Taras, rising. "Have you been to Vienna? You have heard my tale, but you have not been there to see!... It is getting late--it must be near midnight. Kind thanks to you, friends. Come, wife, let us be gone!"

CHAPTER VIII.

[DESPAIR.]

The days followed one another, and winter was at hand; Taras, in silence, had taken up the old, changeless village life. He found plenty to do on his own farm in spite of the care bestowed upon it by Simeon during his absence; and, labouring with his men, the most diligent of them all, he could forget at times that one thought which kept burrowing in his brain. But for other reasons, too, it was well he was thoroughly occupied, for intercourse with the villagers could have comforted him little.

Ill-humour against him had risen to its height, since his journey to Vienna also had proved a fruitless errand. He had but two friends left besides the priest--his former colleagues, Simeon and Alexa. The others either openly hated him, or treated him with unkind pity as the fallen village king. As for his re-election to the judgeship, it was not so much as thought of. Simeon, true to his word, had resigned his vicarious honours at All Saints', rather expecting, however, the public confidence would turn to him; yet not even he was elected, but a certain Jewgeni Turenko.

The man thus chosen was a harmless individual, rather poor, who never could have aspired to such luck had the freaks of fortune not singled out his younger brother, Constantine, lifting him to the giddy height of a corporal in the Imperial army. It had never been dreamt of in the village, that any peasant lad of theirs could be more than a private, and now this hero of Zulawce had actually returned as a corporal, a live corporal, sporting the two white stars on his crimson collar. All the village felt itself honoured in this favoured soldier, entertaining the wildest hopes for his future. He has two years of service yet to come, they said; who knows but that he may be a sergeant before he has done? The young hero was ready enough to avail himself of the good opinions thus showered upon him. By his own account, he was one of the bravest of the brave, and as he could scarcely invent a great war as a background to his exploits, he devised some minor fancies, laying the scene in rebellious Lombardy--"Corpo di Bacco! where the heat of the weather is such that an ox in the fields is roasted alive in two hours." How could the good people of Zulawce have thought little of a man who, in such a temperature, had saved a province to the Emperor? And more especially, how should their womankind not have admired a soldier who, to say nothing of his splendid moustache, had by his own showing been proof against the allurements of the very countesses in those parts--"devilishly handsome creatures, to be sure, but with the enemy's females I have nothing to do!" It was a fact, then, that within a few weeks, Constantine Turenko had the upper hand in the village; and as he could not be judge himself, being only on furlough, he managed that his brother Jewgeni should be elected, while two other friends of his, equally humble as regarded their wealth and wit, were chosen as elders. Thus aristocracy was laid low, the middle class rising.

Taras had not striven against it; he had voted for Simeon, but for the rest he let matters take their course. "The beggars will be the ruin of the village!" cried Anusia, in whom the pride of blood was strong. "It is atrocious that men like my Uncle Stephen, and you, and Simeon, should be succeeded by the rabble!"

But Taras took it quietly. "They are making their own bed," he said, "let them try it!"

"I wish you would not pretend such callousness," exclaimed Anusia, "there is no one who loves the village better than you do!"

"Perhaps not," said he, "but I cannot alter the state of things; besides, I have other cares now."

"Cares? What are they?" she cried. "Is not the farm as flourishing as ever?" To this he had no answer.

He did his work in those days with diligence and perseverance, as though he were not the richest peasant in the village, but a poor labourer merely, who had to gain his next day's bread. And whereas formerly he had always been guided by his own opinion, he would consult his wife's now, soliciting her advice. Anusia felt proud at this mark of confidence, till she discovered that he desired to hear her views in order to correct them. And as the question mostly referred to matters concerning which, capable as she was, she knew nothing, since, by the nature of them, they rather belonged to the husband's sphere, she lost patience at last. "What have I to do with assessments and taxes?" she exclaimed.

"You must get to know about them," he replied, gently.

"But why? Is it not enough that you should know?"

"Yes, now; but the time may come when you will have to do without me."

These words did not frighten her, appearing too ludicrous. A strong, healthy man, not forty years old--how should she take alarm? "You croaker!" she said, "we'll think about that fifty years hence."

"It is all as God may will," returned he solemnly; adding, "Do it to please me."

"Well, if it tends to your happiness, certainly," she said, good-naturedly, and did her best to understand what he explained to her concerning the taxes and imposts.

In the presence of his friend, the village priest, Taras never let fall such hints, meeting the good pope, on the contrary, with great reserve. But Father Leo took no umbrage, redoubling his affection for the saddened man, and doing all in his power to counteract the low spirits to which evidently he was a prey. He even proposed to teach him reading and writing. "It is useful anyhow," he said, "and you could amuse yourself with entertaining books."

But Taras declined. "It is no use to me now," he said, "and will be still less presently. Besides, that which would rejoice my heart is not written in your books. Nor have I the needful leisure; these are busy days on the farm, and after Epiphany I mean to go hunting. I shall be gone a good while I think."

"Do, by all means," said good Father Leo approvingly, "it will cheer you. And there is the general hunt before Christmas. You will not miss that."

"I shall not take part," replied Taras, quietly, "even if they ask me, which I do not expect."

"Not ask you!" said Father Leo. "You the best bear-hunter born!"

But events proved that Taras had judged right. Constantine objected to his presence, so the people did without him. That warrior had contracted a real hatred of Taras for various reasons, mostly foolish, but in part spiteful. To begin with, the dethroned judge was the natural leader of the more wealthy of the community, which was bad; he was an "enemy of the Emperor," and that was worse; worse still, the community had suffered loss "through him, and him alone;" the worst of all being that Constantine still owed a certain florin to "this bastard who had sneaked his way into the affections of an heiress."

Anusia felt it a personal insult, shedding passionate tears when the hunting party passed the farm; but Taras did not move a feature, continuing quietly to fill the sacks of corn that were to be sold. One thing, however, he did when the last sound of the noisy party had died away. He entered the common sitting-room, calling upon his eldest boy Wassilj. "My child," he said, "you are eight years old, and our little father Leo is instructing you well--do you know what an oath is?"

"Yes," said the little boy.

"And you understand what is being a judge?"

"Yes, it is what you were!"

"Well then, lift up your right hand and swear to me that never in your life you will offer yourself for the judgeship, nor accept it if they ask you. Will you do that, and never forget?"

"I will, and will not forget it," cried the little boy, earnestly lifting up his childish hand.

And Taras kissed him and returned to his work.

But Father Leo, on learning of the new insult offered to his friend, expressed his hearty sympathy.

"There is no need to trouble about it," said Taras; "you see I am quiet."

"And so you have every right to be!" cried the pope, warmly. "Have you not always done your duty, ay, and a great deal more! If sorrow is your part now, you can accept it with a strong heart, as of God Himself. He has been gracious to you, bringing you to this village and blessing you abundantly; and if He now chastises you, it surely is for your good in the end. The ways of God sometimes are dark."

Taras shook his head. "I don't believe that," he said, curtly.

"Not believe in God?" cried the honest pope, aghast.

"I do believe in Him," said Taras, solemnly, "and I believe that He is all just, but that He brought me into this village, and that all this bitter grief has come upon me by His will, I do not believe. For if He guided every step and action of ours, if our fate were all His doing, no wrong could be done on earth. Nor does He, and we are not mere puppets in His hand!"

"Puppets! what an expression!" cried the pope, rather perplexed and therefore doubly vehement. "Nay, we are His children!"

Taras nodded. "His children, yes," he said; "if we may use an earthly simile to describe our relation to Him, that is the word. But what does it mean? we owe to our natural parents life and the training they give us; beyond this they cannot influence us; and so some of us are good, some are bad, some are happy, and some unhappy, whereas every one surely would be good and happy if the will of our parents could bring it about. And it seems to me we stand in a similar relation to Him above. He has made this world and the men that live therein, revealing to them His will: 'Be righteous!' He does give us a training by the very fact that the circumstances of our birth and childhood are as He wills them. But what we make of it, and what steps we take in life, that plainly is our doing. I own that we cannot go to the right or to the left in unbiassed liberty, for we choose according to our nature, following our heart and mind, such as they have become."

"I do not seem to understand," owned the pope, hesitatingly; "but it would appear you believe in a blind sort of predestined fate, like any old crone of the village."

"No," cried Taras, sharply. "Let me try and explain. During the years of my happiness, when blessings were about me, full and rich, like the summer sun ripening the harvest, with no shadowing cloud overhead, I did believe the goodness of God had thus ordered my day, and in my heart I thanked him. But when darkness overtook me with sorrow unspeakable, I grew sore at heart and hopeless as the lonely wanderer in the storm-tossed wilderness, seeking for shelter in the driving snow, and not a star to guide him in the night; before him and behind no voice but that of howling wolves.... No, said I, this is not the will of God; it is fate! Let me go the way that is destined--happiness and blessings were to be, and the misery is to be, and the end is not mine to choose! Of what avail that I should strive thus wearily, seeking the path in darkness and battling to escape the wolves, since it is destined that either I be victorious, or fall their helpless prey? It was foolish, nay, maddening, while I thought so, but now I see differently: Nothing is predestined, our fate is here and here"--he pointed to his head and heart--"our virtues and vices are our guides in life, and besides this there is but one guidance to those that will listen to it, that all-encompassing will of God--'Thou child of man, act righteously!' That is it."

"This is not a faith I can hold," said the pope, "but I am glad, at least, that you do not believe either in a blind fate or in mere chance. For my part," he added, solemnly, "I shall always believe in the overruling of a Divine Providence that numbers the very hairs of our head."

"That faith has been taken from me," replied Taras. "His heaping sorrow upon sorrow on me could be compensated for in the world to come; but I see the right trampled under foot, and the wrong victorious, and this cannot be by the dispensation of God. No; it is just the outcome of the folly or the wickedness of man. As to chance, I certainly believe in it--who could live on this earth for well-nigh forty years and deny it, having eyes to see! There surely is such a thing as chance. Have you forgotten what I told you as to my coming hither, or do you think it was God's special providence to let that Sunday morning be fine? Did He order His sun to shine, merely that a poor man, Taras Barabola, should become head servant of Iwan Woronka's at Zulawce, and not of that priest to whom I might have gone? Is it not sheer presumption to suggest as much? I say, there is a chance, but it does not make a plaything of us, we rather play with it, making it subservient to our destiny. The bright sunshine that Sunday morning certainly brought me hither; but do you think it made me the husband of Anusia, or brought about my becoming the people's judge? Do I owe to that sunshine the good that has come to me since, and the great load of evil? Surely not, that was all my own doing, and nothing else. Chance, then, is nothing; but what we make of it can be little or much."

He drew himself up, looking proudly at the pope. "And this," he cried, "must explain my every act hitherto, and my future actions. If I could believe that Providence has mapped out my fate, I would follow blindly. Could I believe in chance or destiny, I should abide quietly what further they will make of me. But I believe no such thing--I hold that every man must follow the voice within, ay, the voice of God speaking to him in the highest law: 'Be righteous! Do no wrong, and permit no wrong!' And these two commandments, equally sacred, I will obey while life is mine!"

He turned abruptly and went away.

Christmas had come. It is not a day of the children in the Carpathians; they have no presents given them, and the Christmas-tree is unknown; the one thing marking it out from other days being a certain dish of millet, poppy seed and honey, with mead as a beverage. In Taras's family, too, the day hitherto had thus been kept; but now he sent one of his men to Zablotow, ordering him to get various little presents for his own children and those of Father Leo. "It is a way they have at Vienna," he said to his wife; "it seems a pleasant custom. And I would wish that the children should remember this Christmas Day."

"Why so, what is there about it?"

"Well, for one thing, I have been away so long this year," said he hastily, turning to some occupation.

Christmas over, he had two large sledges laden with corn, taking them with his servant, Jemilian, to the New Year's market at Colomea, as was his habit.

But on the second of January the man returned alone. "The master has business with the lawyer," he said; "he will be home in three days." Anusia grew frightened, and ran to her friend, the popadja. "He is not going to come back," she wailed. "Now I understand his strange speeches, and why he insisted on making presents to the children that they should remember this Christmas. It was his way of taking leave of them!"

But the pope reproved her. "If you do not know your husband better than this," he said; "I, at least, know my friend. It grieves me, to be sure, that he should re-open matters with the lawyer. But he has sent you a truthful message, there is no doubt about that."

Nor was he mistaken. Taras returned even sooner, on the second day. "I guessed as much," said he, when Anusia clasped him, sobbing passionately; "you took alarm because I had business with the lawyer; so I made what haste I could and travelled through the night."

"But what is it?" she asked.

He drew a little packet from his belt, unfolding it carefully, and producing a large sheet of paper.

"The Emperor's decision!" she cried, exultingly; "there is an eagle upon it!"

At which he laughed bitterly. "No, my dear. That eagle merely shows the Government stamp for which I paid five florins. The decision, that is, the refusal of my petition, need not be looked for for months. What need of hurry is there concerning a mere peasant!" But suddenly growing serious, he said: "Listen, my wife! This paper affirms that I have made over all I possess to the children, but to be yours while you live. I have kept back nothing for myself, except some money and my guns."

"Wherefore?" she cried, trembling, "what can be the meaning of it?"

"Because--because--" he hesitated, the honest man could ill prevaricate--"because I might be fined heavily for the lawsuit...."

"It is an untruth!" she exclaimed. "You think of taking away your life!"

"No, indeed," he asserted with a solemn oath. But she could not take comfort, despatching little Wassilj with a message to the pope. Father Leo came at once, expressing unfeigned wonder on being shown the document.

"Why, it's a deed of gift, in due form and legally attested. But what for, my friend; what for?"

"You must not ask me."

The pope looked at him; his gloomy face wore an expression of unbendable resolve. And Father Leo, thereupon, was silent, knowing it would be useless to inquire. After awhile, however, he began again: "I will not press you, Taras; but tell me one thing: Did you inform Dr. Starkowski of your reasons?"

"No," replied Taras. "And that was why he refused to make out the deed. 'I require to know your intention,' he said. But fortunately there is another solicitor at Colomea now--a young man who did not trouble about my reasons."

"Fortunately?" echoed the pope, with marked emphasis.

"Yes, fortunately," returned Taras, equally pointedly. "I have fully considered it."

Again the pope was silent; and then he spoke of everyday subjects in order to inquire presently with all the indifference he could command. "And what are your plans for the present?"

"I have told you some time ago," said Taras. "To-morrow is Epiphany; after to-morrow I shall start for a several weeks' hunting."

"Not by yourself?"

"Oh, no. I shall have Wassilj Soklewicz with me, and my two men, Jemilian and Sefko--that is, if I may take them, Anusia," he added, with a smile, "for you are mistress now."

"Do not jest," she said. "I am well content you should take them. There is little to be done on the farm now, and they are faithful souls. But I hope you will let the two boys and Simeon go with you as well, they are just longing for it."

"No," said Taras, "that is impossible." Nor did he alter his mind when, the following day, Hritzko and Giorgi pleaded their own suit. "Have we in any way offended you?" they vehemently inquired.

"Certainly not," he assured them kindly. "You are fine fellows, both of you, but I cannot possibly take you. Your father is a true friend to me, and he is getting old. I--I must not let his sons risk their life."

