The Deluge. Vol. 1

"As the devil, – ready for anything."

"It must be that he will take our side."

"Mutiny in the army! See to what the hetman has brought things!" cried Volodyovski.

"Who is the mutineer, – the army, or the hetman who rose against his own king?" asked Zagloba.

"Godwin judge that. Wait! Again there is a movement! Some of Kharlamp's dragoons take the part of the Hungarians. The very best nobles serve in that regiment. Hear how they shout!"

"The colonels! the colonels!" cried threatening voices in the yard.

"Pan Michael! by the wounds of God, cry to them to send for your squadron and for the armored regiment and the hussars."

"Be silent!"

Zagloba began to shout himself: "But send for the rest of the Polish squadrons, and cut down the traitors!"

"Be silent there!"

Suddenly, not in the yard, but in the rear of the castle, rang forth a sharp salvo of muskets.

"Jesus Mary!" cried Volodyovski.

"Pan Michael, what is that?"

"Beyond doubt they have shot Stahovich and the two officers who went as a deputation," said Volodyovski, feverishly. "It cannot be otherwise!"

"By the passion of our Lord! Then there is no mercy. It is impossible to hope."

The thunder of shots drowned further discourse. Pan Michael grasped the grating convulsively and pressed his forehead to it, but for a while he could see nothing except the legs of the Scottish infantry stationed at the window. Salvos of musketry grew more and more frequent; at last the cannon were heard. The dry knocking of bullets against the wall over the cellar was heard distinctly, like hail. The castle trembled to its foundation.

"Jump down, Michael, or you will be killed!" cried Yan.

"By no means. The balls go higher; and from the cannon they are firing in the other direction. I will not jump down for anything."

And Volodyovski, seizing the grating more firmly, drew himself entirely to the window-sill, where he did not need the shoulder of Pan Yan to hold him. In the cellar it became really dark, for the window was small and Pan Michael though slender filled it completely; but as a recompense the men below had fresh news from the field of battle every minute.

"I see now!" cried Pan Michael. "The Hungarians are resting against the wall and are firing. I was afraid that they would be forced to a corner, then the cannon would destroy them in a moment. Good soldiers, as God is dear to me! Without officers, they know what is needed. There is smoke again! I see nothing-"

The firing began to slacken.

"O merciful God, delay not thy punishment!" cried Zagloba.

"And what, Michael?" asked Yan.

"The Scots are advancing to the attack!"

"Oh, brimstone thunderbolts, that we must sit here!" cried Stanislav.

"They are there already, the halberd-men! The Hungarians meet them with the sabre! Oh, my God! that you cannot look on. What soldiers!"

"Fighting with their own and not with an enemy."

"The Hungarians have the upper hand. The Scots are falling back on the left. As I love God! Myeleshko's dragoons are going over to them! The Scots are between two fires. Korf cannot use his cannon, for he would strike the Scots. I see Ganhoff uniforms among the Hungarians. They are going to attack the gate. They wish to escape. They are advancing like a storm, – breaking everything!"

"How is that? I wish they would capture this castle!" cried Zagloba.

"Never mind! They will come back to-morrow with the squadrons of Mirski and Stankyevich-Oh, Kharlamp is killed! No! He rises; he is wounded-they are already at the gate. What is that? Just as if the Scottish guard at the gate were coming over to the Hungarians, for they are opening the gate, – dust is rising on the outside; I see Kmita! Kmita is rushing through the gate with cavalry!"

"On whose side is he, on whose side?" cried Zagloba.

For a moment Pan Michael gave no answer; but very soon the clatter of weapons, shrieks, and shouts were heard with redoubled force.

"It is all over with them!" cried Pan Michael, with a shrill voice.

"All over with whom, with whom?"

"With the Hungarians. The cavalry has broken them, is trampling them, cutting them to pieces! Their flag is in Kmita's hand! The end, the end!"

When he had said this, Volodyovski dropped from the window and fell into the arms of Pan Yan.

"Kill me!" cried he, "kill me, for I had that man under my sabre and let him go with his life; I gave him his commission. Through me he assembled that squadron with which he will fight now against the country. I saw whom he got: dog-brothers, gallows-birds, robbers, ruffians, such as he is himself. God grant me to meet him once more with the sabre-God! lengthen my life to the death of that traitor, for I swear that he will not leave my hands again."

Meanwhile cries, the trample of hoofs, and salvos of musketry were thundering yet with full force; after a time, however, they began to weaken, and an hour later silence reigned in the castle of Kyedani, broken only by the measured tread of the Scottish patrols and words of command.

"Pan Michael, look out once more and see what has happened," begged Zagloba.

"What for?" asked the little knight. "Whoso is a soldier will guess what has happened. Besides, I saw them beaten, – Kmita triumphs here!"

"God give him to be torn with horses, the scoundrel, the hell-dweller! God give him to guard a harem for Tartars!"

CHAPTER XVII

Pan Michael was right. Kmita had triumphed. The Hungarians and a part of the dragoons of Myeleshko and Kharlamp who had joined them, lay dead close together in the court of Kyedani. Barely a few tens of them had slipped out and scattered around the castle and the town, where the cavalry pursued them. Many were caught; others never stopped of a certainty till they reached the camp of Sapyeha, voevoda of Vityebsk, to whom they were the first to bring the terrible tidings of the grand hetman's treason, of his desertion to the Swedes, of the imprisonment of the colonels and the resistance of the Polish squadrons.

Meanwhile Kmita, covered with blood and dust, presented himself with the banner of the Hungarians before Radzivill, who received him with open arms. But Pan Andrei was not delighted with the victory. He was as gloomy and sullen as if he had acted against his heart.

"Your highness," said he, "I do not like to hear praises, and would rather a hundred times fight the enemy than soldiers who might be of service to the country. It seems to a man as if he were spilling his own blood."

"Who is to blame, if not those insurgents?" answered the prince. "I too would prefer to send them to Vilna, and I intended to do so. But they chose to rebel against authority. What has happened will not be undone. It was and it will be needful to give an example."

"What does your highness think of doing with the prisoners?"

"A ball in the forehead of every tenth man. Dispose the rest among other regiments. You will go to-day to the squadrons of Mirski and Stankyevich, announce my order, to them to be ready for the campaign. I make you commander over those two squadrons, and over the third, that of Volodyovski. The lieutenants are to be subordinate to you and obey you in everything. I wished to send Kharlamp to that squadron at first, but he is useless. I have changed my mind."

"What shall I do in case of resistance? For with Volodyovski are Lauda men who hate me terribly."

"Announce that Mirski, Stankyevich, and Volodyovski will be shot immediately."