Читать книгу For the Right - Karl Emil Franzos - Страница 13

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Spring had returned upon the mountains. Some of the higher summits, it is true, still wore their crown of snow, glittering now in the sunshine of April; but the little village gardens of Zulawce were looking bright with early flowers, and on the slope toward Prinkowce the graveyard had burst into bloom where they had laid Judge Stephen to his rest. The spot was carefully tended, and marked with a well-wrought stone cross, as Taras had ordered, who was judge in his stead; for Harasim, Stephen's only son, had not troubled himself about it: drink was doing its work with him, and if his farm was kept in tolerable order it was due simply to the care of his cousins, Anusia and her husband. Taras had taken this burden also upon himself, though life pressed heavily on his shoulders; for it grew more evident to him, day after day, that it was no light thing to be judge of Zulawce while Wenceslas Hajek, as Count Borecki's land steward, had power in the village. Again and again the dying speech of Stephen rang in his ears.

As for the mandatar, he had rejoiced on learning that Taras had succeeded the old judge; this gentle Podolian, who had always been on the yielding side, seemed the very man for his plans. His fury naturally was all the greater on discovering his mistake. The 'capital subject' certainly never lost his temper or threatened violence, but every unfair demand he opposed with an inflexible "No," which was all the more effective for being given calmly, almost humbly, and fully substantiated with good reasons. On one occasion, however, his imperturbation was in imminent danger; Hajek had patted him on the shoulder, saying, with a knowing wink: "Well, my good fellow, suppose you allow me two labourers more; it shall not be your loss." Taras upon this gave the rascal a look which took the colour out of his face, and made him turn back a step, trembling.

From that hour there seemed enmity between the two, and the more the one strove to encroach, the more the other met him with refusal. But while Taras succeeded in maintaining a stern calm, the mandatar again and again was seen foaming with rage. It was so upon a certain occasion early in April, and for a trivial cause. Hajek was making a plantation, and wanted the villagers to allow him a quantity of young trees from their forest.

"We are not bound to yield that," said Taras, quietly.

The mandatar paced his floor, apparently beyond himself; but a discriminating observer might have doubted the sincerity of his rage.

"Don't force me to take high measures," he roared. "Why should you refuse me a few wretched saplings? I shall just take them, if you hold out."

"You will do no such thing," returned Taras, as quietly as before.

"Do you think I am afraid of your guns and axes?" Hajek's words rose to a shriek, as though he were half-suffocated with passion, but his eye was fixed on the peasant's face with a watchful glance.

"No," said the latter, "I am thinking that there are magistrates in the district. We shall never have recourse to violence, even if you should make the beginning."

"This is palaver."

"I mean what I say," said Taras, drawing himself up proudly. "While I am judge here, the men of Zulawce shall not take the law into their own hands on whatever provocation. … But why speak of such things? The trees you cannot have, so let me take my leave, sir."

"Go!" growled the mandatar, but a queer light transformed his features no sooner than Taras's back was turned. "That is useful to know," he said to himself with an approving smile. "This man is quite a jewel of a judge. … No, there is no need to be wroth with you, my good Taras! So, after all, my first impression of you was the right one! … Old Stephen could never have had a better successor!"

But Taras, the judge, went home with a heavy heart. He had no thanks for his battling, save in his own conscience; the men of Zulawce had scarcely a word of acknowledgment. On the contrary, they considered him far too yielding on many points; and, as they viewed matters, there was truth in their charge. Severin Gonta and the late Count, for the sake of peace, had not made good every claim to the very letter; but Hajek demanded every tittle that was his by right of institution, granting not an hour of respite, and foregoing not a peck of wheat; and Taras as a matter of duty never opposed him in this. It was quite correct, then, if the people said that the new judge insisted on their yielding all dues far more strictly than any of his predecessors ever had done. Indeed, it was only the love and respect he had won for himself in the village that kept under any real distrust or open accusation. For he was all alone in his work, no one helped him by explaining things to the people, not even that shepherd of his flock whose duty it fairly might have been. The reverend Martin sat on his glebe as on an isle of content, all because of that strange man, Avrumko, who kept supplying him so freely; and any sympathy he might have given was thus drowned.

But Taras continued bravely and hopefully, comforting his wife when her courage failed. "The right must conquer," he would tell her; "and for the rest, have we not an Emperor at Vienna, and God above?"

"But Vienna is far, and God in heaven seems further," said she, disheartened.

"Not so far," cried he, "but that both will hear us if we must call for redress. But things will not come to such a pass; even a mandatar will scarcely dare to subvert the right and do violence."