"Risk! Why, what risk should there be? We did so enjoy it last year."

"All sorts of things may happen on a bear hunt; and, indeed, I will not take the responsibility, on account of your father. It is different with those others who will accompany me; they have no special family ties, either of them. It is really impossible, my good fellows, much as I would like to have you."

He took leave of them affectionately, as he did of their father, of Alexa, and of the pope's family. They all felt concerned at his going, but none of them could have given any reason. Anusia alone was brave-hearted. "You will recover your spirits," said the faithful wife, "and, therefore, I am pleased you should go. When shall I expect you back?"

"In six weeks at the latest."

And thus they parted. Anusia once again ruled the farm, and did so with a strong hand, equal to any man's for determination. The new judge, Jewgeni Turenko, before long found occasion to testify to her firmness.

The mandatar, for reasons known to himself, had been keeping at a distance lately; but whenever he was present at the village Jewgeni had no easy time of it. For Mr. Hajek continued in the path he had begun, and his claims were many, the new judge being nowise equal to his predecessor in distinguishing the just ones from the unjust. And being something of a coward besides, he made all sorts of concessions which clashed with his duty to the village. So, hoping to conciliate his own party, he sought to lay the burden on their opponents. And, since Anusia for the time being was unprotected, she seemed a fit person in his eyes to try the experiment upon. Consequently, he showed himself on her premises one day, informing her that she must tell off two extra hands for the forest labour about to fall due. "There is no such claim on me," she said, curtly, "it will be no use wasting any words about it." He ventured to remonstrate, showing his fist; but the judge of Zulawce had the worst of it--he retired rather hastily, bearing away on his face some visible tokens of her prowess.

The sixth week had not elapsed when old Jemilian presented himself before his mistress with a splendid bearskin, and delivered his message: Taras sent his love, and prayed for further leave of absence; he would return for Palm Sunday.

"Is he well?" inquired she.

"Yes, quite well."

"And of a cheerful heart?"

"Yes," averred the man. His eyes sought the ground, but Anusia did not notice that; she trusted the honest servant, who for upwards of twenty years had lived on the farm. "Then I am quite satisfied," she said; "let him stay as long as it gives him pleasure. It is five weeks more, to be sure; but let him have it."

And thereupon Jemilian went over to the pope's. "My master has sent me," he said, "he is anxious to know whether the imperial decision has arrived, he gave directions to have it transmitted to you.

"Nothing has come," said Leo; "but how is your master?"

Jemilian repeated his statements, but Father Leo was not taken in, although he had trouble of his own, and sympathy with others might have been in abeyance--his youngest child was grievously ill of the small-pox. But he was a true friend of Taras's, and could turn away from his own grief. "Look me in the face," he said, sternly; "it is not meet to offer an untruth to the priest. Tell me what you are after up there."

"Well, we hunt," Jemilian replied, hesitatingly. But the pope was not thus turned off, and after a little more of prevarication the man was obliged to confess. "Ah, your reverence," he said, "such hunting as Taras's the Carpathians have never seen. The Almighty must have clouded his reason; He must, indeed! On first starting we all took it for granted he would lead us to the Red Hollow, the best hunting ground far and wide. But he took us on--on, far away into the mountains. He never notices the track of the bear, and if we call his attention to it he shrugs his shoulders. On--on, we go. He seems to have but one object--to get to know his way in the mountains. If we pass a dense forest he takes his axe, making his mark upon the trees. If we come across a herdsman he does not inquire what life the bears have led him, but is anxious to learn the character of the neighbourhood and its bearings. It is the same if we put up with any cottager. He makes friends with the people, giving them cartridges for their guns, and asking them for nothing but directions to find his way. On we go, westward chiefly, but exploring right and left--from mountain to mountain, from glen to glen. Denser grows the forest, more ragged the clefts; we seek a path through the rimy brushwood, our hands torn with the brambles.... Ah, your reverence, I am a bear hunter of thirty years' standing; but what the Carpathians are I found out but lately."

"And have you asked him what is the object of all this?"

"Indeed I have--again and again, but to no purpose. How often have I said to him: 'What is the good of roaming through the wintry waste like this? Your servants would be well content if they could see you enjoyed it; but you push on, sad unto death--what is the good?' His reply being always the same: 'It must be, my men, and if you love me you will follow.' Love him?--of course we do. Your reverence knows as much as that yourself, that to know him is to be ready to go to the death for him.... Well, we followed him like sheep their shepherd, chiefly westward, for the space of twenty days, when we reached a cottage, and the people there were Huzuls still, but of different ways from ours. 'We are of the Marmaros,' they said. We spent the night with them, and it was the same as everywhere. Let Taras but begin to speak with people, telling them of his life and inquiring into theirs, and his charm is upon them; they look up to him and are glad to serve him. Indeed, your reverence, he has a wonderful influence over men, if he chooses to use it; this has been very plain in our roamings. From that cottage he led us back again towards Pokutia. 'It was useful to have seen something of Hungary,' he said; 'but now we will turn our steps homeward again.' That was both sensible and pleasant, and for sheer satisfaction I forgot to ask him why it should have been useful to seek a weary way through brambles and riven rocks to have a look at the Marmaros. Nor could I feel satisfied long, for he soon turned from the rising sun, striking off northward, over mount and dale, as we had done before. Never a shot he fired, though we met the finest deer; he only kept noticing the country. At last we stopped far beyond Delatyn; he gave us a day's rest, and then in quick marches he brought us back to these parts, stopping near the Red Hollow. We arrived two days ago, putting up for the night in the dell of old Michalko, and yesterday we had some hunting at last. We were fortunate too, for not two hours passed before we sighted a splendid bear, and Taras killed him, rather carelessly, but the bullet hit clean between the eyes. It was the first time these six weeks that I saw him smile--he was pleased with his good shot. And when Lazarko and I had drawn the creature he sent me home with the skin."

"Lazarko," interrupted Father Leo, "who is he?"

Jemilian had tripped evidently. He grew red and stammered: "Oh!... some fellow.... who joined us...."

"Don't attempt what you have so little talent for," returned the pope; "your lies are transparent. Why do you depart from the truth?"

"I cannot help it," said the man, apologetically; "Taras has enjoined me so very sternly not to mention Lazarko, for fear of harming the poor youth...."

"Lazarko?" repeated the pope, rubbing his forehead, and exclaiming suddenly: "You don't mean Lazarko Rodakowicz, of Zolince, surely!"

"Yes I do," confessed Jemilian.

Father Leo was dismayed: "And this man our Taras suffers near him! Is he not aware that Lazarko is a murderer? Why the fellow shot the mandatar of his village!"

"He did. But only because the mandatar dishonoured the girl he loved."

"That is true. I knew the parties, Zolince being but a couple of miles from my late cure. The mandatar was a wretch, the girl honest, and the youth had borne a good name. But to commit murder is an awful thing nevertheless, and Lazarko, so far from in any way expiating his guilt, made it worse by escaping into the mountains, where he joined the band of Green Giorgi, thus becoming a brigand--a 'hajdamak.' I trust Taras was not aware of that!"

"He was," said Jemilian, "for Lazarko came to us straight from the outlaws. And since the matter has escaped me, I may as well tell your reverence the plain facts of it, for you are Taras's friend. We knew well enough, on going beyond the Red Hollow into the heart of the mountains, that we must fall in with some 'hajdamaks'; for the Carpathians are their natural haunt, and not all the Whitecoats[^[4]] of the empire will be able to say a word against it. We had no fear; four of us, and carrying arms, we were a match for the devil if need be. Besides, it is well known that the hajdamaks hardly ever attack a peasant or a Jew; they are the sworn enemies of the Polish nobles only, and of the Whitecoats if driven to it. So we went ahead fearlessly, and our first encounter with one of their kind was not calculated to terrify us--a beardless milksop, half-starved and frozen. Our watch-fire brought him near, and he begged humbly for leave to stay. But Taras stepped up to him: 'Let us first see if you deserve it!' he said sternly. 'Is your mother alive?' 'She is dead.' 'Then answer me truly, as you would wish her to be at rest in her grave. I presume even a fellow like you will own the sanctity of that oath! Why did you take to the mountains?' 'Well, just because of my mother's death; my father married again, and the step-mother turned him against me. I, the heir to the farm, had to do the meanest labour, and was treated like a dog besides. So I ran away!' 'This is no reason for taking to the mountains! Why did you not try life in another village, eating your bread honestly, as the servant of some respectable peasant?' The fellow looked abashed. 'I had heard of the merry life up here,' he said at last. 'Away with you!' cried Taras, 'it is mere laziness and greed of enjoyment that made you a hajdamak! Away!' And his look was such that the fellow made the greatest haste to escape. A few days later we had a more serious encounter. We were deep in the heart of the mountains, not far from the Marmaros, resting one night in a forsaken cattlefold. Our fire was lit, when suddenly an armed band appeared, headed by a handsome young man, with a finely-twisted moustache, carrying the white bunda[^[5]] carelessly on his shoulders, with the green, silver-broidered jerkin beneath...."

"Green Giorgi himself," cried the pope, crossing himself involuntarily.

"Yes, himself! Your reverence will be aware of the stories concerning him--that he has power to show himself in different places simultaneously, and that he knows men and all about them, though he has never set eyes on them before. How that should be I cannot tell, but he certainly knew us. 'I make you welcome, Taras!' he said, condescendingly. 'I intend to start a-hunting tomorrow, and rejoice to fall in with the best bear-hunter of the country!' But Taras did not accept the proffered hand. 'If you know me so well, Giorgi,' he said, 'then you must be aware, also, that I never shrink from saying the truth. We are but four of us, and you about three times the number; we have but our guns, and you, I see, carry pistols besides. If you wish to attack us, we are lost. But nevertheless, I tell you, I shall neither hunt with you to-morrow, nor suffer your company a moment longer than I can help it this night. A man like you must poison the very air I breathe,' Giorgi grew white. 'Why?' he hissed, snatching at his girdle, where a pair of silver-mounted pistols were to be seen. 'I am not bound further to explain my opinion,' replied Taras; 'to be a hajdamak is a miserable trade, yet there are reasons which may force an honest man to take to it. You have no such excuse. You are a mere deserter from the ranks of the Whitecoats. And you carry on this sad trade after a cruel and shameful fashion besides. When the peasants of Roskow, last autumn, called upon you to help them against their hard-hearted lord of the manor, you were not satisfied with plundering this Polish tyrant's property, but you committed robbery in the village besides; you not merely killed the tyrant, who deserved it, but you killed the innkeeper, a poor Jew, whose only crime consisted in having saved up a little money, which roused your cupidity. I could lay many similar charges at your door, but I daresay this will suffice.' But, so far from sufficing, it was more than the ruffian could brook. He drew his pistol, foaming with rage. But we three--Sefko, Wassilj, and I--had cocked our guns at him, his own people standing by gloomily. He would have discharged his pistol, nevertheless, had not one of his party made a dash at him, whispering something we did not understand. He gave a scowling look at his followers and turned to go. 'You coward!' cried Taras, 'an honest man's bullet is too good for you!' At daybreak we learned the reason of his yielding, and, indeed, had guessed as much--he could not rely on his men. They had joined him, believing him to be an honest hajdamak, and not a murdering brigand...."

"No hajdamak can be honest!" interrupted Father Leo, sharply.

"Well, honest, as the saying is," continued Jemilian, a little abashed. "I was going on to say that at daybreak two of his men, Lazarko and Iwan, came to us, assuring us they had thus believed in him, and entreating Taras to take them under his protection, as they were tired of the wicked life. He listened to Lazarko but not to Iwan, although the latter swore by his mother's grave that he also had intended to be an honest hajdamak...."

"Honest! honest!" broke in the pope once more. "I wish you would not thus use the word."

"Well, honest, as people take it," rejoined Jemilian. "I meant to say that Iwan had become a hajdamak only because he had shot a tax-gatherer who was unlawfully going to distrain the goods of his mother, a poor widow."

"And that is an honest reason?"

"Taras admitted it as such. But he nevertheless refused the young man's request, because he had assisted Green Giorgi in a deed of cowardly violence. He gave this account of it himself, crestfallen enough: 'Some weeks ago,' he said, 'while scouring the lower Bukowina, we received information that a Jewish wine-merchant from Czernowitz was travelling by himself along the mountain road to Transylvania. On learning this, the captain disguised himself as a peasant, requesting me to do likewise. We lay in waiting by the roadside. The Jew arrived presently, driving his car, and Green Giorgi begged him to give us a lift. He good-naturedly agreed, although his vehicle was small, and, taking our places beside him, we drove on for about a couple of hours, engaging him in conversation. But on entering the dark, narrow valley of the Putna, the captain stunned him with a sudden blow, ordering me to fire, which I did, yet with so trembling a hand that the bullet merely grazed his arm. Thereupon Green Giorgi drew his pistol and despatched him.' Thus Iwan, amid sobs and groans; we listened horror-struck, but no one was more moved than Taras himself.

"'Was not the Jew a broad-built man, with a reddish beard, and blue, kindly eyes?' he inquired presently, with husky voice. 'Yes, yes,' groaned Iwan; 'ah, it is those eyes I cannot get rid of....' 'Villain!' cried Taras, 'I knew the man; he showed me a similar kindness. But even if I had never seen him I could have nothing to do with an assassin!' 'Have pity on me,' pleaded Iwan, 'I could not gainsay the captain, and it was but a Jew!' 'Away, villain!' repeated Taras furiously; 'is a Jew not a man? And you need obey no one for the committing of murder!' Iwan fell on his knees. 'If you reject me, I can but shoot myself,' he cried. 'There will be no harm done if you do,' said Taras, 'for it is what you have deserved!' We turned from him, going our way. And he did as he had threatened, the lads of old Michalko telling us only yesterday that they found him dead in the forest, the discharged pistol in his stiffened hand. We were sorry, but Taras never altered a look...."

The priest paced his room excitedly while this report was being given, and now he stood still. "These, then, are your hunting pleasures!" he cried, wringing his hands. "Is this the pastime by which Taras hopes to regain his spirits? And the worst of it is, it seems to delight him--he will return for Palm Sunday only! How do we know he will return then?"

"He will keep his word," said the man, confidently. "I was no less alarmed than you, and would not have come hither with his message had he not sworn faithfully to return by Palm Sunday."

Father Leo took comfort, asking presently: "And did he tell you what he means to do now?"

"Not in so many words, but I am pretty sure he will now take us through the Bukowina...."

Leo stared at the man, horror-struck, his whole figure trembling. His plump, honest face was livid with the thought that had come to him. He grew purple and white again, and big drops stood on his forehead. "Jemilian...." he groaned.

The man had watched him, his own appearance as it were reflecting the pope's emotion. But now he stretched forth his hands as though combating an unworthy suspicion. "No, no!" he cried, "do not--do not insult the pure-hearted man!"

The pope drew a deep breath, and fell again to pacing his room.

Some time passed in silence; the labouring man seemed lost in gloomy thought. When he looked up presently, Leo started as out of a dream. "Go," he said with trembling voice, "and God be with you! Tell him our conversation, and that I shall look for him by Palm Sunday without fail. If we were not in trouble ourselves, I would think nothing of the twenty miles' distance, but would go with you to urge his return even now."

