"Yes, yes! I am Kasia Wywolow."

"And you lied to me in that night, all of you?"

"Yes, we did; the old baron only spoke the truth. The man who pretended to be my father was Jacek, with whom I have been going about to fairs; and the other one was a farm labourer, Dimitri Buliga, and not the village judge...."

"And why did you deceive me?"

"It was all Karol's doing. We, Jacek and I, fell in with him at the merry-making here at Zabie, and he talked us over; after which he went to Borsowka, where he bribed the coachman and prevailed on Dimitri to play the judge. He said he knew exactly how to set about it to make you believe the story ... he had an old grudge against the poor baron, who years ago brought him to punishment for theft. He stole away from you as soon as the deed was done, dividing the spoils with Jacek and Dimitri, who waited for him at Kotzman. But I suffered agony with remorse, and it brought me here."

"That will do," said Taras, faintly; "thank you." And he staggered from the room. The old innkeeper came upon him presently where he lay in a merciful swoon.

It was late in the afternoon when his men came after him, and with them the fiddler Gregori. They had not been able to gather the full truth from the bewildered messenger, but they had understood sufficiently to know that Karol WyG.o.da had deceived them shamefully, and it had filled their honest hearts with indignant grief. But pity for their unhappy leader was uppermost, for they felt rather than knew how fearfully the discovery must affect him; and since he had left no orders, they waited hour after hour, with growing anxiety, thinking he might return; and as he did not, they now came to seek him.

"Yes, he is here," said old From, sorrowfully, in answer to Nashko's inquiry, "and I think he is seriously ill. I do not know what that young woman may have told him," he added under his breath, "but it must have been something very awful; for he fainted right out, and when I had managed to bring him to again, he just said: 'I must go my way to the gallows now,' and never another word has crossed his lips. I have tried to rouse him, but he is like a stone, staring blankly; it could not be worse if he had buried wife and child. I have spoken to him, I have implored him, but not a sign is to be got from him. Will you try it?--he may yield to your words."

Nashko told his companions what the old Jew had said, and they all agreed. "Try and rouse him," they said, "tell him that to us he is as n.o.ble and just as before. How should he, how should we, in G.o.d's eyes, be guilty of this blackguard Karol's wickedness!"

Nashko took heart and entered the little room, where From had prepared a couch for the stricken hetman, but he was unable to deliver the men's message. For no sooner had he closed the door than Taras turned to him, saying huskily, but firmly: "Please leave me to myself till to-morrow morning; I must think it over; not for my own sake, for I know what I have to do, but for yours--I would like to counsel each of you for the best I can hardly collect my thoughts as yet, it is as though I had been struck with lightning. Let me come to myself first. I daresay From will find a night's lodging for you; and to-morrow--yes, to-morrow morning when the day has risen, I will see you." Taras seemed fully determined, and Nashko could but yield.

The following day early, when the men had gathered in the great empty bar-room, Taras came among them. They had not seen him for a s.p.a.ce of four-and-twenty hours, but the havoc wrought in his appearance seemed the work of years. He was fearfully altered, looking like an old man now, overcome with life's distress.

"Dear friends," he said, speaking very calmly and kindly, "I pray you listen to me, but do not try to turn me from my firm resolve. I release you one and all from the fealty you have sworn to me. I am your leader no longer. Please G.o.d, this will be the last time that you will see me; I have prayed to Him earnestly to let my life and the yielding up of its every hope be sufficient atonement. Yes, I have pleaded with Him in mercy to let your ways be far from mine; for the path I have to tread will now take me to Colomea, to prison, and thence to the final doom."

A cry of horror interrupted him. "For G.o.d's sake," they cried, "what is it that has come to you?"

