With Fire and Sword Henryk Sienkiewicz (different e readers .TXT) 📖

one eye there is a little of God’s light left me; in the other it is dark forever. So I travel with my lyre. I sing songs, and I live like the birds on what falls from the hands of kind people.”

“And where are you from, grandfather?”

“Oh, from afar, afar! But let me rest, for I see here by the forge a bench. And sit down, poor creature!” said he, showing the bench to Helena. “We are from Ladava, good people, and left home long, long ago; but today we come from the festival in Brovarki.”

“And have you heard anything good there?” asked an old peasant with a scythe in his hand.

“We heard, we heard, but whether it is anything good we don’t know. Many people have collected there. They spoke of Hmelnitski⁠—that he had conquered the hetman’s son and his knights. We heard, too, that the peasants are rising against the nobles on the Russian bank.”

Immediately the crowd surrounded Zagloba, who, sitting by Helena, struck the strings of the lyre from time to time.

“Then you heard, father, that the people are rising?”

“I did; for wretched is our peasant lot.”

“But they say there will be an end to it?”

“In Kiev they found on the altar a letter from Christ, saying there would be fearful and awful war and much blood-spilling in the whole Ukraine.”

The half-circle in front of the bench on which Zagloba sat contracted still more.

“You say there was a letter?”

“There was, as I am alive. About war and the spilling of blood. But I cannot speak further, for the throat is dried up within me, poor old man!”

“Here is a measure of gorailka for you, father; and tell us what you have heard in the world. We know that minstrels go everywhere and know everything. There have been some among us already. They said that the black hour would come from Hmelnitski on the lords. We had these scythes and pikes made for us, so as not to be the last; but we don’t know whether to begin now or to wait for a letter from Hmelnitski.”

Zagloba emptied the measure, smacked his lips, thought awhile, and then said: “Who tells you it is time to begin?”

“We want to begin ourselves.”

“Begin! begin!” said numerous voices. “If the Zaporojians have beaten the lords, then begin!”

The scythes and pikes quivered in strong hands, and gave out an ominous clatter. Then followed a moment of silence, but the hammers in the forge continued to beat. The future killers waited for what the old man would say. He thought and thought; at last he asked⁠—

“Whose people are you?”

“Prince Yeremi’s.”

“And whom will you kill?”

The peasants looked at one another.

“Him?” asked the old man.

“We couldn’t manage him.”

“Oh, you can’t manage him, children, you can’t manage him! I was in Lubni, and I saw that prince with my own eyes. He is awful! When he shouts the trees tremble in the woods, and when he stamps his foot a ravine is made. The king is afraid of him, the hetmans obey him, and all are terrified at him. He has more soldiers than the Khan or the Sultan. Oh, you can’t manage him, children, you can’t manage him! He is after you, not you after him. And I know what you don’t know yet, that all the Poles will come to help him; and where there is a Pole, there is a sabre.”

Gloomy silence seized the crowd; the old man struck his lyre again, and raising his face toward the moon, continued:

“The prince is coming, he is coming, and with him as many beautiful plumes and banners as there are stars in heaven or thistles on the steppe. The wind flies before him and groans; and do you know, my children, why the wind groans? It groans over your fate. Mother Death flies before him with a scythe, and strikes; and do you know what she strikes at? She strikes at your necks.”

“O Lord, have mercy on us!” said low, terrified voices.

Again nothing was heard but the beating of hammers.

“Who is the prince’s agent here?” asked the old man.

“Pan Gdeshinski.”

“And where is he?”

“He ran away.”

“Why did he run away?”

“He ran away, for he heard that they were making scythes and pikes for us. He got frightened and ran away.”

“So much the worse, for he will tell the prince about you.”

“Why do you croak, grandfather, like a raven?” asked an old peasant. “We believe that the black hour is coming on the lords; and there will be neither on the Russian nor Tartar bank lords or princes⁠—only Cossacks, free people; there will be neither land-rent, nor barrel-tax, nor mill-tax, nor transport-tax, nor any more Jews, for thus does it stand in the letter from Christ which you yourself spoke of. And Hmelnitski is as strong as the prince. Let them go at it!”

“God grant!” said the old man. “Oh, bitter is our peasant lot! It was different in old times.”

“Who owns the land? The prince. Who owns the steppe? The prince. Who owns the woods? The prince. Who has the cattle? The prince. And in old times it was God’s woods and God’s steppe; whoever came first, took it, and was bound to no man. Now everything belongs to the lords and princes.”

“All belongs to you, my children; but I tell you one thing you yourselves know, that you can’t manage the prince here. I tell you this⁠—whoever wants to slay lords, let him not stay here till Hmelnitski has tried his hand on the prince, but let him be off to Hmelnitski, and right away, tomorrow, for the prince is on the road already. If Pan Gdeshinski brings him to Demiánovka, the prince won’t leave one of you alive; he will kill the last man of you. Make your way to Hmelnitski. The more of you there, the easier for Hmelnitski to succeed. Oh, but he has heavy work before him! The hetmans in front of him, the armies of the king without number,