"Do you know him so little?" said the man with a smile. "'Twere easier to make the Pruth flow backwards than to turn him from his purpose. But he will keep his promise." He drew a breath. "Doubt him not! And pray for him," added the faithful soul, "he sorely needs it."

Jemilian departed, and Father Leo returned to the bedside of his youngest child. The little boy lay in high fever, tossing the more wildly as his hands were tied up for fear of his scratching the painful pustules.

The apothecary who had seen him a couple of days ago had judged that the illness would run its course favourably, but that it had not yet reached its height. And it was so; twelve weary days had to pass before the danger was over. And even then the poor parents could not lift their heads, for when the little one recovered, both the elder boys sickened with the same terrible disease, and all their anxiety began afresh. No one could have blamed Father Leo if in this season of sorrow he had thought little of the absent friend, all the more as the daily visits of Anusia had ceased; she was obliged, for her own children's sake, to hold aloof. But on the contrary, he thought much and pitifully of the roving man and his strange hunting-time. It scarcely needed the sad news which reached him on the last Sunday in Lent to rouse his sympathy afresh.

For on that day a messenger from the district town brought over the long-expected imperial rescript. Leo knew what the contents would be, and yet he hesitated to break the seal. Those thoughts that had come to him as he listened to Jemilian's report--thoughts of a suspicion which he had striven to combat--surged up in him afresh. And he felt as if that red seal in his hands were dyed with the heart's blood of the most righteous man he had known. He almost felt forbidden to break it, and when he did so at last it was with a sigh. He was not mistaken; the writ contained not merely a denial, but also a reproof for having wantonly troubled the ear of His Majesty. Father Leo groaned. "Taras must never know that," he murmured. "I shall not give him the literal contents."

But not four-and-twenty hours had passed before all the villagers knew that the Emperor had written a letter to Taras, saying: "You good-for-nothing subject, if ever you trouble me again about your law suits, I shall have you shut up in prison!" It was the corporal who thus paraphrased the imperial decision, having it direct from Harasim Woronka, who was a common labourer now, thanks to his drink, working for the mandatar. It was Mr. Hajek's doing that this version was thus carried to the people; he had learned at Colomea that the decision had arrived, and had instructed his under-steward accordingly. Father Leo was greatly incensed, and saw he had no choice now but to inform Taras of the full contents, there being no mention of prison at any rate. And he made up his mind to get an insight into Taras's heart if possible, hoping the confessional in Passion Week would yield the opportunity.

Palm Sunday was at hand. Early spring had made its appearance, the snow was fast melting, the south wind blew, and the hearts of men were happy. Father Leo especially had reason to bless this early spring, the vivifying influence of which made itself felt in the sick-room, helping to conquer the dread disease. But the parents yet took turns in sitting up at night.

And thus the night before Palm Sunday found Father Leo awake in the dimly-lit chamber; the boys were asleep, he, with stockinged feet, walking up and down between them and the window. Again and again he stood still by their little beds, looking down wistfully at the pale faces of his children, on which the illness happily had left no ravages, and, turning back to the window, he would gaze out into the moonlit night. The village street was bright as day, but solemn in silence. The trees, just breaking into tiny buds, stretched forth their branches into the glimmering air, and there were quivering sounds as of the whispering winds of spring. From a copsewood near, the call of the screech owl was heard; it is counted a death omen in most places, but Father Leo scarcely noticed the dismal notes for the kindly light pouring down upon the world. And the pious man lifted a full heart to the Giver of all goodness, who had brought back his little ones from the arms of death. "If I could but tell them," he murmured, resuming his walk, and seeking words for the holy things that moved him. The good man was making his sermon for the morrow.

He was startled by a sound from the window, a finger tapping the pane gently. A dark figure stood without, and, looking close, he recognised Taras.

He hastened to open the sash a couple of inches. "Welcome! welcome!" he said warmly, "I am glad you have made good your promise."

"I returned an hour ago," replied Taras. "My wife and children are well; but you have seen trouble?"

At which the pope made haste to add that the Lord's goodness was being shown to him even now. "Come in," he concluded.

"It is late," said Taras; "I only wanted to have a look at you. Though, let me say, I know what you are keeping for me, happening to fall in with the two lads of Simeon by the Czeremosz yesterday, and they told me the imperial decision had arrived."

"But I daresay they have not told you correctly," said Father Leo, anxiously. "We will put off everything till to-morrow, but no false report in this respect shall grieve your heart; a minute longer than I can help. The rescript consists of a few lines only, and I have read them so often that I know them by heart. It is true that your petition is refused, because the verdicts of the local courts had plainly shown you in the wrong. And you are warned from again appealing to the Emperor needlessly; it is condoned this once, because of your evident zeal for the good of the parish. These are the very words: 'The subject Taras Barabola is herewith instructed to refrain from again troubling His Apostolic Majesty or the Imperial magistrates, and to submit to justice.' That is all, I assure you; never a word of prison. And it is bad enough as it is."

"Bad enough," repeated Taras slowly. "What were the last words?"

Father Leo looked at him, he could see his face plainly in the moonlight; it was quite calm. So he repeated the final clause.

"To submit to justice," said Taras after him, slowly. "Good-night."

The pope would have wished to detain him, but the clock had struck one some time ago, and it was the hour for giving the children their medicine. So he shook hands with him through the window and returned to the little patients, where the phial stood by the side of a night-light.

He was just taking up the bottle, when suddenly--fearfully--a cry rang through the stillness without, half lost in the distance, but so terrible, so death-inspired that he shook violently, sending forth a cry in return. The children sat up in their beds sobbing, but he flew back to the window, trembling, and listened. Deep silence had settled without, and not again was it broken; yet he gazed out anxiously, prepared for the very worst.

But all seemed at peace; the little cottage gardens, and the street, and the fields beyond, lay swathed in moonlight, but deserted and still. Nowhere a trace of living soul, not a sound to be heard, save the whispering of the branches bending to the night air. Was it Taras? Did ever human breast send forth such a shriek of mortal agony? The priest could not tell, but he remembered the screech owl. "The bird of night may have flown past the house," he reflected, straining his ear to catch a repetition of the sound. But all was still; only the wind kept swaying the branches.

He crossed himself and returned to his children, endeavouring to calm them; and having given them their medicine, he strove to take up the thread of his sermon. But that was well-nigh impossible. Again and again he stood still, listening; but only the gentle voices of the night reached his ear, no sound of alarm--the screech owl was silent....

The small hours passed slowly, gloomily. With the dawn the popadja entered to take his place. "Little father," she said, "have I been dreaming, or did I hear it? A terrible cry broke upon my sleep, as of a man being strangled and crying for help...."

"I daresay you dreamt it," returned he, huskily, making haste to gain his study; there was early service at eight o'clock, and he really must collect his thoughts for his sermon.

But it was impossible, for while he was yet dressing he was suddenly seized with a burning desire to see his friend, and nothing was to be done but follow the inward compulsion. He snatched up his cloak and hurried from the house.

Entering Taras's farmyard, he found his two eldest boys in their Sunday garments, with bright plumes in their brand-new caps. They were making a desperate noise with toy trumpets. On seeing the pope they ran up to him and kissed his hand.

"Father returned last night," they cried, "and see what he brought us--a trumpet each and these beautiful caps."

"Is he at home?" inquired the priest.

"No. He is gone to see Jewgeni."

"The judge?"

"Yes--that judge," returned little Wassilj, with all the contempt he was capable of. "He has business with him. He would never go and see him for the pleasure of it."

"And where is your mother?"

"Getting ready for church."

"Well, tell your father to come to me in the vestry directly after service. Do you understand?"

Wassilj promised to deliver the message. "And I know what for," he added, with childish importance, "the Emperor's answer has arrived."

Full of disquietude the priest retraced his steps. "What business can he have with the judge?" he wondered.

Explanation was at hand. He came upon the judge at his own threshold.

"Glad to meet your reverence," said Jewgeni. "I have called for your advice. My brother is against it, but all the people are for it."

"For what?"

"It is Taras's proposal. He came to me this morning saying: 'I want you to call together the general meeting directly after service--not merely the heads of families, you know, but all the community. You are aware that the final decision has arrived from Vienna. I want to render an account to the people. Now whether you are my enemy or my friend is nothing. You are the judge, and I claim this as a matter of right,' I need not tell your reverence that his friend I certainly am not. For, firstly, he is against the Emperor; secondly, he is a bastard; thirdly, he is only a lowlander who has sneaked into our village; and, fourthly, that wife of his----"

The man involuntarily put his hand to his face. Father Leo understood the gesture, but his heart was too heavy for a smile.

"I know," he said quickly, "you are not exactly his friend, good man though he is. But what answer did you give him?"

"None at all," replied the judge, rather bashfully. "How could I without first consulting my brother Constantine, and he is against it. 'Do you want him to talk the people over?' he said. 'What have we to do with his petition to the Emperor? If he has lost his case it serves him right,' said Constantine."

"For shame!" cried the honest pope. "But what of the people? You said they are for hearing him. I hope they are."

"Well," returned Jewgeni, "my brother ought to know, being a corporal! But the elders and others of the men who heard of it think differently. 'He shall have the meeting,' they said; 'it is due to him in simple justice.' And what may be your reverence's opinion?"

"Call the meeting, by all means!" cried Father Leo, warmly. "Shall this man, who has sacrificed so much of his time, his money, his powers, for the good of the people, not be permitted to render his account, because he has stood up for your right, even beyond his duty? Of course you must hear him!"

"Very well, then," said the judge, meekly, kissing the priest's hand, "the meeting shall be called. The people can be informed after the service, but I will send a message to Taras at once. Yet I am not sure my brother, the corporal----" he scratched his head and went his way.

It was high time for Father Leo to repair to church for early mass. He hastened to his vestry, where the sacristan stood waiting to assist him with the vestments. And Father Leo began his duties.

The church was one of the United Greek community, in which mass was read according to the Roman Catholic rite, but in the language of the people, consequently the worshippers were able to follow intelligently. It was a good congregation, and they appeared to listen prayerfully whilst Father Leo with his choristers chanted the antiphony. But the good father himself had trouble in centering his thoughts on his sacred occupation. His eyes had scanned the people, and he knew that neither Taras nor Anusia were present. But Taras's companions had come--Jemilian, Sefko, and Wassilj Soklewicz, looking haggard and worn.

Mass over, the priest returned to his vestry to put off the heavy garments before mounting the pulpit. He was on the point of re-entering the church, when the outer door leading to his sanctum was torn open, little Wassilj bursting in, sobbing.

"What is it?" cried the priest, white with apprehension.

"Little father," sobbed the child, lifting his hands beseechingly, "mother entreats you to come to us at once--at once! It is a matter of life and death, she says."

"Good God--what is it?"

"Alas!" cried the boy, "I cannot tell you! I only know that mother is in despair."

"Is your father at home?"

"Yes! We were just starting for church, when a messenger from Jewgeni arrived, saying, 'The judge will comply with your desire, and the general meeting shall be called,' Thereupon father turned to mother, saying, 'Then we cannot go to church, for I owe it to you to tell you before telling the others.' And to us he said, 'Run into the yard, children.' But we remained in the hall ... and ... we never did it before!" sobbed the child.

"Did you listen?"

"Yes! We heard father's voice, he spoke lowly and we could not understand. But presently mother gave a sharp cry, as though she were suffering some fearful pain. I could not help bursting in, Fedko and Tereska after me. Mother was on her knees before father. 'Don't do it--oh!' she sobbed. 'But I must!' he said, 'not even pity for you and the children must prevent me!' And we began to cry, and mother said, 'Yes, children ... come and kneel to him! Perhaps he will listen to your tears, if he will not to mine!' Ah, little father, her face was streaming...."

"Go on; what else?"

"We knelt, we lifted up our hands, and we cried, 'Don't do it, father, for pity's sake!' But he shook his head, big tears running down his own face. And then mother sent me to fetch you. Do come, little father!" said the child, weeping.

Father Leo's chest heaved. "How can I?" he said, "the people are waiting for the sermon! It would be wrong to disappoint them."

"It would, your reverence," remarked the sacristan. But the child had got a hold of his gown, repeating anxiously, "Come; oh, do come!"

"It is the lesser wrong," said Father Leo, with a sudden resolve. "Run home, Wassilj, and say I am coming directly."

And hastily he entered the church. "I beg your leave, good people," he cried. "I cannot give you a sermon to-day. God will forgive me, there is a holier duty waiting," and he vanished into his vestry.

There was a loud murmur in the congregation, surprise being uppermost. And then there was a flocking forth from the building. But outside Jewgeni and his elders kept crying: "Go to the linden, all of you! We call the general meeting for the hearing of Taras."

The corporal stood by, smiling an evil smile. "Let us go and hear the joke!" he said, following the stream of the people.

CHAPTER IX.

[THE PASSION OF JUSTICE.]

The pope, meanwhile, made what haste he could to Taras's house; it was barely a ten minutes' walk, but it appeared to him fearfully long.

Having reached the farm, he rushed into the house--it was silent as a churchyard; after much looking and shouting he discovered only little Tereska near the hen-roost. The child had a tear-stained face, but seemed to have recovered her spirits, taking evident pleasure in chasing a hen. "Where is your father?" inquired Leo, anxiously.

"Gone!" said the child, and began to cry again.

"Gone?"--Father Leo crossed himself--"where to?"

"Don't know--he and mother----"

"To the meeting?"

"Don't know," repeated the little one, sobbing more violently. "Mother was crying, and father was crying!" But the hen appeared to make its escape, and the child was after it.

"They can only have gone to the meeting," said the pope to himself, retracing his steps speedily.

The inn with the linden in front of it was a little way beyond the church. The village seemed deserted; only a tottering old man in front of a cottage sat basking in the sun. "I wish you would send my grand-daughter back," he called out, querulously, "Taras will have plenty of listeners without her."

Father Leo, indeed, found the place crowded; the very oldest and youngest excepted, none of the village were missing. For the "general meeting" is an event, and duly appreciated. The faces of the people reflected its importance as they thronged in a circle about the linden, where a table had been placed by way of a platform for the speaker.

Taras was just mounting it when Father Leo arrived; a murmur of expectation ran through the people, of pity, too, with most, and of spite with some. But surely this latter sensation was smitten with shame at the sight of the unhappy man about to address them. His hair had become grey, his face was worn, and his eyes burned with a piteous fire deep in their sockets.

"Ye men of the village," he began, with trembling, yet far-sounding voice, "and all of you who are members of this parish, I thank you for coming here, and I thank the judge for having called this meeting. For although it is but a duty on your part, and on his, to hear me, yet a man who has lived to see what I have seen, is grateful even for that much!

"Jewgeni will have told you why you are here: I want to render an account--yet not concerning the past, as he seems to think, but concerning that which is at hand. Listen, then, to what a man has to tell you who has been happy and has become unhappy, because justice is what he has loved and striven for most. Some of you love me, others hate me, and I daresay I have grown indifferent to many. But I pray you listen to me without love or hatred, as you would listen to a stranger whom death overtakes in your village, and who is anxious to unburden his soul before he goes hence. You would have no personal sympathy with such a one, but you would believe him because he is a dying man. Well then, believe me likewise, for I am a dying for your sakes!"