He was mistaken. Hajek dared both. It was about a month after that conversation concerning the trees. Taras in the early morning was in his yard, giving orders to his two servants, Sefko and Jemilian, concerning the sowing of the wheat, when he was startled by a dull report, which quivered through the air, a second and a third clap succeeding.

"Gunshots!" he gasped.

"Some one out hunting," said Sefko.

"No!" cried Jemilian; "it is near the river. Could it be 'Green Giorgi' with his band?" referring to a notorious outlaw of those days, a deserter, George Czumaka by name, who wore a green jerkin.

"No!" cried Taras, in his turn, and making for the road. "In broad daylight he would never dare. … What has happened?" he interrupted himself, changing colour. A young farm labourer, Wassilj Soklewicz, came dashing along wild with terror.

"Help! help!" he shrieked. His clothes were torn, and he looked white as death.

"What is it?" repeated Taras, seizing him by the arm.

"Help!" groaned the poor fellow. "They have just killed my brother Dimitri!"

"Where? Who?"

"The mandatar … on the parish field!" said Wassilj; continuing brokenly: "We had gone there early this morning, my brother and I, together with the two sons of Dubko, to work on the field as you told us. We had taken our guns with us, intending to have a shot in the afternoon. We had just put the oxen to the ploughs when the mandatar arrived with a number of men, all armed. 'Get ye gone,' he cried; 'you are trespassing on the Count's property.'"

"'Begone yourselves!' returned my brother Dimitri, seizing hold of his gun, which he had laid down, we doing likewise. 'This field has been parish ground time out of mind; I shall shoot any one that says the contrary.'

"The mandatar at this fell back, but urged on his men from behind, and they attacked us with guns and scythes. We sent our bullets amongst them, and the foremost of the party, Red Hritzko, turned a somersault and lay still on his face. One of us had hit him. But they also fired their guns, and my brother fell, shot through the heart! … They were too many for us, and they turned upon as with their butt ends. But we got away! … "

The poor youth told his tale amid gasps and sobs, and before he had finished a crowd of villagers had gathered. From their houses, from their fields round about, the men came running, gathering about their judge. Most were fully armed, and all were wildly excited; for the parish field is sacred ground with every Slavonic community; he who dares touch it is not merely an offender against their property, but against their very affections; it is all but sacrilege in the eyes of these men.

Taras also felt his soul upheave, but he conquered his wrath, knowing the people. "If I lose self-possession," he said to himself, "blood will flow in streams to-day!" So he faced the men, who were for pressing on to the scene of the outrage. "Stop!" he cried, "we shall go in a body! Call the elders and the rest of the men."

The command was scarcely needed, for they were coming, every man of them, and the wives and the children. Wrathful cries filled the air, the women wailed, and children shrieked with an unknown fear. The mother of the young man who had been shot, a widow named Xenia, came rushing along; she had torn the kerchief from her head, and her grey hair fell in tangled masses round her grief-filled face. "Avenge my child!" she implored the judge, clasping his knees.

He lifted her, speaking to her gently; and turning to Simeon and his fellow-elder he ordered them to let the men fall in. "The heads of families only," he said; "let the women and young men stay here!"

"Stay here!" shrieked Xenia.

"Yes, why?" shouted the excited people. "Let every one follow who is able to lift a gun."

"My orders shall be obeyed," cried Taras, drawing himself up in their midst. "I pledge my head that I shall do my duty!" These words of his were like magic, the people yielded, and the procession formed.

But at this juncture Anusia pressed through the crowd, her youngest child on her left arm, her right hand brandishing a musket. "Take it!" she cried, offering it to her husband; "it is my father's gun and never yet missed fire!"

"Go home, wife," said Taras, "this is not woman's business, I go unarmed."

"Why? why?" yelled the people; but she caught him by the shoulder in wildest excitement. "Taras!" she screamed, "let me not regret that I was saved from the river! It is a man to whom I yielded, and not to a coward!"

"For heaven's sake, woman," cried Simeon, aghast, "you know not what you are saying!"

But she continued: "He who would have peace, since blood has been shed, disgraces his manhood. Will you allow yourself to be killed without striking a blow, lamb that you are?"

Taras stood proudly upright, but his face was livid, his eyes were sunk. His breast heaved with the tumult within, but not a word passed his lips. Thus silently he held out his hand, motioning the woman aside, and she obeyed, confounded.

