"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 pet.i.tion 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. a.n.u.sia, 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, "G.o.d 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 a.n.u.sia 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 a.n.u.sia, "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 a.n.u.sia. And the poor thing, besides her waking fears, was hara.s.sed 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, a.s.suring 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.semble 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 a.n.u.sia, 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 a.n.u.sia 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 a.n.u.sia, 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 a.n.u.sia, 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 gla.s.s 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; "G.o.d knows I cannot!"

They looked at him surprised; there was something in his tone which startled his friends. But a.n.u.sia 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, a.n.u.sia, 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 pa.s.sing 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.