A shrill cry interrupted him, and a wave of excitement passed over the closely-pressed people. In vain the pope endeavoured to force his way; this wall of human beings stood firm as a rock. But on the other side of the linden, towards the inn, some of the men were seen moving. "They are taking away his wife!" was whispered from mouth to mouth. "She has fainted!"

Taras had not stirred from his place. An agony of grief quivered in his features, but he stood motionless. They saw him lift his hand, the commotion subsided, and in silence they hung on his lips.

"Men and women," he resumed, "you have just witnessed that which is enough to move any heart! Give her your tenderest pity! She needs it doubly, not understanding that what I am about to do I must do. Love to me and to the children makes it impossible for her to follow my meaning. But you will see more clearly; you will perceive it is not wantonness and wickedness that forces me to separate from those that dwell in peace. The guilt of it will not fall on my head, and I need not fear the wrath of God. When the day of His reckoning comes I shall be able to answer. But I also shall have a question to ask of Him in that day, and I shall look for His answer. Let me hope it will not differ from what meanwhile I have said to myself in His name!

"Listen, then, to my confession. There is both good and bad to be said of me, in accordance with the truth. For a man should not be unjust to himself, any more than to others. And if in most cases it is but a false shame that would conceal one's vices or one's virtues, it were a crime in mine. My heart, therefore, of which I have not yet been able entirely to root out pity for myself, shall not influence my speaking. And what were the use of complaints? Am I not like a man whose fields have been wasted, whose dwelling has been destroyed by the flood from the mountains? Shall such a one sit down by his ruined home crying: 'Why should God have sent this to me? why should the flood find its way just to my house?' Why, indeed! Surely it was not mere accident that the pent-up waters should have broken through just in this direction; and if he is wise he will not sit still, but will ascend the torrent till he find the cause of his trouble. And I will not have you stand about me lamenting, but you shall follow me up the stream to see why the roaring waters have burst on my happiness, singling me out for destruction.

"You are acquainted with my past, as though I had grown up among you. You know I am a bastard, and that I had to suffer greatly on this account; but you also know that, thanks to my mother, the wrong I endured became a blessing. She had been brought to see that the heart is poisoned which ceases to believe in justice on earth; so she regarded not herself in order to teach me that faith. And when I had been able to overcome a terrible temptation, when I had gained for myself the goodwill of men, this faith of hers appeared to me also the very bulwark of life. Yes, my friends, I had learned to look upon this earth of ours as upon a well-ordered place where each man has his own share of labour, and is rewarded according to his work: for equity and justice seemed to be the foundation of things.

"He who has once admitted this belief into his heart and mind can never be really unhappy, even if misfortune should overtake him like a thunderstorm in summer. Trouble did come upon me. I bore it--first the illness and death of my mother, and then the return of my father. The first trial was the sorest, but my soul could rise from it with less effort than from the intercourse with the vagabond, just as the body will recover more easily from some painful gunshot wound than from a lingering fever. You all know how I strove to do what was right by my father, and you also praised me for it; but it was only a rendering of justice, the paying back of the debt I owed to my mother. He denied being my father, the memory of her that was gone was being sullied, and that made me willing for any sacrifice, ready to bear any burden without murmuring or sinking under the load. It made me serious, but not sad. For did I not suffer for the sake of justice, which grew all the dearer to my heart!

"The old man died. I did not rejoice; I felt like those men who all their life long carry salt in heavy loads from here to Hungary, bringing back packages of Hungarian tobacco instead. The poor slave wipes his forehead and is glad to have arrived at his destination with his burden of salt, but he is not therefore jubilant, for he knows that he will set out with his bundles of tobacco to-morrow, which are just as heavy, though otherwise different from the salt. Yes, my friends, young as I was, I had already learned the lesson that this life of ours is a mere changing of burdens, and I was content it should be so. For did not everything depend on how we carried our load! But mine hitherto had been heavy, and I longed for a change, longed for another burden elsewhere. I believed that at Ridowa I should never cease hearing the unkind and evil speeches of him for whom I had borne so much; the very air, I believed, must be full of them. You know that even the wild beasts can be driven forth from their haunts; destroy their home and they will repair it, but if you befoul it they go. So I looked for a place elsewhere, and chance brought me to Zulawce.

"Looking back on those days, how should I not be filled with the pity of it all? You know how I came to you--a man loving diligence and understanding his business, thoroughly capable of managing a farm, honest in all things, and trustworthy. Of the pleasures of life I knew nothing. I had never yielded to drink, had never conquered a man in fight, never kissed a girl for love. But I did not regret it, enjoying in those days what I believed to be the greatest satisfaction of all, a real content with myself. And why should I not? Was I not doing my duty? Was I not endeavouring to be just--yes, and had suffered for righteousness' sake! Added to this, I had complete power of self-control as far as that may be said of sinful man. I knew that this Taras, a self-made man, who from a despised bastard had risen to a position of respect among his fellows, would all his life long be noted for integrity, for helpfulness and justice; that he would never permit any wrong, nor ever intentionally repay evil with evil. Thus I believed myself strong and safe, come what might; for I could never be false to myself, and the world could not fail me, since, to the best of my knowledge, it was so firmly grounded on justice."

He drew a deep breath, a sad smile hovering on his lips. "Bear with me, my friends; did I not warn you there were some good things to be said of me? But be very sure there is cause for blame as well, nay, I must bring an accusation against myself concerning the very days I speak of. My self-reliance was far stronger than could be justified by any virtue or success of mine. I not only believed myself to be a good man--which no doubt I was--but the very best man of my age and condition. This ugly delusion, like my virtues, was the natural outcome of my history, of my every experience. If a man has to climb a very steep mountain, he must believe in himself, considering himself stronger and more capable than perchance he is, else he would never set out on his journey, at any rate he would fail by the way. And how much more so if he is all alone! 'The thumb thinks more of itself than all the four fingers put together,' our much-lamented Father Martin used to say--one of the few sensible sayings he could boast of.

"You may wonder that I should accuse myself just of this vice! If I were to put the question to you to bring home to me any proud saying or act of conceit, I dare say none of you could do it. Have I, then, deceived you--shown myself different from what I am? Do I stand here a hypocrite, self-convicted? Nay, God knows it is not so, and this will not explain the apparent discrepance. It was no trouble to me to be gentle and good and kind to every one, first at Ridowa and then at Zulawce--helpful to all, and ready to serve them. I did but follow my own inmost nature, and to be different would have cost me trouble. Indeed, that pride of mine which possessed me was of a peculiar kind. I, at least, never knew a man who was lorded over by a similar taskmaster. The consciousness was ever present with me--'This Taras Barabola is a good man, and righteous and just. I am glad I am he!' But it were a mistake on your part to suppose that for this reason I was happy, wrapped up in my own esteem. No, indeed--that pride of mine, again and again, was the cause of shame to me, when I examined my deeds and those of others. 'No man is a church-door,' says the proverb with us. And I, too, was of flesh and blood; I, too, must fail and sin where I would not. Little sins mostly, at which another might have laughed without therefore being counted wicked or specially hardened. But to me, they were grievous beyond words. And no effort, no honest will of mine was a defence against them; for man is but human, and walking along the dusty road of this life he can scarcely keep his skirt entirely pure. The careless man will not be troubled by a little more or less of dust on his garment; but he who, so to speak, has a habit of frequently looking at himself in the glass, cannot but feel the smallest speck a burden. And thus, just because of my pride, my little sins have weighed on me far more than many a man can say of his grievous ill-doings, and to atone for them seemed almost impossible.

"But more than this, even the ill habits of others would be a burden to me in the same way. For instance, to exemplify it by the most frequent occurrence, it was a real pain to me to see any neighbour of mine yield to drink, carrying not only his earthly gains but his very manhood into the public house, there to lose them. Others would find it best to mind their own business, but that pride of mine left me no peace. 'What is the use of your being so good, Taras,' it would say, 'unless you strive to help and save? What is the use of your being so sensible, so sober and self-denying, except that you should be an example to these besotted fools?' I was just driven to do what I could to rescue the man; my pride would have torn me to pieces had I forborne; and if I failed in my endeavour, as in most cases I could not but fail, it made me sad at heart, and I believed myself bad and useless because of it. It was the same regarding the laziness or unfitness of any in their daily work. I would try to get hold of such men gently, teaching them without hurting their vanity. In these things I mostly succeeded, for a man will more readily take your advice concerning the ploughing of his field or the management of his cattle, than he will take it in matters of drink or ill-usage to some poor girl. Moreover, I could always fall back on myself--I mean, if some idle or besotted neighbour would let his farm go to ruin I could come to his assistance; for the diligent man is never short of time, and my own farm need not suffer because of my helping another. Indeed, I have often thus helped a neighbour, sometimes because compassion was strong in me, but more often it was just that same pride that made me do it."

"You should not say so!" broke in a voice, quivering with emotion. "You should not, indeed! How dare you call it pride--how dare you make a vice of what is the rarest of virtues?"

It was Father Leo. With a troubled heart, shaken to its depth with pity and with grief, he had listened to his friend. He alone had understood what Taras meant in saying he must "separate from those that dwell in peace," and he knew that the terrible forebodings which had come to him during the interview with Jemilian were about to be fulfilled. But how to prevent it--ah, how, indeed? Every fibre of his honest soul trembled with the apprehension of it; every faculty of his brain was bent on finding a means of averting the great sorrow at hand. "I am unable to hold back ruin," he murmured, pressing closer to the table, longing to be nearer his friend when the terrible word would be spoken. And standing there with a beating heart, the whole history of the strangest of men once more passed before his soul--all the shaping of so dread a fate--since first he beheld Taras, the leader of the community gathered by the Pruth to receive him on making his entry into the parish; all he had known of him since, until the interview by the window in the past night, until that cry of despair still ringing in his ears but far distant already, for God only could tell how much of the terrible history had been woven even since that cry....

"It is all as it must be," sighed he, bowing his head; "there is no help for it!" But his impassioned heart could not surrender without a struggle. If he could do nothing else for his friend, he at least would not allow that best of men to accuse himself unjustly before this crowd of listeners, of whom few indeed were fit to look upon so noble a soul thus laid bare to their gaze. It was for this reason he had interrupted him at the risk of a sharp rebuke from the highly-wrought speaker.

But Taras was calm, smiling even as he made answer: "Nay, your reverence, I must distinctly contradict you--I know it was pride. But I will own to you that the only man to whom I ever opened my heart before this hour, speaking to him about this vice, shared your error. The man I mean was that honest compatriot of ours at Vienna, Mr. Broza, and he spoke words to me which I should not repeat if I were not a dying man. 'This is sheer blasphemy,' he said, 'do you not see whom you accuse of sin, if you call that kind of disposition pride? None other, let me say it reverently, than the Saviour Himself--Christ Jesus, the Lord! In this sense He also was proud--ay, a thousand times prouder than you--the very proudest man that ever lived.... But happily,' he added, 'happily we call it by another name--the beneficence of him who being a law to himself is filled with tenderest love to his neighbours.... I do not mean thereby to compare you with our Lord, Taras,' he concluded, 'but you are a rare man nevertheless--a Christ-like man.' Bear with me, men and women, for let me say it over again, it is a dying man that dares repeat such words to you. And surely I know my own heart better than another can know it. It was pride that moved me; it was sin.

"But having now laid bare my inmost heart to you, showing you the good and the bad within me, you may judge for yourselves how I must have felt when first I came among you. It was as though I had entered a strange world, it was all so different from the lowlands--different and, as I was ready to say, worse. But my pride did not permit me to look down upon you on that account, or to rejoice in finding you wanting; on the contrary, it urged me at all hazards to correct your ill habits. It was no easy matter for me to understand you, and find a reason for your doings; but I set about it and perceived where to make a beginning, and to what length I could go. My task grew plain. There was need to improve your agriculture, giving you for your low-lying fields the ploughshare of the plain. There was need to show you how to benefit your live stock by increasing the number of herdsmen and providing the cattle with shelter. There was need to accustom you to a garb more suitable to your labour, need to teach you the advantage of adding rye-bread and beef to your staple food. There was need, above all things, to break you from that wildest of your habits, so full of danger to yourselves, the constant wearing of arms...."

He stood erect, stretching forth his hand, as he scanned the people proudly. His eyes shone, and his voice increased in fervour.

"For twelve years I have lived in this village. As a poor serving man I came hither, and for years I bore the scorn of many. I have never boasted of what you owe me; no word or look of mine ever called your attention to what I have done for you. Nor would I do so now. What, indeed, were the gain of your thanks to a man in my position? But I will have you know the truth about me, and justly you shall judge me; it is therefore I ask you--Have I done these things, and were they for your good? Have I benefited you, and is it my doing--mine alone?"

His voice swelled like thunder: "Speak the truth, men of Zulawce--yes or no!"

There was a breathless silence, broken after a minute or two, as the forest silence is broken by a gust of wind when the branches whistle, the stems bend and creak, and every creature starts up affrighted, the many voices blending in one mighty sound; and thus to the pale, proud man but a single answer was given, bursting simultaneously from these hundreds of men.

"Yes, Taras, yes--it was all your doing!"

And then only the excited answers of individuals were heard.

"Yes, indeed," exclaimed an old man, "just eight years ago Taras built us the first cattle-fold, and the gain since has been double!"

"Long live Taras!" cried Simeon, half choking with sobs.

"Yes! yes!" broke in Wassilj, the butcher, "if we feed better, it is because he showed us how!"

"And it is all true concerning the plough--I ought to know!" chimed a voice like that of a little boy. It was Marko, the smith, a giant to look at, who owned this queer little voice.

"Long live Taras!" repeated Simeon; one after another joining in the cry--"Yes, Taras for ever!"

But the unhappy man stood trembling, his bosom heaved, and tears ran down his haggard face. He tried to speak, but the words would not rise to his lips, nor could he have made himself heard for the people's wild acclamation. At last he succeeded, and, holding out his folded hands to them, he cried with a voice so rent with agony that his listeners grew white with dread.

"Stop! stop! for pity's sake, stop! Let not your thanks overwhelm me, lest your reproaches presently be the harder to bear. For pure and honest as my intention was, you will come to see I have lived to be a curse to myself and my family; a curse, also, to you!..."

There was a deep silence when he had thus spoken, a solemn pause, and all the harsher sounded the spiteful voice of the corporal which broke it: "A curse? ah, you own it! but you took care it should fall lightly on yourself, you who fooled an heiress and sneaked into the judgeship!"

"Hold your tongue, you villain!" burst from a hundred voices; and when Simeon added, indignantly, "Be off, wretch that you are!" the echo went round, "Be off!" The worthy hero grew pale, continuing, however, to smile and to twist his moustache, that finest of moustaches in all Pokutia. But ere long his smile forsook him, for he beheld a little armed band that had pressed up to the speaker, endeavouring now, with cries of resentment, to make their way to him. There were six of them--Hritzko and Giorgi Pomenko, the sons of Simeon; Sefko and Jemilian, Taras's men; Wassilj Soklewicz, and with him a stranger--that same Lazarko Rodakowicz, whom Taras had admitted to his own followers, although he had come to him from Green Giorgi, the outlaw. They were in a towering rage, and evidently bent on punishing the corporal.