"Men of Zulawce," he said at last, slowly and distinctly, but with a voice which, from its strange huskiness, no one would have recognised as his, "I speak not now of the dishonour my wife has put upon me; I shall do that by-and-by, in your presence likewise. But now I ask you, will you obey me as your judge, or will you not? Once again, I pledge my head that I shall do my duty!"

"We will," they cried unanimously.

"Then let us go." And the procession started, some sixty men, heads of families, following Taras, who led the way with the two elders, Simeon and Alexa Sembrow, his own successor.

The field in question, the common property of the community, was an irregular square, sloping towards the river, its upper boundary being a coppice which also belonged to the parish. A large black cross rose in the centre.

On stepping from the coppice, through which their road lay, the peasants could overlook the field at a glance. The mandatar with his men had established himself by the cross; he evidently had hired reinforcements, for they numbered some forty. At the lower end of the field, by the river, two of his labourers were seen ploughing with a yoke of oxen; another team stood ready for use by the cross. On the upper part, near the coppice, lay the body of the slain youth, evidently dragged thither by Hajek's men. But when the peasants beheld the corpse, and the armed band below, their fury knew no bounds; a thundering "Urrahah!" burst from them, and they pressed forward.

But Taras was before them, snatching at Simeon's pistol and turning it against his own forehead. "Stop!" he cried with a voice that could not but be listened to. "Another step, and I shall kill myself before your eyes."

They fell back, hesitating; but they obeyed.

The mandatar's men meanwhile prepared for fight, Mr. Wenceslas himself hiding behind them. He let his under-steward be spokesman in his stead, a huge fellow from Bochnia, Boleslaw Stipinski, by name.

"What do you want?" roared this giant; "are you for fighting or for peaceful speech?"

"We have come to defend our right," shouted Taras.

"Your wrong, you mean," retained Boleslaw. "But no matter, we stand on our master's soil, and shall yield it only with our lives. Mr. Hajek is prepared to affirm this to the judge and elders, if they will step forward."

Taras was ready to parley, being followed by Simeon and Alexa. They found the mandatar crouching on a stone, some of his men lifting their guns behind him.

"Tell them to put away their firelocks," said Taras, quietly; "you need not tremble like that; if it were for fight, we had been here sooner."

"Then you are peaceably inclined?" inquired Hajek.

"If you will own yourself in the wrong, offering some atonement for the crime committed."

"And if not?"

"Then we must refer the matter to the court of the district."

The mandatar recovered himself; he even smiled. "Perhaps that will not be necessary," he said. "You are a sensible law-abiding man, Taras, and I daresay you will understand my view of the case quickly enough. You know that in the days of the Emperor Joseph a survey of the property was taken. I have the papers, and therein it is plainly put down: 'The boundary of the parish field is marked by the coppice on the one side, by the black cross on the other; beyond the cross as far as the river the soil belongs to the Count.' So you see I am entitled to claim for my master that part of this field which beyond a doubt is his."

"No," cried Taras; "for when the survey was taken, and until fifteen years ago, the black cross stood close by the river, leaving a footpath for the Count who has always had the fishing in the Pruth. When the old cross was weatherworn the parish erected a new one in the centre of the field. That, sir, is the plain truth."

"May be," returned Hajek, smiling. "I suppose that would be a question for the magistrates to look into; in the meantime, I shall act upon the evidence of my own eyes. It was natural that I should request the men I found ploughing here to take themselves off. They fired their guns and killed one of my men; what could we do but fire ours? and I shall keep the two yoke of oxen to indemnify the Count for his loss. There, I have done."

"But we have not," said Taras, solemnly, baring his head. "I call the Almighty to witness that we are grievously wronged! And I protest that we could never own you in the right! It is in obedience to our Lord the Emperor, and in obedience to the law of God that we have refrained from violence. But both the Emperor and the Almighty will see us righted!"

"Well done!" said the mandatar, with a sneer. "This is a finer flourish than ever fell from the lips of Father Martin; the pope might fairly be jealous of you!"

Taras felt outraged; but he repressed the reproof that rose to his lips, and moved away in silence.

"Well!" cried the peasants when their leaders returned to them; "does he yield? or will you permit us now to offer him proof of our right after our own fashion?"

"No!" said Taras, "you shall follow me back to the village; we must convene a public meeting. But, first, we must carry the dead man into his mother's house, and you, Simeon, meanwhile, ask his reverence to join us with the Host."

"But what if I find him incapable?" objected the elder.

"No matter, it will not affect that which is holy."

