"Will you listen to me now?" said Taras, quietly, when his counsel had finished. "I can have no other wish in this matter than to see that carried out which I have been striving for all my life--that is justice; and a sentence of death alone would be just! I can not prevent the Emperor pardoning me if he is so minded, but I will not have you pet.i.tion him in my name. There is one favour only I would ask, if it comes to the dying ..." he paused, a shudder running through his frame.

"I know," said the lawyer, deeply affected, "you would like to be shot and not hung. Father Leo told me; old Jemilian come to him once secretly for confession ... Take comfort, I think I can promise you that much, if indeed it must come to the worst."

Towards the end of February, Taras was sentenced to death--"to be hung by the neck"--there could not have been any other verdict. But he was informed at the same time that the parishes of Ridowa and Zulawce, as well as Baron Zborowski, had pet.i.tioned the Emperor for mercy.

That same day Starkowski addressed a letter to Father Leo, acquainting him also with the sentence, and imploring him once again to try his influence with a.n.u.sia. The pope was deeply grieved. "Alas," he said to his wife, "even this news will not move the woman, and what else could I tell her? Have I not striven with her to the utmost?"

"You must try yet again," said the good little popadja; "it is the most sacred duty in all this life of yours."

"I am sure of that," he said, sorrowfully; "and my heart bleeds at the thought that once more I must plead in vain for her poor husband! I am truly sorry for a.n.u.sia herself, and shall never cease befriending her, but this hard-heartedness, this horrible power of vindictiveness in a woman fills me with loathing."

With a heavy heart he set out on his mission, finding a.n.u.sia in her sitting-room, her eldest boy, Wa.s.silj, at her feet, reading to her with a clear voice from some book of spiritual comfort. On beholding her visitor, she gave a nod and ordered the little boy to leave them alone, but the child hesitated, obeying her repeated command reluctantly. She rose and went up to the pope with the icy quiet which had grown habitual with her; but her face was fearfully worn, and she looked quite an old woman now. There was scarcely a tremor in her voice. "I know what you have come for," she said "He has been sentenced to death."

"Yes," he replied. "But if ever----"

"Stop!" she interrupted; "would you have me and the children be present at----"

"a.n.u.sia!" he cried; "it is awful--fearful; do you know that your life-long repentance will never atone for this cruelty of heart?"

"Is that what you think?" she said, hoa.r.s.ely; "and do you know how I loved him? do you know the depth of my suffering? G.o.d knows----"

"Do not call on Him," cried the pope, pa.s.sionately; "He is holy and pitiful, and has nothing in common with the hardness of men."

"Priest," she said, confronting him wildly; "how dare you come between Him and me? His understanding me is the one hope which keeps me from madness----" and a cry burst from her; she fell at his feet, clinging to his knees, moaning: "Ah, turn not away from me! Try and consider the agony of my heart!"

He lifted her gently, making her sit down on a chair. "I do consider it," he said; "and I have borne this sorrow with you throughout. But do not think you can lessen it by being unforgiving and hard.... Come with me and see him," he added, folding his hands with his heart's entreaty; "it is his dying wish, will you not grant it? I will not plead his right to look for his wife and children."

"No, certainly," she interrupted him, and he shuddered at the cold denial glistening in her eyes; "he gave up his rights when he left us with no better excuse than his mad longing to obtain justice for any stranger. He could not have complained of me if I had told him as early as Palm Sunday, 'I cannot prevent your going, but you cease to be my husband,' I did not say that, I did not upbraid him, but I knelt to him and wept at his feet. He saw the agony of my soul, and went his way. I did not cease loving him, I only strove to save the children from his ruin. He would not have hesitated to make me the recipient of his plans, the go-between transmitting his messages to the village. He only thought of his work, never of what might come to us! And when we were taken to prison for his sake, he only said, 'And though they kill them I must go on with this cause!' Can a husband, a father, nay, a human being act thus? And when we were set free, and you and I went to see him, to entreat him to forego this life of bloodshed and murder lest his wife and children should have to bear the last fearful disgrace, did he listen to us? 'I cannot help it, I must go on,' he said. And neither can I help it now," she added, with a bitter moan; "he has brought me to it, and must bear the consequences!"

"And do you think this will help you to bear it?" said the pope. "Can it in any way lessen your sorrow?"

"No!" she cried; "but it is just! just! I am treating him as he treated me!"

"And is it justice you look for from your Saviour?" said he; "is it your deserts you will plead when you hope for His mercy in that day?"

He paused solemnly, but once again he strove with her entreatingly, pleading for love and for pity. She moved not, and he could not see her face, for she had covered it with her hands; but when a sob burst from her ice-bound heart, and the tears welled through her fingers, hope rose within him, and, continuing to speak to her gently, he lifted his soul to G.o.d that the words might be given him which could touch her and carry light into the darkness of her fearful despair.

Neither of them heard the door open, both starting when suddenly the voice of little Wa.s.silj was heard sobbing amid his tears. "Let me help you, Father Leo," faltered the child, "mother will listen to us, surely. And if she will not go with you, take me, please, for I love father dearly!"

At these words an agonised cry burst from the woman's heart; she caught up the boy and covered him with tears and kisses, crying: "I will go--I will go!"