Constantino trembled visibly, offering not the slightest resistance when two of his comrades--like him, on furlough--took hold, one of his right arm and one of his left, to drag him away towards the inn. The people made room, but the words which fell from their lips were anything but complimentary. "You cur!" cried the men, "you heartless scoundrel, how dare you insult that man in his sorrow? ... Cannot you see that he has resolved upon an awful thing, even his own death? ... And besides this, are you not one of ourselves, you beggar? Do you not know that respect is due to the general meeting?"

The crestfallen warrior saw fit to hold his peace, making what haste he could towards the safety of the inn. Not till he had gained the threshold did he find courage to bethink himself of some witty remark, but it shrank back within his own soul on his entering the parlour; he stood still, abashed.

They had laid down the wife of Taras on one of the broad wooden benches of the deserted place. The heart-broken woman was a sight to move any man; some of the women were striving to comfort her, especially the good little popadja and a kindhearted Jewess, the innkeeper's wife. Poor Anusia had recovered from her swoon; she lay with wide-open eyes, moving her lips, and burying her hands wildly in the black masses of her hair, which hung about the death-like face. But her mind seemed wandering, she gazed absently; and no words--a moaning only fell from her lips, rising to a smothered cry at times, and dying away. The women who tended her felt their blood run cold with the pity of it--no impassioned speech, no flood of tears, could have moved them like that stifled cry, as of a wild creature in an agony of pain. Once only she found the power of words when the corporal had just entered the room--"Away, whitecoat!" she cried.

But the next moment she raised herself on the bench, clasping her hands and holding them out to him with piteous entreaty: "No--stop--hear me! Make him a prisoner--don't let him go--for the merciful Christ's sake, make him a prisoner!"

She sought to gain her feet, but the women held her back gently: "She is going out of her mind!" they whispered, awe-struck, making signs to the corporal to be gone. He was only too glad to obey, quaking with horror, and retreating to the open air. Silence had fallen without, and the crowd once more prepared to listen to the haggard, grief-maddened man, who had once been the gentlest and most peace-loving of them all, and whose wife could but entreat his meanest enemy now to hold him back from lawless deeds....

"To come to the point," Taras was saying, "the most painful part of it all--how did I come to be a curse to you, to myself, to all in this place? It is the consequence of an awful mistake; yet it was not my belief itself that was at fault, nor my trust in you, but my confidence in others!

"To this day it is my deepest, holiest conviction, and I will maintain it with my dying breath, that this world is founded on justice. To each of us, I hold, God has given a duty to perform, but we have our rights also, which others must not infringe. This indeed is the staff which the Almighty has given us to enable us to bear up under our load. For a burden each one has to carry. And for this reason no one shall dare to touch his neighbour's staff, or to add unrighteously to his load. For He that dwelleth above has ordered all things wisely, adjusting the burden of each man, and weighing it in the scales of His equity. The man who dares to interfere with this highest justice, sins against God's rule upon earth, and he shall not do so with impunity. But the Almighty does not visit every deed of wrong with His own arm; for He will not have us look upon justice, or atonement for its violation, as on something supernatural, but as on a thing essential to this life of ours, like the air we breathe. For this reason He has portioned out the earth into countries, calling a man to the rulership of each, to be judge in His stead, to protect the well-doer and to punish the evil-doer. This God-appointed man--it is the Emperor with us--has a great burden laid on him by the Almighty, but also a stronger staff to uphold him than any of ours, the Imperial power. Yet the most powerful man is but human, and even an emperor has but two eyes to see; and, like the poorest of his subjects, he can only be in one place at a time. So he, again, follows the divine example, portioning out his great empire into districts, appointing a man in each to be judge in his stead, and investing him for that purpose with some of his power--for since he is to bear part of the Emperor's burden, it is but fair he should have part of the Emperor's staff to strengthen him. These men are the magistrates; and in their turn they follow out the example of their master, the Emperor, and the higher example of Him above--they see that every parish is administered by its own judge, yielding to him part of their power to guard the right. In like manner every village judge behaves to the heads of families. I look upon it as a glorious ladder, replete with comfort, uniting earth with heaven, and bringing us poor sinful men nearer to Him who made us. I say it is glorious, because the proudest intellect could not add anything to its perfect goodness; and I say it is replete with comfort, because the very lowest step of this ladder is under the same law as the highest. For no matter whether I be a shepherd or a king, he who wrongs me is committing equal sin, and it is the duty of those to whom God has entrusted the power to protect the shepherd as though he were a king. My duty is to do what is right, and not suffer any wrong silently, but to report it to those whom God has appointed to protect me. All further responsibility must rest with them!

"Such being to this day my holiest conviction, I am unable to swerve from my former opinion concerning you. You appeared to me like wild beasts, your love of avenging yourselves filled me with horror until I perceived whence it came; it was because you had not yet been taught to wean yourselves from the ways of your ancestors, who, descending from the mountains, settled here. They did well to look upon their firelocks as the best argument in maintaining their rights. For God will have the right respected, and the ladder I have spoken of is subservient to it; but where the influence of that ladder cannot make itself felt, as in the far-off mountain districts, the power of watching over his own right must return to the individual man. God Himself must have so willed it, otherwise He would not have peopled those outlying haunts. But you, who are within reach of the law, continued to act as though God had never made the provision I have spoken of! It filled me with horror unspeakable; and if your lesser shortcomings had power to rouse that pride of mine, how much more so this offence!...

"Many of you will remember my wedding-day, and how I was laughed at for being so serious; but I was not sad, only full of thought. I knew that I was about to enter upon an entirely new life, a life beset with the most difficult duties. For when I stood before the altar I not only married the girl I loved, but, if I may so express it, I married this village; and not only to her, but to you also, ay, and to Justice herself, I promised with a sacred oath to be faithful unto death. No words of mine could ever express what I felt on that day, how my thoughts from my own newly-granted happiness would roam away to a solemn future. For I knew that all my life in this place would be a falsehood if I did not strive with might and main to bring you to accept that will of God for yourselves also.... On my wedding-day! such a terrible taskmaster was that pride of mine!...

"I set about it. I soon perceived that I could do little unless I had power vested in me--unless I were elected to the eldership. But I scorned the idea of bringing about that end by despicable means. I could only leave it with God--whose kingdom I strove to uphold--to guide your minds. And when I had been chosen, I directed my every effort to the furthering of the glorious end I had in view.

"That same end was still my desire when the new mandatar arrived four years ago. You there and then turned against him; I spoke for him. Events have since shown that you were right in your antipathy, for he is a wicked man; but you were wrong nevertheless, hating him only because he was the mandatar. This dislike of yours came to be the test of my influence with you; for those of you whom I could convince that it was wrong to hate him because it was his business to claim the labour we owed to his master, could learn to understand also about that will of God. I did succeed with many of you, and the day was at hand that should prove it; for when the mandatar came down upon as with his demand, expecting us to render the tribute of our live stock to the very day, you accepted my view of the question. It was the same in the more difficult matter concerning the forest labour. I shall never forget what I felt after those meetings. 'Thou God of Justice' my heart kept crying, 'these people are learning to accept Thy will!' Old Stephen turned from me--a real grief--but it could not lessen the holy joy I felt. Indeed, that same joy would have been mine if those meetings had cost me"--he said it slowly, and with marked emphasis--"the love of my wife, or the welfare of my children! The rupture between me and him was irretrievable; there could be no agreement between the village as it had been and the village as it should be according to my hopes, and, therefore, none between Stephen and me. Even his dying words, greatly as they touched me, offered abundant proof that his thoughts and mine concerning the most sacred things in life had ever been widely apart. I did not understand him when he said to me, 'It cannot but end ill when the judge is of another caste than the people he is called to rule.' ... I believed, on the contrary, that it would be an ill thing for Zulawce if the judge, like the rest of the people, were given to violence. Now if there had been among you a man of a like mind with myself, and better than I, I would have thought it wrong to seek the judgeship; but as it was, my very conscience laid it upon me to do so. I was chosen unanimously, as never a judge before me or since. I was glad for myself, and more glad for your sakes. There was little danger now, I thought, that you should ever fail in your duty to the Count, or try to right yourselves by force of arms. That the new mandatar was a miserable scoundrel I knew soon enough; it caused me vexation and disgust--the kind of disgust one feels in touching a toad--but I never for a moment considered it a cause of alarm. How should the righteous come to suffer in a country where justice prevails? So I never even threatened him; ay, more than this----"

He paused as though he had to brace himself up for pronouncing the words that must follow. But presently he added, "I have to say that which hitherto has been utterly unknown to you. Let your wrath be upon me, for it furnished the root whence all this trouble has sprung. Yet I could not have acted differently. It was myself who assured the rascal, on his hypocritical inquiry, that we should never meet violence with violence; and it was this assurance of mine that gave him the courage to wrong us, coward that he is!"

A cry of rage, not unmixed with surprise, burst from the assembled men, followed once more by a deep silence, when nothing was heard but their excited breathing; they were anxious to hear more, and he continued: "You have a right to be angry! But I also was right in thus speaking to him. And the proud confidence whence those words of mine had sprung did not forsake me when he dared violence. I was more deeply roused than any of you, because I loved the right more deeply. But we had need to keep our hands pure, both for our own sakes and for the dear sake of justice, for the guilt of it all must be left with him entirely; therefore, I staked my very life to prevent your having recourse to violence on your side. I thanked God that I succeeded; and for the rest of it, it no longer was concern of ours, but of the imperial law court. I waited for the verdict as never before did human soul wait and hunger for the word of man! and when at last it was given--well, if you will take into account my life and the man I am, you will understand that no human tongue can describe the indignation which possessed me. I was utterly broken, yet not with impotent rage, nor yet with my just resentment against those miserable weaklings that should have righted us--but only with an utter pity for myself. For at the very moment when that hunchback creature of a clerk made known to us their decision, the conviction darted through me: 'Poor Taras! if right and justice are not to be trampled under foot, you will have to become a law-breaker in the sight of men!'--I, the happy husband and father, the good, peace-loving judge--a law-breaker! ... That was what smote me down, making me swoon like a woman, and for this reason I cried and moaned like a child when I returned to consciousness. Still, it was at that time only a thought, brooking no gainsaying it is true, but there was no resolve about it, still less any planning. My mind was overshadowed with the thunder-cloud that hung heavy on the inward horizon. I had not yet come to consider the ruin that lurked in its blackness, and as yet I gazed upon it with horror and dismay as upon a thing within the range of vision only, but outside the circle of my soul. And once again confidence lifted her head. What though the court of the district had failed to do right, there were other steps of the ladder beyond! I carried our complaint to the court of appeal at Lemberg, hoping and waiting yet again. But not with the strong hope of the former waiting! The mind yet clung to it, but my heart had lost its assurance. And the cloud remained. It spread more and more, forcing me to consider how it would break. And then,"--his voice sank to a hoarse whisper--"and then I felt an inward compulsion to go hunting in the mountains ... it was there I came to see how it would end....

"On returning--it was about this season last year--I found the superior court's verdict. The plea was declared to be groundless. I did not burst into a rage, I did not even lament; but I saw that the cloud must break. It was due, however, not only to me and mine, but even to humanity, once again to consult my legal adviser. He mentioned the Emperor; it was only by way of saying something, for the poor man, himself helpless in the matter, pitied my distress. But that remark lit up my night, comforting me greatly; it sent its radiance across the dreary wild in which the straying wanderer had vainly been seeking his home. The darkness, the terrors were forgotten, for the light of his own hearth had shone forth to guide him. I had forgotten that there was one on earth whom the matter concerned even more than myself, because God had laid it upon him as a great and holy duty; and I knew now it was my duty to go to that man--to appeal to the Emperor. I went to Vienna, upborne by a boundless hope! it gave me courage to face the strange country, to face every difficulty in my way to reach the ear of Majesty....

"But when I had seen him--it required no word of his--I knew that my hope was vain. Now, I will not have it said of me that I speak unjustly of any man; let me say, therefore, I do not look upon the Emperor of Austria as on one who loves wickedness or unrighteousness. He is a poor, sickly creature, fond of his lathe they say, and he seemed very anxious to know about my boots and breeches. That is all; for he is my enemy now, whom I shall have to oppose as long as there is breath in this body, and it behoves a man to speak more generously of his enemy than of his dearest friend....

"I returned home as a man who knows what is before him, and, recognising his duty, determines that the inevitable shall not find him unprepared. I acted accordingly with a sadness unspeakable, abiding the imperial decision. Not that I was foolish enough to hope it might turn out favourably; but what I meditated grew to be right only when the Emperor's refusal had reached me. It would have been sin before! But the time of waiting must not be lost.... Once again I retired into the mountains, endeavouring to make myself at home there more and more....

"Last night Father Leo transmitted to me the final decision. It is unfavourable. I have it much at heart that you should understand it is the denial in itself and nothing else in the writ that has ripened my intention. Some foolish clerk has clothed the refusal in unkind words, talking of prison unless I submitted. But I know better than to imagine that he did so by order of that harmless man, the Emperor, who is too good-natured to think of hurting a fly. It is not that which moves me. Nay, if he had penned it with his own hand I would not care a straw about it, any more than I should be influenced to the contrary if he were to write: 'My dear Taras, it grieves me sorely to deny your request; but I am anxious to reward your honest zeal by sending you the golden cross with which I decorate great heroes.' I should send back his cross, and would proceed with the duty which is before me."

As these words were falling from his lips his armed companions--Sefko and Jemilian, Wassilj Soklewicz and Lazarko Rodakowicz--had approached him more closely, standing quite near to him now. Their faces were white and quivering with emotion, most of all Jemilian's, who could not restrain his tears as he turned to his master, handing him his gun.

"Not yet," said Taras gently; but he took the weapon, leaning upon it as he continued, distinctly, slowly, and solemnly: "Now listen to me, ye men, and all that have come to hear me! Listen attentively, that you may be able to repeat my words to any that should ask you. A fearful wrong has been committed in this village--there has been robbery and perjury. I have used every means provided by the law to undo it. It has been of no avail. The perjured witnesses remain unpunished, and the wrongdoer enjoys the benefit of his robbery. Nay more--not only have I vainly appealed to the constituted authorities, the guardians of our right, but I have done so to your hurt and mine. I have been a curse to the village, because I strove for justice. He who loves the right must suffer, and the evildoer flourishes!

"It is incredible, and how should one understand it? Is that fair faith of mine falsehood and deception? Is it not true that God has put an Emperor over the land, giving him much power, that he should see to the right? Is there no such ladder as I have spoken of binding earth to the high courts of heaven?

"Yes--yes, and yes again! It is so, it must be so everywhere where men would dwell in safety; but it is not so with us. In this unhappy place the arbitrariness, the unfitness, the carelessness of men has counteracted the holy will of God, making the wrong victorious!

