"No," she said, fiercely; "I must have intercourse with him--I am his wife; but no one else shall, if I can prevent it. Try yet again, pope; for G.o.d's sake, do!"

Father Leo saw his wife home, and hastened to join his expectant parishioners. But the people insisted they must see Taras storm the castle; he was doing it as their own avenger; how should they forbear?

The long hours of waiting, and the quant.i.ty of spirits which had been consumed, had but added to their excitement; exhortation availed not, and with a sigh the pope desisted.

It was between ten and eleven in the evening. Away in the district town the mandatar was about to undergo the graceful process of kneeling to the Countess Wanda. The night lay deep and still on mountain and plain.

A strange sound broke on the stillness, indistinct at first, but gaining in force. It was as though a mighty waterfall somewhere in the distance had suddenly begun to roar.

"Hark!" cried a hundred voices, "what is it?" "He is coming!" exclaimed the butcher. "No; listen!" said another.

The noise grew perceptibly, as though volumes of water were being added to that far-off cataract. The upland echoes awoke in response, and it was difficult to say whence the sound proceeded.

"A host of them coming from the mountains!" decided one, presently.

"No, from the plains--listen!" cried another.

It was like a low rumble of thunder, in the direction of the river unmistakably. The very ground began to vibrate, and the dull noise ever and anon was broken by the quick, sharp sound of a trumpet.

"Hors.e.m.e.n!" a voice cried suddenly. "The hussars! Save yourselves."

"No, stay," burst in another; "who should forbid our standing here quietly? Save yourselves!" and the cry was taken up repeatedly; "these hussars are worse than the devil!"

But the people seemed nailed to the spot, some pushing this way, some that; the enclosing darkness, the state of semi-drunkenness most were in, and a knowledge that a squadron of soldiers was bursting upon them, robbed them of all self-possession.

"Go to your homes," the pope kept crying, despairingly. He had caught hold of the torch which served to illumine the inn, and wildly urged the people. But it seemed too late. Already the first of the soldiers, four hors.e.m.e.n in advance of the troop, had reached the place, pulling up their steeds at the near sight of the heaving, howling ma.s.s of villagers. Two of the hussars lifted their pistols, firing into the air.

The shots. .h.i.t no one, but took full effect on the excited minds, producing a wild panic in some, rousing rage and defiance in others.

"Save yourselves," was heard again. "We are not going to be killed like sheep; take to your guns, men!" roared others, and bloodshed appeared unavoidable.

The imminent danger inspired Father Leo with an unwonted power. He forced a way through the people with his right arm, some falling back before the blazing torch in his left, and thus he got to the head of the crowd just as the body of soldiers galloped up the street, led by an officer, sword in hand. It was Captain Mihaly; and at the sight of the pale man in priestly dress, standing with a flaring torch between the approaching horse and the overtaken crowd, he called to his men to stop. The troop halted almost face to face with the people.

"Surrender!" exclaimed the officer.

But Father Leo lifted his hands. "Sir captain," he cried in German, his voice rising above the turmoil behind him, "this is not the band of Taras, but only the people of this village; they will disperse at once."

"Then the bandit is not among you?"

"No!"

"But your people seem to be waiting for him--to a.s.sist him, I daresay."

"No; it is their curiosity only."

"I'll teach them better, then! Tell them I give them five minutes'

grace, after which time my men will have leave to cut down any one about the streets at this late hour."

The pope repeated the orders in the people's own language; shrieks and curses were the answer. But, even though they might have been willing, most of the people could not at once free themselves from the struggling crowd, and some refused to stir, in sheer defiance if not for love of fight. The pope kept urging, but in vain. A few only escaped; the confusion was no wise diminished.

The captain's patience appeared exhausted. The word was given, the trumpet sounded, and, brandishing their sabres, the hussars charged the crowd, which fell back amid a deafening tumult of shrieks and groans and efforts of resistance. Father Leo was flung against the inn, his head striking the door-post so violently that he staggered bleeding and stunned with the blow. He was unable to see what happened, for the darkness seemed denser than before, but the sounds which fell on his ear filled him with dismay. He had suffered much of late, but trouble seemed culminating now.

He could not quite tell how long it lasted; the noise decreased, the hussars making their way towards the farms; presently there was silence, save for the groans of some who evidently had been hurt in the fray. His own head was bleeding and his limbs felt heavy, but he shook off the lethargy, and pushing open the door of the inn called for help.

There was no answer. Some few had taken refuge in the parlour, and the innkeeper's family were hiding in corners; the pope had to repeat his calling, and then only a lad appeared with a rushlight in his trembling hand.

The pope made his way into the house, conjuring the frightened people to lend him their a.s.sistance. A couple of torches were lighted and reluctant help was given. Matters outside were not quite so bad as Father Leo had antic.i.p.ated. Five only were lying there, more or less severely wounded: four villagers and one of the hussars. The latter evidently was in the worst plight, a bullet, in an almost hand-to-hand encounter, had gone through his shoulder. Father Leo saw to him first, ordering him to be moved into the inn. An old man was attended to next, he had a sabre-cut on his forehead. The other three were women who had fallen beneath the hoofs of the horses, but were not badly hurt.

