"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 G.o.d'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 ash.o.r.e, 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 G.o.d!" 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, a.n.u.sia!" 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 pa.s.sionate, 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 b.u.mp 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 subst.i.tuting 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 t.i.ttle 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 G.o.d, 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 circ.u.mstanced; 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 p.r.o.ne to wrath, would pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 Wa.s.silj 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 G.o.d'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.