"What, then, is the consequence for every right-seeking man? I have shown that wherever the divine institution is powerless, as for instance in distant mountain haunts, it is not incompatible with the will of God that every man should be the guardian of his own right. And how should it be otherwise in an unhappy place, where the wicked man's violence is left to trample down the right with impunity? In such a place also the power of protecting his life and goods must return to the individual man. If there is no Emperor to help me, I must help myself!

"Hear, then, these three things. Let them he repeated from mouth to mouth, that all men shall know them who dwell in this unhappy land in which justice is not to be found!

"Firstly! Since the Emperor is not doing his duty towards me, I am not bound by my duty towards him. And therefore I, Taras Barabola, declare before Almighty God and these human witnesses that I can no longer honour and obey this Emperor Ferdinand of Austria. His will in future is nothing to me, I disown and disregard it; and in all things in which hitherto I have acted according to his laws I shall henceforth be guided by my own conscience solely. Should he cause me to be summoned I shall pay no heed; should he despatch his soldiers to catch me, I shall defend myself. And since his magistrates abuse their power to the furtherance of wrong, and he takes no steps to prevent it, I shall strive to lessen that power as much as possible, waging war upon it wherever I can! I shall do this anywhere, everywhere, while I can lift a hand! Yes, I, Taras Barabola, in the name of Almighty God, herewith declare war against the Emperor of Austria!--War!--War!"

A shriek rose from the people, surprise, horror, approval and disgust blending together in a single cry, which died away as suddenly and completely as though it had been wrung from these hundreds of listeners--an involuntary outburst of their mute dismay.

"Secondly! Because justice is withheld from us, I shall take it by force. I shall oblige the mandatar to indemnify the village. Yet this will not be the extent of my duty, but only a beginning. If the name of Almighty God is not to be dishonoured in this country, there is need of a judge, of an avenger, before whom the evil-doer shall tremble and whom all good men can trust. And since there appears to be no one else for this holy office, I shall undertake it, looking upon it as a sacred duty while life shall last. I will be a protector to the oppressed in the Emperor's stead, since he is not. And because his power is with the wrong-doer, I shall require a strong arm to oppose it. I shall unfurl my banner up yonder in the mountains; let each and all come to me that will serve the right. The wild forest which hitherto has been the haunt of lawbreakers only, must now be a gathering-place for those that honour the law, but to whom justice is dearer. There I shall dwell, beyond the reach of any of their hirelings. I shall swoop down upon the dwellings of men whenever the high calling I have accepted requires me to do so, and I shall return thither having avenged the wrong."

"A hajdamak!" cried Simeon, despairingly. "Our Taras a hajdamak!"

"Taras a hajdamak!" echoed the people, some scornfully, some in utter dismay, according to the hatred or pity that rose uppermost.

"No!" cried Taras, a deep flush overspreading the pallor of his face. "God forgive you for insulting me at this time. A hajdamak is a brigand, but I shall be the leader of a band of avengers, and we shall fight against every evil-doer--against those scoundrels also who go by that name. Let me add, now, what in the third and last place I have to say. Within a week from this, by Easter Sunday, my banner will be unfurled up yonder. Whoever can come to me with pure hands, either to inform me of a wrong committed, or to join my band, will be able to learn my whereabouts from any honest herdsman or bear-hunter of the forest. But let him consider it well before he becomes a follower of mine. If he seek pleasure or lawlessness let him not come near me, for our living will be of the poorest, and I shall maintain the strictest discipline. If he hope for booty let him keep away; for no plundering will be allowed, and with my own hand shall shoot the man who, while following my banner, shall dare to touch any man's goods. Let none come to me who can testify to being happy, for he that follows me must know that there is no returning, that he has separated himself for ever from all men dwelling in peace; he must be ready to meet death any day, either in open combat, which is a death to be courted, or on the gallows, as though he were an evil-doer indeed. It would not be thus if men were different, if generosity and self-denial were not so rare in the world; for then my banner could be that of open insurrection, enlisting all good men against the common foe--the wrong to be put down. But this cannot be; I must be satisfied with the possible.

"And now I pray you to make this known, not forgetting to add that Taras Barabola will continue this war until he has gained the great end he strives for, until that glorious, divine institution is visibly established in this land. If I can but succeed, let happen to me what may, and though I should have to pay for it with my own life, I should meet even the felon's death a victor indeed."

He paused, his breast heaving, and then he added, with faltering voice:--

"And now ... fare ye well! Accept my best wishes, individually and as a community .... I am grateful to those who ever did me a kindness, and forgive those who have done me any wrong ... Be good to my unhappy wife, to my poor little children.... I leave them here--ah, forsaken indeed.... Pity them, don't pity me.... If you will but believe I am not wantonly becoming an outlaw that is all I look for.... It may be the last time you see me.... May your life be happier than mine.... Farewell!"

These broken words fell upon so deep a silence that they were heard plainly by all that crowd of listeners, although his voice had sunk to a whisper, quivering with tears. And none dared break the silence when he had finished, until, with a sudden leap from the table, and surrounded by his companions, he strove to make a way for himself towards the church.

Then only the sacred awe which held them spellbound was lifted from the souls of these men, yielding to a commotion unheard of, even among that savage people--in their 'general assembly' at least. Every man seemed ready to attack his neighbour; it was a tumult unspeakable, and some time passed before one voice succeeded in making itself heard above the rest. It was that of the corporal. "Stop him!" he roared. "He is a rebel, I will make him a prisoner in the Emperor's name. You must help me, all of you. Jewgeni, what is the good of your being judge?" He was not left alone this time, some dozen of old soldiers rallying round him.

But the rest of the men indignantly opposed him. "We are no policemen!" chirped the infant voice of the herculean smith. "No policemen!" echoed the people.... "Let him go in peace!... He has addressed the general meeting, and has a right to go free."

"In the name of the Emperor!" reiterated the corporal, white with rage, and, snatching a pistol from the belt of his nearest neighbour, he pointed it at the men, "Let me do my duty, or woe to your lives!"

"Woe to yourself!" cried Wassilj, the butcher, brandishing his axe in the would-be hero's face; and blood would certainly have flowed had not the judge interfered, an unwonted courage coming to him from the urgency of the situation.

"Do you know this sign?" he cried, thrusting his staff of office between them. "There is power vested in it; this is the general meeting, and I command you, desist!" And the combatants owned his authority, Wassilj dropping his axe and the corporal his pistol.

Taras, meanwhile, surrounded by his little band, attempted to break through the ranks; it was not so easy, for the people pressed round him, endeavouring to hold him, and discoursing wildly. But far harder to the parting man was the sorrowful entreaty of his friends. Alexa Sembrow, the late elder, had fallen on his knees before him, his white hair framing an agonised face. "Don't Taras, for God's sake, don't do it!" he kept repeating, while old Simeon bethought himself of another means, haply, to stop him. He was pressing to the inn to bring hither poor Anusia. Father Leo alone looked on with folded arms, his face quivering, his lips unable to move.

He was the only one for whom Taras yet had a word; turning to him with deep emotion, he said: "Forgive me, thou best of friends, forgive my silence, and my grieving thee now so sorely. Thou hast loved me truly, I know!"

That was too much for Leo; he lay weeping in the arms of his friend.

"Alas," he sobbed, "what a man is lost in you!"

"Not so!" replied Taras, disengaging himself gently. "He who obeys the dictates of his own true heart cannot be lost, happen what may--at least not in the eyes of the just ones...." He turned away, stopping once again: "Father Leo," he said, below his breath, so that the priest only could understand him, "Father Leo, will you promise me one thing?"

"Surely. What is it? About your wife?"

"Nay; I require no promise on her account, for I know your heart. It is about--myself--when one day--my last hour shall have come--may I send for you? Will you come to me--to any place?--no matter how terrible it be?"

"I shall come," faltered the pope.

"Do you pledge me your word ... to any place?"

"Wherever it be."

"Thank you for all your friendship--for this last proof most of all...."

He turned away hastily, whispering to Jemilian, "Are the horses ready?"

"Yes; behind the church, as you commanded. Young Halko has saddled them, and is waiting your orders."

"Then let us be gone."

But one more wrench before he could be free. The sons of Simeon, Hritzko, and Giorgi, had caught his knees.

"Take us with you," they cried; "we cannot--we will not let you go without us!"

"Get up!" he cried, sharply; and there was no gainsaying his voice, hoarse though it was with emotion. "Do you think I am villain enough to ruin the sons of my friend?" Adding, with a quivering smile: "You are quite incorrigible. What was the use of my resisting your importunity before? But love me always, and remember me when I am gone. You are dear to me. Good-bye!"

He walked away, and none stopped him. Having mounted, he was about to spur his horse, when once again his name was called with a shriek so heartrending that he shuddered and paused.

He knew who was calling him. His unhappy wife was standing outside the inn, looking after him with despairing eyes. She would have fallen to the ground had not old Simeon supported her trembling figure.

"Farewell!" faltered Taras; but the sound did not reach her, falling dead at his own feet as it were.

He could but wave his hand, and, spurring his horse mercilessly, the creature dashed away in a maddened gallop, his men following; and the little band vanished in the mysterious shadows of the fir-covered uplands.

CHAPTER X.

[TO THE MOUNTAINS.]

There is a strange legend concerning the origin of the Carpathians, which, now towering abruptly, now rising in gentler lines, form a mighty wall of separation between the rich lowlands where the Theiss flows and that vast plain, of heath-country diversified with fertile tracts, stretching away southward beyond the Pruth into Roumania. To those blue-green domes cling the gathering clouds, and sailing away thence they burst in storms of rain upon the Magyar or upon the Ruthen, as the capricious winds may list; and in those forest-haunts the rivers rise which come down from the heights, headlong at first and wondrously clear, but flowing wearily as they reach the plain. The dwellers round about differ in race and tongue; but they look to the mountains as to a common centre, where the weather is born, and whence the water is given for the lowlands; and common to all is that quaintest of legends, whether Slav, or Magyar, or Roumanian--a legend crudely imagined, but not without a meaning of its own, however fancifully expressed.

There was a good old time, the people will tell you, at the beginning of things, when the earth was a fair garden, a fertile plain, with pleasant groves here and there, and gentle hills. There were no mountains, no ravenous beasts, no thunder storms, no bursting waters, and the people were of one race and tongue. Men were happy in those far-off times--tilling the soil, and living on the fruits of this beautiful plain. And God would visit the garden He had made, and bless the children of men. But these foolish people were not content, and, uniting in their pride, they clamoured for golden harvests without previous toil; in punishment whereof the Lord God ceased to visit them, confounding their language so that they could no longer clamour in common, and permitting, moreover, a mighty barrier to be raised between them--the great Carpathians--to separate them into different tribes.

For the enemy of men was sent to raise the mountains, and to make them terrible withal. The heaving earth burst upward, and there were peaks and crags to frown at the discontented race. The evil one took seven days to shape the Carpathians, beginning on a Sunday, on which he heaped up the most towering parts, and finishing off with the lesser Carpathians on the seventh day when his power was nearly spent; that was Saturday, for which reason no doubt this part has always been a dwelling-place of Jews.

The mountain range of seven divisions, as is plainly to be seen, was of awful aspect, since the evil had the making of them: not a tree or green thing would grow to clothe the riven rocks and the peaks he had raised to spread terror upon the once smiling plain. For the Lord God had been wroth with men.

But there was One in heaven, the good Saviour, who prayed His Father not to be angry for ever, but to let Him add beauty to the mountains which the evil one had made for the punishment of men.

He went, and at His touch the whole range was changed, not losing its dread gloominess, yet gaining a wondrous beauty over and above. For the Saviour with His pitiful hand covered the bare mountains with the grandest forests ever seen, surrounding the rocks with spreading verdure, and planting flowers at their feet. He made waters to spring in every glen, and cascades leap from the crags; and though wolves and bears went prowling, He created sheep and the dappled deer to browse in the sylvan haunts. And ever since, the people will tell you, the Carpathians have had a beauty of their own, but with terror combined.

It is hardly to be imagined how a man would feel who, by some magic, were to find himself suddenly transplanted into the heart of these mountains. For unmoved he could not be, were his perceptions never so blunted; a sensation of awe would steal upon him with something of wonder and dismay. Nay, such a feeling must come upon any wanderer ascending step by step from the lowlands, though the gradual rise would prepare him in a measure for the weird grandeur and stern beauty unrolling before his eyes.

To such a one the range at first would appear as a gigantic ridge of clouds heaped up on the horizon, but differing in hue according to the time of day; of a bluish black in the morning, they fade into shades of grey, transparently pale in the full daylight, till the sinking sun suffuses them with a crimson blush, and they continue shining through the long twilight like a wall of fire at the far end of the dusky plain. But the following morning those same shapes are black again, and all the darker if the air be clear--a wall of towering density jutting its pinnacles into the ethereal blue.

They seem approaching, but the vast plain is delusive; they are yet miles away. The landscape, however, has left monotony behind, growing more changeful at every turn. The moorland has disappeared, with its sedgy pools, instead of which there is an abundance of rivulets, growing more limpid and more headlong as you proceed; for you are ascending steadily, your horizon enlarging. Cornfields are few and far between, wheat making room for the more hardy oats; while all about you there are great tracts of brownish uplands, where juniper bushes are plentiful and the heather will burst into sheets of bloom. Villages are becoming scarce--mere hamlets, too poor for a manor house, too poor almost for a church, and with cottages of the humblest, the public-house alone retaining its undesirable dimensions. Orchards are no longer to be seen, but beech woods increase; the forest encloses you, and soon even the beech is crowded out by the fir. The sky, wherever it appears through the jagged branches, is of a deeper blue, for there are no misty vapours here as in the lowlands; but the air is filled with a strange, crisp perfume, the resinous exhalations of pine wood. Every sense thus is alive to the change of scenery, and if you are a lover of your lowland home, despite its dreariness, you will be overtaken by a haunting sensation of fear of the unknown world you have entered.

But emerging from the pine wood presently, and looking back from the height you have gained, the very plain behind you has assumed another aspect, a strange loveliness enwrapping it. The old homely expanse is aglow with an emerald hue--a giant meadow seemingly--streaked with the silver of its flowing waters; a shining greensward, the brighter for its cottages; and far yonder, where the blue of the heavens seems mingling with the green of the earth, your own dwelling perchance, a fair jewel in a radiant setting.

But the far-off wall, with its towering blackness? It has resolved itself magically. To your right and to your left, and above you, there are round-domed mountains and bolder peaks rising atop of one another to an immeasurable height. That path up the pine wood has brought you into the heart of the Carpathians, and their strange beauty, weird and wild and unspeakably mysterious, is upon you suddenly.

Yet monotony is even here; the world seems a sea of swaying pines, and the eye has nothing to rest it from the gloomy green save the sky, vast and blue. The heart grows lonely and wistful, but scarcely attuned to tender thoughts as amid the voices of the plain. The spell of the forest wilds is upon it, bracing it up to its own sterner kind. Resistless and tossing, each torrent dashes through its rocky glen, breaking into clouds of spray about the boulders, and mantling the young pines in a shower of shining drops. And from the forest deeps strange music is heard of groaning branches and whispering tree tops, now wild and solemn, now murmuring as in dreams, never ceasing, but going on for ever like the song of the sea. And as you listen you are caught in a trance, and drawn deeper still into the witching region. Nature here does not captivate by little gifts and graces; but, having looked at you once with eyes of kindling beauty, wild, weird, and awful, you worship at her feet.