"Not thus, if you love me," he said, gently, warding them off. "I have followed the voice of my own heart so far, let me follow it still. That voice has deceived me hitherto, leading me to misery and crime; it is speaking well this day for the first time! Yet, be very sure, I was not wrong in saying that the plain will of G.o.d required Right and Justice to be upheld in this world; not wrong in accusing those of their shortcomings whose sacred duty it is to see that justice rules here below, but who do not carry out this duty to its fullest, holiest meaning. My mistake was this, that I fancied this unfulfilled duty could by the will of G.o.d devolve upon me or any other individual man.

To be sure I who sacrificed all earthly happiness at the shrine of justice, who became a murderer in blind love of the right, and now go to the gallows--I most not be unjust, not even against myself, and therefore I say it was a natural mistake. For what more natural than to argue: Since they will not guard the right whose bounden duty it is, I will do so, who am strong at heart and pure of purpose! But, nevertheless, it was a grievous mistake. I see it now. I still believe in that grand, holy ladder of His making which is intended to join earth to heaven; but plainly it is not His will, even if some of its steps at times be rotten, that any single man should take upon himself to make up in his own poor strength for any failings in that glorious inst.i.tution for working out the divine will. It were proud, sinful presumption in any man, and I have done evil in His sight, not merely in disregarding what mischief must accrue if others followed my example, but chiefly on account of the awful delusion that _I_ was above erring, and that _my_ judgments must needs be just! And how did I come to imagine this? Because I chose to believe that the Almighty _must_ keep me from foiling--me, His servant, the righteous, justice-loving Taras. It was just my pride! The magistrates, the courts, might err, but I never! And yet how great is the danger if the carrying out of justice be vested in any individual man!--the work I have undertaken could not but end like this! I believed I was doing right, and I have been utterly confounded. The Baron of Borsowka was a righteous man, and I, who presumed to judge him, have been his murderer."

"But that was not your fault; you were deceived by Karol!" they cried.

"I was," replied Taras; "yet the guilt rests with me for not examining into the charge more carefully. Why did I refuse his urgent request to send for witnesses to the village? I am his murderer. I, and no one else; and since I have judged falsely in his case, how can I be sure that I have not done so in others? But, be that as it may, I am an a.s.sa.s.sin, and it behoves me to expiate my crime, submitting to those whom G.o.d has called to judge any evildoer in the land. I am going to Colomea to give myself up."

Vainly they strove to turn him from his resolve. He kept repeating: "I follow the voice within, and it has begun to speak truth." With heavy hearts they perceived it was utterly useless to plead with him, and listened to his last farewell. He enjoined them to separate at once and to begin a new life each for himself in different parts of the country.

He had a word of sympathy, of advice for each. "Forty florins are still in my possession," he added, producing the sum; "it is all I have left of the money contributed by honest peasants towards my work. Take it and divide it fairly. Let it be the same with the proceeds of your arms and horses."

And he took leave of them, of each man separately, the Jew being last.

"Nashko," he said, "I have yet a request to make of you. You love me, I know, and I am about to die. Will you grant it?"

"Surely," said the Jew, with tear-stifled voice.

"I know your intentions with regard to Julko," said Taras, "and I know the reason.... But I ask you to forbear, and to leave these mountains without bringing him to his due."

"The thought of revenge was sweet," said the Jew, "but I will do your desire."

"Whither will you betake yourself?" asked Taras. "I was able to advise them all, but I know not what to say to you; besides, your judgment is better than mine."

"I shall go away--far, far away," said Nashko. "I have heard that in following the sun through many lands you reach the wide sea at last, and crossing the sea you reach a country where a man is a man, and no one inquires into his creed. I shall try for that country, and if so be that I get there----"

"G.o.d speed you!" said Taras, deeply moved, "for your heart is honest and you have been true to me. So have you all: the Almighty watch over your lives!"

He left the room and, seeking his horse, he sped away from his friends towards the lowlands, vanishing from their gaze.

CHAPTER XXII.

PAYING THE PENALTY.