Two days later Starkowski, with a flush on his face, entered the convict's cell. "Taras," he cried, "I am glad to tell you--your wife----"

"Is she coming?" faltered Taras. "O G.o.d, is it possible?"

He had risen, but staggered back to his chair--it was too much for him.

Starkowski left him quietly; in his stead a.n.u.sia had entered the cell.

And husband and wife once more stood clasped to each other's heart.

The governor allowed a.n.u.sia to spend many hours with the prisoner. They spoke of the past, of the children's future, of the village, and everything they had in common--one subject only they both avoided, the ghastly event which soon would separate them for this life. Taras took leave of her and the children every evening as tenderly as though it were the eve of his final doom, but he never referred to it, and a.n.u.sia in her secret heart took it as a sign that after all he hoped for a pardon.

On the 15th of May, 1840, the decision arrived from Vienna. The Emperor had confirmed the sentence; a pardon could not be granted because "the notoriety of the case required the law to have its course." But it was left with the district governor to make all further arrangements and decide the mode of execution.

It so happened that Father Leo was with the governor early in the day when the decree arrived; he had come to beg for an interview with the convict, and Dr. Starkowski having been sent for, the three entered the cell together. Taras knew at once what they had come for, his face grew white, but he could stand erect, requiring no support, while the sentence was being imparted to him.

"You will be shot to-morrow morning," said the district governor.

"Father Leo will go with you. Your execution shall not be a spectacle for the curious, for which reason I have fixed an early hour, and chosen a place at some distance--a quiet glen on the way to Zablotow, where a deserter was shot some time ago. None but myself and another magistrate will be present, and the fact will be kept secret to-day.

Would you desire your wife to accompany you?"

"No," said Taras, "and I pray you not to tell her anything. We have settled everything, and I shall take leave of her and the children this evening just in the usual way, as though we were to meet again to-morrow. I think this will be the best course for her."

And he carried out this pious deception with a wondrous strength of purpose, pa.s.sing the day in quiet intercourse with her and their children. When she had left in the evening, utterly unconscious of the final parting, he was removed to another cell, lit up and provided with altar and crucifix, to spend his last night in the customary way.

Father Leo took his confession, Taras's voice being low and earnest, but he was very calm; and having received absolution and the sacrament at the hands of his friend, he pa.s.sed the rest of the night in silent prayer.

At daybreak the following morning, when the town yet lay buried in sleep, three carriages drove away in the direction of Zablotow, the governor and a brother magistrate occupying the first, the condemned man, Father Leo, and a couple of soldiers the second, some more soldiers in the third bringing up the rear.

It was a perfect morning of spring. Taras drew deep breaths of the fragrant air, and his eye rested on the blossoming fruit-trees by the way. "G.o.d is kind to me," he said, turning to the pope, "letting His sun rise brightly on my dying hour."

"Yes, G.o.d is good," said the pope, "He is always kinder than men ..."

The poor priest spoke his inmost feeling, but he regretted it almost immediately--was it for him to drop bitterness into the heart of the dying man?

But Taras only shook his head. "It is your grief for me which makes you unjust, Father Leo," he said, quietly. "I have thought deeply these last days, and I see there is much to be thankful for! I may be at rest, too, concerning my poor wife; and as for my children, I am certain you and a.n.u.sia will bring them up rightly, and they will live to be good."

"I will not fail in my duty by them; I shall look upon it as a holy vow," said the pope solemnly. And he kept it faithfully. The children of Taras are alive to this day, honoured and loved by their neighbours, richly blessed, too, in outward circ.u.mstances; and Wa.s.silj Barabola would long ago have been made judge of his village had he not declined the distinction, remembering the promise he gave to his father.

"And even as regards myself!" said Taras. "All my life long I have endeavoured to farther the Right and promote justice, and if I have done grievous wrong myself, yet I have not failed entirely. But for this strife of mine, oppression would be more rampant than it is now; my own parish would not have received back the field of which we were defrauded, and the wicked mandatar would not have been replaced by a man who means well by the peasants. So you see, dear friend, the grace of G.o.d has been with me after all! I have not lived in vain; as for my evil deeds, I now pay the penalty, as is right and meet. Why should I complain!"

"Oh, Taras!" cried Leo, "what a heart was yours, and to come to such an end!"

"Nay," said Taras, "I am poor and sinful, and my pride was great; yet I always longed for the Right, and to see it done was my heart's desire.

The Judge of men, I trust, will be merciful to me."

"Amen!" said Leo, with stifled voice, and he began to say the prayers, Taras repeating the words after him fervently. They reached the glen.

The sentence was read, and the priest resumed prayers.

Taras stood up. The soldiers fired, and he was struck to the heart. He lay still in death, and his face bore an expression of deep content.

They buried him where he fell. There is no cross to show his grave, but the place to this day is known to the people as "the Glen of Taras."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: These mountaineers, like the Tirolese, know but one p.r.o.noun in addressing high or low, the "Thou" being used throughout the story in the original; but their straightforward simplicity may be sufficiently apparent, though subst.i.tuting the English "You."]

[Footnote 2: Forced labour, a reminiscence of villanage, surviving in Slavonic countries.]

[Footnote 3: One of a church choir.]