It is a charm both chaste and powerful, and, having known it once, you seek to know more. But not many are admitted to that delight, which is still reserved for the few--even as in the days when Taras Barabola repaired up yonder to unfurl his banner. Yet occasionally some lover of the wilder aspects of nature will quit the shores of the Theiss or the Fruth to seek entrance into the enchanted regions of that unknown world. The forest wilds of the Welyki Lys to this day are given over to bears, hajdamaks, and Huzuls, and the lowland folk aver that there is little to chose between either. But that is a libel.

Even a bear up yonder is as good-natured as a bear can be, not having made the closer acquaintance of man. A hunter by nature, he hates being hunted, and grows surly in consequence; nay, it must be owned that in the more inhabited parts he has quite lost his native bonhomie, growing cunning and spiteful, robbing more than his need, and killing for mere blood-thirstiness. Not so, however, up among the wilds. He is lord in possession there; behaving, accordingly, with a pride of his own, and not without generosity. Of course he will have his daily tribute, and fetches it too--now from this fold, now from that; but the shepherds and herdsmen quite understand this. There is no help against the lord of the soil, they say; but the bear, on the whole, is at least a convenient landlord, fetching himself what he wants, and not expecting you to carry it after him. Not fiercely as a robber, therefore, nor stealthily as a thief; but leisurely and with dignity, Master Bruin arrives at the pen, picks out his victim--the sheep, goat, or calf which takes his fancy--and walks away with it as quietly and unconcernedly as he came. And he behaves most fairly, not oppressing one unfortunate subject more than another, but visiting in succession all the pens and folds within a certain radius of his lair; so that he may be looked for at pretty regular intervals. The herdsmen have an idea that he acts from a positive sense of justice; while others, less credulous, are of opinion that the bear of the Carpathians is a great walker, and thus naturally finds himself now in this quarter, now in that, turning to the nearest sheep-fold when it is time for his dinner. That the queer biped he meets occasionally might also serve him for a meal, he generously ignores. If he falls in with a herdsman, he gives a growl: "With your leave, brother, there is room for us both." He growls too, though more angrily, on meeting any stranger, but rarely thinks it worth while to attack him; and if he comes across any one asleep he will have a sniff at him, but without a thought of hurting.

While the wolf, that low, ugly creature, is hated and hunted down everywhere, a strange feeling of respect prevents any native of the upper mountains from killing a bear. "The poor little father has none too easy a life of it," they say, "and it is not well to murder an honest fellow." There is a tale preserved in the forest of an Englishman who once arrived there with the notion of bear-hunting. But although he had muskets of wrought silver, and held them out as presents to any who would help him, not many were found wicked enough to join in the chase. "Indeed," say the people, "all who went were frozen to death, the bad Englishman first and foremost. It served him right for wishing to hunt the poor little father." The very outlaw, the homeless hajdamak, shares this feeling; and hunting for the pleasure of it, whatever he falls in with in the lower forest regions, he acts peaceably in the upper haunts. "We go shares with the bear up here," he says, "and he behaves well to us."

The Huzul also, that hybrid of Slavonic and Mongolian blood, who lives up yonder as a herdsman, hunting the wolf and the deer, and tilling such bits of ground as he can, is not nearly so bad as he is believed to be by his betters in the lowlands. His one great vice is an ingrained want of morality, his own share, handed down from his fathers, of original sin.

His ancestors, drifting away from the great wave of migration, unused to a settled home and personal property, knew neither Christianity nor the wedded estate. Their descendant has accepted all these fetters of lawlessness, but he wears them lightly, according to his nature. He has submitted to a settled dwelling, having a hut of his own, but he will not live in it except when he cannot help himself. From the time the snow begins to melt, until it lies again mountains deep for seven months in the year, the Huzul moves about with his cattle from pasture to pasture, from glen to glen, as though driven, not only by outward necessity, but also by a mysterious inward need. While the world is green--winter to him being the black time--he is never long on the soil of his own property. He must return at times to till his field, to sow and reap his oats--the hardest and most unwelcome of labour; he must do it, else he would die for want of food, but he never thinks of adding to his wealth by means of agriculture. Every lamb rejoices his heart, and he is proud of his foals; but if he enlarges his oat-field, it is only because of the downright necessity of meeting his wants, and nothing beyond.

Neither is he greatly advanced in his notions of personal property. To be sure there are certain fields, and pastures, and flocks, belonging to certain settlements, these consisting of three or four, sometimes even of ten or twelve families of the same kindred, and united under one head who rules by birthright. This chief appoints the sowing of the fields and the management of the sheep, but not a grain of oats, nor solitary lambkin belongs to him any more than to another. It is all common property. Indeed, there are even pastures and flocks which are the joint property of several settlements, so that a single lamb may happen to belong to several hundred owners. Such property is managed, and the proceeds are allotted at the meeting of the married men, who, though of different settlements, are yet related to one another; for such common ownership always springs from the fact that their forefathers formed one family, which, growing too large, had divided for want of space. There is no personal property then, save wearing apparel and arms; everything else belongs to the family, which means to the clan. The student of political economy, it will be seen, could enrich his knowledge among the Huzuls!

They are no favourites with the clergy. They are Catholics to be sure, of the Greek Church, but a good deal of their ancestors' heathenism has survived, and their lowland neighbours say of them that a cat is as good a Christian as they when she crosses her paws. They take care to have their children christened in the name of some saint, and they know that there is a God Almighty living up yonder with the Virgin Mary and their Son, and that there are lots of angels and devils, and of saints no end. This is the extent of their catechism, except, perhaps, that some few can repeat the Lord's Prayer after a fashion. There is no helpful pastor to feed these poor sheep, showing them the comfort they require as much as any. For they also are part of the groaning creation struggling with the sore riddle of existence, and their sense of helplessness is the greater because their lot is cast amid supremest hardships, leaving them too often the prey of the blind forces of nature. As much, then, as any of the striving children of men they are in need of the assurance that there is a Compassion more than human; but who is there to tell them the good news?

There are popes in the distant villages whose nominal parishioners they are. "Why do they not come to church, then?" Innocent question! The journey would take several days, even if they remembered they would be welcome. But since there is nothing to remind them of the far-off church and pope, how should they remember? And so Christianity to them has resolved itself into the legendary knowledge of the heavenly household, a poor, useless knowledge, although the Huzul does his best to grasp the idea of the Godhead, clothing it in his own image. The Almighty to his perception is a just Huzulean patriarch, something like Hilarion Rosenko dwelling by the "Black Water;" the Virgin Mary a kindly housewife; and Christ, the Saviour, a great, noble hunter, whom the spiteful hajdamaks killed for entering their domain. They don't quite understand why the popes should keep talking about this Saviour as though He were alive still; for if He is, why does He not show Himself among the mountains? But besides this "Christian" belief, they keep up the institution of those shining divinities worshipped by their ancestors of old--the sun, the moon, and the host of stars. These, happily, can be seen, and their blessings felt--the light and the warmth they shed upon the darksome wilds. But who shall save them from the powers of evil about them; from the stormy whirlwind rushing through the forests, uprooting the strongest trees and sweeping away the sheltering roof of their homestead? Who shall help them against the wicked sprites whose gambols produce snowdrifts, burying men and cattle? or who protect them from the evil witch stealing about in the gloaming with sickness in her train? For they are surrounded with uncanny beings of whom they know nothing save the ill-effects they feel, and they know but one means of pacifying them--as one pacifies an ill-natured neighbour, by occasional bribery.

These strangest of Christians and dwellers of the mountain wilds even manage to die without the pope's assistance. When some aged pilgrim lies at the point of death on the couch of bear and sheepskins they have spread for him, neither he nor his people give a thought to the ghostly shepherd of the nearest manse. What would be the use, indeed, if they did think of him, since it would take him at least nine days to come and return? so it is out of the question, and it is as well that neither the dying man nor his weeping relatives miss the spiritual comfort. One of them says the Lord's Prayer, adding some other mystic charm with which these poor people strive to pacify the divinities they believe in, the sufferer repeats the words with his dying breath and expires without anxiety on that score. When the corpse has stiffened, they bury it beneath some forest tree, cutting a great cross into the bole, not forgetting some mysterious signs to its right and left "for the other gods."

If, then, they manage even to die without the aid of a parish priest, it is scarcely to be wondered at if they do not need him to tie the nuptial knot. When any man and woman among them, generally of riper years, have agreed to spend their future days in common, this is a matter, they think, which concerns no one beyond themselves except the heads of their settlements, who never withhold their blessing unless the bridal pair should happen to be of different settlements at variance at the time about some bit of property or act of violence. If such is not the case the wedding is fixed upon forthwith, and word is sent over the mountains: "Come to the homestead of Marko, on such and such a day, when long-legged Sefko will take curly Magdusia to wife." And everybody is sure to come, bringing little gifts of kindness, and taking their fill of the schnaps which the heads of the settlements have procured in exchange for some sheep in honour of the guests. And when the last drop has been consumed, Sefko and Magdusia are looked upon as married, which does not always imply a change in the place of abode of either of them.

As for the pope's blessing, it is not disregarded on principle, since even the other gods are remembered; only there is no hurry. Sefko has no idea that Magdusia, in order to be his really, must be given to him by the pope, and so he takes his time about it, presenting himself for the blessing when opportunity offers, maybe the christening of their first offspring. If the pope be at all zealous he will, of course, lecture them on their want of morality, the pair listening submissively, but never understanding what should have roused the good man's ire, or displeased the Almighty, as he tells them. As for the infant, it is considered to belong to its mother's settlement, growing up to the same rights as any other youth.

For the rest, the Huzul shares in all the virtues and vices of uncivilised humanity: he is free from envy, candid, brave, and hospitable, but also coarse in his tastes and cruel. The Emperor's magistrates are nothing to him, he does not need their protection; and of his free-will he is not likely to pay any tax. Let his cousins of the lowlands do that, whom he pities and despises accordingly.

Of a similar kind are his feelings concerning the homeless hajdamaks; he, the native of the mountains, looking upon the outlaws much as the bear is supposed to look upon man; and, in consequence, actual enmity between them is rare. Not unless he were really starving with hunger or cold would a hajdamak ever think of attacking even a single herdsman up yonder, a last remnant of generosity preventing him from wronging those on whose soil he dwells, and who, as he but too well knows, could take grievous revenge any moment. Not in the memory of men, therefore--which is the only source of authentic history within the mountains--has it ever happened that a band of outlaws dared an attack upon any settlement.

But if the Huzul has little to fear from the hajdamaks, he may yet get into trouble on account of them, that is, by means of the Whitecoats who are after those ruffians. The Huzul considers it incumbent on him to hate the soldiers; for are they not the servants of a power he refuses to recognise? But that power will lay hold of him if it can. There is no help for the Emperor--he must just put up with it--if the Huzul refuses to consider himself a taxpayer; some Imperial exciseman, however, may see his opportunity of paying the Huzuls a visit under cover of the military. "Hang the hajdamaks!" groans the Huzul, "but for them no confounded exciseman would have ventured up hither;" and, overpowered with the thought of his loss in lambs and sheep, he is sure to add: "Hang the Whitecoats! I wish the hajdamaks could teach them a lesson and make them keep clear of the mountains for ever." He is so wrathful, indeed, that he could scarcely tell which of the two he would like to see hanged first.

A strict neutrality, however, is the outcome. He would rather die than betray to the Whitecoats the hiding place of "Green Giorgi"; at the same time he has no idea of warning the outlaw of his enemy's approach, or of rendering him any assistance whatever. He just looks on; and nothing would please him better than that the belligerent parties, like the fighting lions of the fable, should devour each other bodily. And there are other considerations, besides, inviting him to neutrality. He knows that there are ruffians among the hajdamaks whom, even with his notions of honour and justice, he cannot possibly approve of; but they are a mixed lot, and there are others among them who have done nothing a Huzul would despise. And since it is not written in a man's face why he has become an outlaw, the Huzul behaves alike to them all, neither loving them nor hating them, but holding aloof strictly.

The Imperial authorities, then, cannot expect the Huzuls' help against the bandits, and need not fear their making common cause with them; but that is all, since no one ever lifts a finger to raise the poor dwellers of the mountains and teach them a higher standard of right and wrong. It were quite useless to expect any better; and if regiment upon regiment were let loose upon the Carpathians no lasting result could be looked for; for to give chase to any outlaw in the vast forests is as hopeless as to seek for a particular insect in a cornfield. The lawless trade will not die out till Civilisation takes up her abode in the mountain wilds, taming the dwellers therein; and, if unable to make better men of them, preparing the way at least for her nobler sister, even Justice herself, in whose fair sight men are equals, and oppression shall not stand.

It would be a mistake, however, to imagine that all hajdamaks are criminals and cut-throats; a distinction must be made. There is no exact rendering for the word itself in any of the western tongues, and, fortunately, the thing also lies beyond the experience of happier nations. The Bulgarians only have a similar word, denoting a similar existence, the "hajdamak" of the Carpathians and the "hajduk" of the Balkan being akin, both revealing in strangest blending some of the best and some of the very worst impulses of a suffering people. It is not easy, therefore, to judge fairly.

There are three distinct types among these outlaws, or "free men" as they call themselves. Firstly, there are those who have escaped from the arm of justice, having committed some crime, and who are not only guilty in the sight of the law, but of ill repute even among their kind. These men never unite in great numbers, their own wickedness rendering them distrustful of one another. Singly, or at most by twos and threes, they will pursue their villainous trade of waylaying travellers, or perpetrating what robbery they can. They avoid open fight, being best protected by their cunning.

Secondly, and far more numerous, are those who are criminals indeed in the eye of the law, but are looked upon by the people as martyrs to their cause. Some may have fought the tax-gatherers in bitter despair when they were about to be sold up; they may have been good and peaceful men, who thus suddenly took up the evil life. But, terrible as existence may be in the forest wilds, it is better than prison, and the unhappy man flies thither from the wrong he has committed almost in spite of himself. "He is gone after the sun," say his neighbours, glad to know him safe when the constables seek him--gone westward, that is, from lowland Podolia into the Carpathians. And others there are, martyrs to the sad relation between the Polish landlord and the Ruthen peasant; the landlord oppressing, till at some dark moment of wrath or drunkenness the peasant snatches up his gun or hatchet. There are deserters, too, from the Emperor's colours, sympathised with cordially; for what right should the Emperor have, argue these people, to levy the life-tax among them!