A few days later the district governor and Dr. Starkowski were having a quiet talk in the dusk of the evening. They were sitting in Herr von Bauer's private office, and the latter had just confided to the lawyer that it was officially settled now--and the requisite doc.u.ment a visible fact--that the contested field on the Pruth was formally adjudged as belonging, not to the lord of the manor, but to the parish of Zulawce.

"I am simply thankful it _is_ settled!" the governor was saying, rubbing his honest old hands. "I always suspected foul play, but since I had proof of it, the former judgment has weighed on me like a nightmare. It is more of a relief than I can tell you!"

"And yet that judgment was legally correct," said the lawyer, somewhat sadly; "the case had been investigated, and witnesses on both sides were examined, the evidence appearing unquestionable!"

"Is this intended for a covert reproach?"

"Certainly not," returned Starkowski; "and yet I cannot think of this tragic affair without a sad reflection on the short-sightedness of all human justice."

"You are right there," said the governor, sighing in his turn. "My only comfort is, that we, the authorities of this district, have done our human best; even that coward Kap.r.o.nski, cannot be accused of wilful injustice. The peasants had been so foolish as to move the landmark, and the mandatar, rascal that he is, saw his opportunity for taking possession. It was quite correct that our commissioner should have told the peasants that their only remedy was the law; and the suit began.

Both parties were ready to swear, and, indeed, there was no other means for eliciting the truth, except by putting them on their oath. I admit that Kap.r.o.nski set about it somewhat summarily and offhandedly, but I doubt whether, in all conscientiousness I could have arrived at a better result myself. If witnesses are open to bribery, perjuring themselves, how should the most careful of judges get at the truth?

There was oath against oath, a considerable number of the peasantry yielding evidence in favour of the manor against their own interests, and the lord of the manor, moreover, was in possession--how then, I ask, should even the court's judgment have been different? There is some comfort in this, I a.s.sure you; at the same time it is better comfort that the wrongful judgment with its sad consequences has been reversed--as far as possible at least."

"As far as possible," repeated the lawyer, thoughtfully. "Poor Taras----"

"Don't talk to me about that man," interrupted the governor, waxing hot; "or would you have me tax the short-sightedness of human justice with his history also?"

"Certainly, I should say."

"Certainly not, you mean! What, have you forgotten poor Hohenau? And what of his latest murder at Borsowka?"

"There I am staggered, I own," said the lawyer.

"Of course you are, because you insist on judging the man by the rules of your ethics," cried the governor, as though the deeper bearings of the soul were utterly beneath the legal mind; "but I, who am no psychologist, but a wretched district governor in this province of Galicia---worse luck!--I who have had plenty of opportunity of getting acquainted with any number of hajdamaks, I tell you he is no better than the rest of them! It is all very well to start the business with a fine pretence, a pretty cloak to cover one's rags; he has discarded it now, you see, and shows himself as he is--a mere wretched a.s.sa.s.sin. Let us change the subject; I have something more pleasant yet to tell you.

What should you say to those poor wretches at Zulawce, in mortal terror of their lives on account of their perjury?--of course, they must bear the consequences!--they are going to be duly sentenced, and then----"

the kind-hearted man could not go on for smiles.

"They are going to have a free pardon," added Starkowski; "are you sure?"

"I have got it in my desk, which is more, and I am highly delighted for once that the law should be circ.u.mvented. Of course, the line will be drawn between the instigators of these precious plans and those who were merely led on. There is Mr. Wenceslas Hajek, for instance, whom we shall have the honour of lodging in safe quarters within this city for a couple of years--I'd give him five, Willingly--and no expense to himself. Come in!"

There had been a knock at the door repeatedly, but the gentlemen had not heard it in the warmth of their discussion till it struck the governor at the tail end of his information. "Come in!"

The door opened showing a tall visitor, who stood still.

"A peasant by the look of him," said the governor, peering into the dusk. "This is beyond office hours, my friend; come again to-morrow."

There was a pause of silence, and then the man by the door came a step forward, saying, with trembling voice, "Excuse me, sirs, for disturbing you, but I would rather not go away again----"