Leo set himself to bind up the wounds as well as he could, aided by Avrumko and Maxym Bobra, a soldier on furlough; and while they were thus occupied the troop of hors.e.m.e.n were heard returning. A trumpet sounded. "The signal for dismounting," whispered Maxym to the pope, and almost immediately the door of the inn parlour was flung open. The officer entered, followed by some half-dozen of his men.

"Bring out torches and some f.a.ggots!" he cried to the innkeeper, turning to give a look at the wounded.

The pope met him. "Captain," he said modestly, "it might be well to send a messenger to Zablotow, the doctor is badly needed."

"Got our own surgeon," was the gruff reply; and, having given orders for the military Esculapius to attend, the officer stood over the wounded soldier.

"Nice sort of 'curiosity' this on the part of your peaceful sheep," he said, presently. But Father Leo forbore answering, busying himself about the sufferers.

The surgeon entered, examined the wounds, and prepared to dress them.

"The peasant will get over it," he said; "but this man of ours will hardly do so, a bullet having pierced his lung."

"Then the churls shall pay for it, by Jove!" returned the officer with rising pa.s.sion; "and so shall you, sir pope--you have deceived me!"

Leo looked him in the face quietly. "I shall be ready to answer for anything to-morrow," he said; "I will now go along the village street--there may be other sufferers."

The captain somehow felt disarmed. "You are bleeding yourself, your reverence," he said more gently, almost abashed.

But Father Leo turned away in silence, leaving the inn with Maxym Bobra and one or two other men.

The village, which but lately had been the scene of so wild an uproar, lay still as death; a number of soldiers had settled round a watch fire outside the inn, a similar guard being stationed in front of the manor house. The lurid flames rising from these two spots were the only lights visible. The sentries patrolling the village with c.o.c.ked pistols found no cause of alarm. Neither did good Father Leo, for no one seemed to require his aid except a woman lying terror-stricken at her own cottage door.

He went home, poor Fruzia receiving him with a cry of horror at the sight of his pale, blood-stained countenance. But she, whom lesser troubles would readily overpower, now recovered herself, courageously.

"I will not murmur," the faithful wife was saying, with trembling lips, hastening to dress his wound, "you have but done your duty." Nor did she raise the slightest objection on his declaring he would sit up through the night. "I must indeed," he added, "I sadly fear we sh.e.l.l hear of farther trouble; some wounded or dying man may send for me."

And so it proved. In the small hours of the morning a messenger arrived begging him to take the sacrament to the smithy, since Marko had not many minutes to live. He made all possible speed, but death was before him; the towering giant who but a few hours before had spoken so manfully, would never lift his chirping voice again. He had been foremost among those who opposed the soldiers, a sabre-cut had disabled him, and as he endeavoured to drag himself home after the fray a bullet caught him in the back, inflicting his death-wound. He reached the smithy, but only to die. Father Leo offered what consolation he could to the bereaved widow, who in tearless grief held fast the dead man's hand. "Peace!" she replied, gloomily: "there is but one comfort left; I shall know how to use his gun, and the hour of reckoning will come."

Such, indeed, was the frame of mind of most of the people when the good pope in the early morning went his round of the cottages. Few of the villagers had been wounded or hurt, but one and all were burning with resentment. And the strange quiet, blending with their wrath, appeared to him more alarming than the turbulent anger he was accustomed to. "We have suffered wrong," they said, "and we shall pay it back. We cannot do so without a leader, but we may trust Taras. If we waited for him in vain last night, it was no doubt because the mandatar evidently is not at the house--he would have shown his cowardly face under the protection of the military if he were hiding in the place! But no matter, Taras will now be coming for our sakes."

On the afternoon of Easter Monday a body of infantry relieved the hussars, the officer in command proving himself both judicious and kind. On learning from the pope how matters stood, he readily promised to spare the villagers as much as possible; and since the manor house, the protection of which was the main object, offered plenty of room, he would have the men quartered there--all but a few, at least, he added, whom, according to special instructions, he would have to billet on Taras's farm. "I am sorry," he said, "to make acquaintance of this man's family in so unpleasant a way, for it went to one's heart to hear him speak of them."

"Do you know Taras?" inquired Father Leo, wonderingly.

"Yes. I am Captain Stanczuk, and acted as interpreter when he was admitted to the Emperor's presence at Vienna."

The peasants looked on with a savage gloom as the "Whitecoats" made themselves at home in the village, their anger blazing forth when they learned that the officer actually was the son of a Podolian pope.

a.n.u.sia received her uninvited guests after a similar fashion, treating the officer, first to a withering look, and then to her utmost contempt. The captain had come in person, hoping to smooth matters, but the woman seemed beyond conciliation.

Yet she trembled visibly when Father Leo whispered to her that her visitor was the same captain who had a.s.sisted Taras at Vienna, and a deep flush overspread her face.

"What is it?" inquired the pope, surprised. "He is not likely to harm you, seeing he was kind to Taras."

"Yes, yes," she groaned; "I am all the more sorry for him." But her lips closed, and the old stony expression settled on her face.