"Come join us, ye men, for life here is sweet!" are the words of a hajdamak song. But in truth it is an awful existence, although the miserable fellows do their best to make it bearable to one another. They will gather in bands of a score or more, plighting their troth, each sharing with the other the good things which are of the fewest and the ill things that abound. The Huzul will leave them alone, and the Whitecoats they need scarcely fear. But it is nowise easy to be an "honest hajdamak" when hunger and cold pursue them--for they have notions of honesty of their own, as old Jemilian suggested in his report to Father Leo. It is "honest" in an outlaw not to commit mere vulgar robbery, or take life save in self-defence or for revenge. He may rob a Polish landlord or the men of the law, but he would be disgraced by robbing a peasant or a village pope. It is quite "honest" to stop a stage-coach, empty the postbags, and rob any Polish or Austrian passenger; but it would be disgraceful to inquire what money a pope might carry with him, travelling by the same coach. There was a time when no stage-coach in those parts could be safe from an attack of hajdamaks, unless accompanied by a strong escort of soldiers. "Great deeds," however, grew more and more impossible, and indeed they were never easy. It was always a miserable life in the dreary wilds, without shelter in the rigorous winter-time, and often without food. And it would entirely depend on what manner of man the 'hetman' (captain) was, as to how a band would bear up through such a season of distress; whether "dishonesty" would be had recourse to, when for the gaining of a mere livelihood they would sink to the level of the despised criminal, or whether their spirit would rise to some "great deed" of despair, even if it must bring them to close quarters with the Whitecoats. But this second alternative, as a rule, might only be looked for if the 'hetman' was a hajdamak by deliberate choice, driven to the life for an idea rather than as the outcome of some crime.

Men of this kind form the third class; they have always been rare, and the history of one adopting the awful trade of his own free will has ever made a stir. Mere love of pillage could never be an adequate reason; for a man of this description is aware that he can rob his neighbours with less trouble in the plain. No, there are nobler motives--a wild passionate manliness rising against oppression, or a yearning indignation and pitiful sympathy with the helpless despair of the people, will urge some few to "go after the sun." These few are the last representatives of the true hajdamak, who is fast becoming a legend of the past. The Ruthens, now the most peaceful and the most oppressed of Slavonic tribes, at one time were the boldest and most belligerent of the race, the terror of their neighbours, Poles, Russians, and Roumanians. But to-day one could only wonder why these people in song and story should always be designated as "falcon-faced," if indeed such a face were not met with among them occasionally even now--bold and clear-cut, full of energy and passion, with dark daring eyes. And as the type is found still, so are the old dauntless courage, and the ardent love of liberty. But he who preserves the true nature is lonely among his kind, and the misery about him will fill his soul with a bitter yearning for the times that are gone, the times surviving only in their songs--wild passionate outbursts, full of bravery and fortitude, sounding strangely enough on the lips of the humbled, labouring peasants. And such a one by his own inward necessity is driven forth from the plain; he takes to the mountains, and henceforth it is his one desire to make war upon the Polish oppressors, the murderers of his race. It is his one idea, his one resolve; and being a man of energy and power, he will naturally rise to the leadership of a band. He is an "honest hajdamak" at first, but does not always end so; for it is an evil trade, hurtful to body and soul. And whether they remain "honest," or fall away from the higher aspiration, they are sure to end ill--they and their followers.

Truly an evil trade, and few taking to it ever reach old age; the pitiless cold, or hunger and hardships of grimmest kind decimating the band, while the more hardy ones fall a prey to the wild beasts, if not brought to the gallows instead. And whatever their end may be, their people are anxious that their memory should be wiped out--anxious it should be forgotten that one of theirs took to the mountains. A hajdamak while he lives is held in some respect, inasmuch as he has gained the liberty sighed for by others--the dead man is nowhere.

But among the numbers living and dying thus sadly, there are three whose names are not forgotten, whose memory lives in song and tale, though dimmed with the haze of receding years; three who are famous, moreover, as being the only "hetmen" who moved the Huzuls to take part for or against them.

The first of these was one Alexander Dobosch, called the Black, or the Iron-framed, a Ruthen from the Bukowina who arose towards the end of the eighteenth century, and for several years was far more powerful throughout Pokutia than the Emperor. He had been a well-to-do peasant, and a boundless ambition only appears to have led him to his strange and fearful adventures. The Huzuls adored him, and he behaved like a king of the mountains, issuing manifestos to the "fellow at Vienna," making laws and levying taxes. But this was his ruin; the Huzuls were not going to condone in the iron-framed hajdamak what they had never approved of in the "fellow at Vienna." Their devotion gave way to wrath, but the man was so powerful that they dared not oppose him openly. He was poisoned by some of his followers at a drinking bout.

Of a different type was "Wild Wassilj," or, as song has it, the "great hajdamak," a Podolian peasant youth, lithe as a sapling pine, strong as a bear, and daring as a falcon. He had been in the personal service of a young noble, the brother-in-law of the lord of the manor, both of whom were the terror and detestation of every father and husband in the neighbourhood. But Wassilj suddenly set his face against the lawless life, growing strangely silent and anxious to be good; the fact was he loved an honest maiden of the village. But, unhappily, his master himself had set eyes upon the girl, and, finding her proof against his advances, he carried her off with the help of some menials. Wassilj thereupon waylaid and shot him, forming a band there and then, and becoming the scourge of the nobility for miles around, his thirst for revenge being unappeasable. It was found in those days how little it availed to send out soldiers with a hope of crushing the bandits in their mountains. The "great hajdamak" was not vanquished by anything the authorities could devise against him; but the innate spark of goodness in his wild and wayward heart overcame him in the end. For he was not a bad man by nature, and the remorse that would seize upon him was as poignant as it was true; but he quieted his conscience with the delusion that he was doing these terrible things for the sake of the suffering people. One day, however, when he had overpowered some nobles in the castle of his native village, and had called upon the judge to assist him in bringing them to their just doom, the latter refused, saying he was an honest man, and could not join in the evil work of a cut-throat. That word struck Wassilj to the heart, and the same night, with a bullet from his own gun, he stilled that misguided heart for ever.

But the third one, whom the Huzuls assisted--he whom in song they called "the good judge" and "the great avenger"--was Taras Barabola.

CHAPTER XI.

[OUTLAWED.]

THE "good judge!" ... the "great avenger!" ...

It was not only after his death, not in commemorating song only, that Taras was first so designated. These appellations dated from the spring-time of 1839. When Palm Sunday had come and gone they were echoed from mouth to mouth, while the strange declaration of war that had been uttered beneath the linden of Zulawce was fresh in the minds of all. His mission was believed in, though as yet unaccredited by deed. As on the wings of a mighty wind the news sped from village to village, from district to district. Not a week passed before all the people had heard it--in Pokutia, in the Marmaros, in Podolia, and in the Bukowina; and gathering in groups after the morning service on Easter Sunday, it was the one topic with them everywhere: "To-day Taras will be unfurling his banner.... Could there be a surer proof of our misery? He, a Christ-like man, and yet driven to turn hajdamak!... But it is well for us--Taras has ever been a good judge, and he will prove a mighty avenger!"

This opinion had formed rapidly. A whole people stirred to its depth is almost always a righteous judge, a true prophet. Every man and woman understood that unheard-of things were passing. True, it was within the experience of most of them that some one or other had taken to the mountains; but such volunteers to the desperate trade had been young fellows without home ties, or men of a turbulent character breaking away from the restraints of the law. But how different with this peace-loving peasant, who had everything to make his home attractive, this man who once pointed a pistol at his own forehead to prevent violence from being met with violence! That phrase of Mr. Broza's which Taras himself had repeated reluctantly, and only because he was a "dying man," had taken hold of the people's imagination--a Christ-like man. And truly there was a breath of the Divine sweeping the senses of the oppressed peasantry as they strove to understand his motives. It could not be the love of revenge with him, for he had not been wronged personally; it could not be that he sought to defend his own property, for it had not been touched. He must be doing it, then, simply because "in this unhappy country justice was not to be found," and "because the people had sore need of one to avenge them." And if there is anything that will move the heart of man to its inmost depth, filling it with holy reverence, it is the unselfish deed done for love of a cause which is sacred to all and believed in by each.

With similar enthusiasm Taras was greeted in the mountains. The rude men who dwell there had been gained so thoroughly during his former sojourn, that one and all they welcomed the news of his returning to be among them for good. Was he not a victim of the oppression they hated? its sworn enemy, who henceforth would live to oppose it? Every glen on either side of the Black Water was alive with sympathy, and Taras had a staunch ally in every man far and wide in the forest.

In his own village, too, opinion had rallied round him entirely, though it would have been difficult to say whether this was due chiefly to the impression he had made upon his hearers on that Sunday, or to the selfish vanity of the people. The hearts of some had certainly been touched, and a natural pity for his forsaken wife roused others; while others, again, were merely glad that Taras had come to see the folly of trusting in the law, and it flattered their pride that from among themselves an avenger should rise who would make the country ring with his valour. A man of Zulawce in those days was welcome wherever he went, because he could tell of the hero of the hour. The people round about seemed to be insatiable of news concerning this Taras, and were ready to stand any amount of drink to him who could gratify them, for which reason the men of Zulawce, nothing loth, invented story upon story to glorify the pure-hearted man whose life they had embittered all along. Yes, the outlaw once more had risen to be the great favourite of his adopted village.

Yet there were few, even in his own village, who felt for him truly or mourned his loss, and the one man whose sorrow was most deeply sincere carefully avoided the very mention of his name. The good pope had not breathed a word concerning Taras since that saddest of partings beneath the linden. His wife only guessed how he suffered, but even she was mistaken in believing that his heart ached for the loss of his friend alone. He was battling with another sorrow, a deeper trouble overshadowing his pious mind. And the moment came when the popadja understood it.

It was on the evening of Good Friday. Not till nine o'clock, and weary with the many services of the day, had the priest returned home, eating a mouthful of supper, and retiring to his study. Thither his wife followed him presently, establishing herself with her needlework in silence. He was pacing the room, murmuring to himself, as was his wont in preparing his sermon, and she refrained from speaking, but gave a furtive glance at him now and then. She had often thus watched him occupied in holy meditation, and the inward peace radiating from his countenance at such times would sink into her own heart with a loving content. Not so now, for an unspeakable grief was reflected in the face she gazed upon, and the bitterness seemed overflowing till she trembled and took courage to interrupt him.

"Husband," she said, with a beating heart, "are you now busy with the sermon for Easter Day?"

He started, looking before him gloomily. "I am utterly unfit!" he whispered hoarsely, as though speaking to himself ... "utterly unfit!" He groaned aloud, covering his face with his hands.

The good wife was by his side in a moment. "Leo," she sobbed, "what is it? ... Ah, yes, I know; but you must not thus give way to your grief. You could not prevent it!"

He shook his head, and then caught her hand like a drowning man. "No, wife," he groaned, "it is not merely grief for his loss! But since that man has gone to ruin, I seem a hypocrite whenever I turn to my prayers ..."

"Good God!" she cried, aghast.

"I seem such, indeed," he continued, hastily; "it is more than I can bear, and I cannot help it! Have I not been teaching and preaching the justice of God? And now to see this man gone to ruin--this man!"

"But, husband, dear," she cried, anxiously, "have you not often tried to make us see that the true recompense is in the life to come? Will you doubt it yourself now?"

"In the life to come; yes, yes," he repeated in the same husky voice; "it is the one thing to hold by.... But why should it all go wrong in this world? I mean, so terribly wrong? This man!... his wife gone out of her mind, his children orphaned, and he himself making straight for the gallows, just because, in a wicked, self-seeking world, he has within him the heart of a child that will trust his God and believe in justice ... oh, it is awful ... awful!"

She clung to him, but he freed himself from her embrace, and once more walked to and fro excitedly. The faithful wife could but retire to her corner, sharing his trouble apart.

Some minutes passed.

And presently he stood still before her, lifting her tearful face, and stroking her hair gently. "Fruzia," he said, with quivering voice, "I promise you to try and bear it. I shall battle it out; but it is a sore thing, and needs time.... Go to bed now and be comforted.... I shall battle it out."

The wife obeyed, but found little sleep, and her soul kept crying through the darkness of that night: "Oh, God, pity my husband--he, the priest, to lose faith in Thee!" Many a wiser prayer may rise to the ear of the Giver of all things; yet none, perhaps, ever was more touching.

When daylight returned she felt comforted, and drew courage from her husband's quiet face on his bidding her good-bye for early service. She, too, left the house, but not to go to church, for a duty no less sacred directed her steps to Anusia's house.

Poor Anusia, indeed! It was not without reason that her friends sorrowed for her, for she was doubly stricken. The last articulate sound that had crossed her lips had been her husband's name--that cry of despair wrung from her as he departed. Her grief since then had found vent in wild ravings only, night and day, day and night. Not a prayer, not a complaint had she uttered, and her eyes were tearless; but she would give a shriek and continue moaning with parched lips. Those that watched her believed her out of her mind, and no hope seemed left, save with Father Leo, who clung to it. "It will pass away," he said, well-nigh despairing himself; "hers is a more passionate nature than ours, and her grief is the wilder." Her ravings, indeed, appeared to lessen, the feverish agony grew calmer, and she began to take food; but to her friends the supervening apathy seemed worse than what had gone before. There she lay in a kind of living death, uttering not a sound, large-eyed and white-faced, wearing the expression of a helpless agony. But when her friends or the children attempted to rouse her, she waved them off, or cried huskily: "Leave me alone, I must think it over." And Father Leo would say: "No one can help her, she must battle through it; but the children must be seen to, having lost both father and mother." And he arranged with his wife that twice a day she should go over to the farm to see to the needs of the household; while outdoor matters found a willing helper in Hritzko Pomenko, the eldest of Simeon's lads. "If I work for Taras I shall perhaps bear it that he left me behind," said the honest youth.

That had been on the Thursday. Anusia appeared to take no notice that things were seen to by friends and neighbours, and she continued the whole of Good Friday in the same dull stupor. But when the popadja entered the sick-chamber early on the Saturday a happy change, evidently, had taken place. The bed was vacated, and a servant-girl came running in explaining: "The mistress is looking after the dairy, she is scolding poor Hritzko grievously because he brought over his father's new churn."

And, indeed, the startled popadja even now could hear the so-called scolding. "I know you meant kindly, Hritzko," Anusia was saying, in a voice both firm and clear; "but just take your things home with you, I can manage my own business." And the priest's lady herself presently received a similar greeting. "It is most kind of you"--Anusia made haste to address her friend as soon as she beheld her--"I am pleased to see you any time; but leave me now. And this kerchief must be yours, I think; I found my Tereska wearing it. But my children are no poor orphans, thank God, requiring friends to clothe them."

The good lady was only too willing to be reproved. "Say what you like," she cried, "I am happy to find you up again!"

"Yes," said Anusia, with perfect composure, "I know you all thought I had gone mad. But my mind was right enough; only, you see, I had to satisfy my own judgment that my husband had done well. I had always looked upon him as the most perfect man on earth, so that the need was great to find an answer to my questioning, and everything besides had to give way."

"Then you arrived at the conclusion that nothing else was left for him?" broke in Hritzko, vehemently.

"I have," she assented. "I saw it was his heart that laid it upon him to act as he has done, and he is a man that cannot go against the behest of his own heart. I know that, and it must be enough for me. As to whether he is otherwise in the right or not, I, a woman, am unable to decide. My mind says 'Yes,' but the heart keeps crying 'No.' I can but wait and see. If he is in the right the Almighty will own him and let him be a helper to many. But if he is on the path of wrong, God will turn from him, and his end will be the gallows. Be that as it may; he is lost to us, my children are fatherless, and henceforth I must be to them father and mother in one."

"And we all will help you!" cried the popadja, warmly.