Within an hour the community had assembled under the shade of the lime tree, outside the village inn. Father Martin, too, had arrived in full vestments, carrying the pix. It being yet early in the day, the elder was fortunate in finding him in his right mind.

But before Taras opened the meeting he had a domestic matter to settle. His wife lay at his feet, and her repentance was as passionate as her wrath had been.

"Trample upon me," she wept; "cast me from you, I have fully deserved it!"

But Taras lifted her up--kissed her. "I forgive it," he said, "but not again!"

And then he went to speak to the people: "There is not a shadow of a doubt as to our right," he said, "and therefore the district court will be on our side. Self-avenging yields tears and bloodshed only, and is likely to leave us in the wrong. I shall start this very day for Colomea to demand justice against the mandatar, and you shall swear to me now that you will keep the peace while I am gone."

Father Martin elevated the Host, and the men, kneeling, took the oath.

By noon Taras had set out on his way. He had taken his best horse and borrowed another on the road, but the distance being a good fifty miles he could not reach the town before noon the following day. A courier from the mandatar had forestalled him.

The district governor, therefore, Herr Ferdinand von Bauer, a comfortable elderly gentleman, was not exactly pleased to see the village judge, and would have none of his statements. "I know all about it already," he said, "there is no need to repeat it." But Taras insisted on substantiating his charge with fall particulars, which appeared to differ from the account that had been rendered to the governor. Anyhow this comfortable gentleman began to shake his head, and to pace the floor of his office. At last he pulled up in front of the peasant, examining his face. "Is this the truth you are giving me?" he demanded gruffly.

Taras met his glance fully. "It is the truth," he said solemnly, "so help me God!"

"Humph! humph!" was all the answer vouchsafed, and the governor again fell to pacing the floor, till after a while he once more stood still in front of Taras. "Be hanged, both of you!" he said amiably. "I mean both lord of the manor and peasantry. Can't you ever keep the peace! A nice thing to have to arbitrate between you by way of resting one's old bones!" To be a district governor in Galicia, to his idea, plainly was not a bed of roses. "Go back to your people," he continued more gently, "I am unable to decide from a distance, but will send a commissioner to take evidence on the spot. Meanwhile, you can bury your dead, since we cannot bring them back to life, whatever we finally decide."

The judge returned quieted. The peace of the village had been kept, in spite of the towering rage of the peasants at having to stand by and let the mandatar till the field that was not his. The part beyond the cross, which Hajek left to the villagers, was ploughed and sown presently by Taras's men. "A man of the law will soon be here," he comforted himself and others, "and then we shall be righted."

A fortnight had elapsed when the expected official made his appearance; but this, unfortunately, did not mend matters. It was a certain district commissioner, Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, called the "snake" by his colleagues, which appellation fitted both his character and his gait, for in the presence of a superior this man never did anything but wriggle. He may have owed his advancement either to this peculiarity or to the number of his years, since preferment went by seniority, but never to his merits; for, whatever might be said of his cringing and deceitful nature, it was impossible to say aught for his capability, or even his desire of doing well. And having, moreover, a reputation for being frightened at the shadow of a hen, not to say at the sight of an infuriated peasantry, this commissioner plainly was the man for his mission!

And he did not belie his fame. The question of murder he disposed of in an off-hand way. "Both sides have had a man killed," he said, "let us suppose that they are quits. I may presume they killed each other, and since they are dead we cannot punish them; so that is settled." After a similar fashion he decided the question concerning the field. "I find the mandatar in possession for the Count," he said, "and he can prove his claim from the title-deeds. I must, therefore, give judgment in his favour."

"And if we had ejected him forcibly," cried Taras, bitterly; "if we had not refrained from righting ourselves by means of bloodshed, we should have found that possession is law?"

"Well, well," said Mr. Kapronski, trembling at this outburst, "I am sure it is very praiseworthy that you did not have recourse to violence. And I did not say that possession was law; indeed, it is not always. The field may really be yours; in that case, you must just file a suit and fight it out against the lord of the manor, leaving him in possession meanwhile."

The peasants demurred, but Taras urged silence. "Is that all you have come to tell us?" he inquired of the commissioner.

"Well, yes--certainly. … No, stop; there is something else. You shall see how anxious I am to judge fairly. The two yoke of oxen which the mandatar has seized shall be returned to you this very day. I have so ordered it, for justice shall be done. But be sure and leave the Count in possession; now do, or you will offend grievously."

He had jumped back into his vehicle, in a great hurry to be gone. He considered he had done his duty, and drove away, greatly relieved to see the last of these people with their battle-axes and guns.

Taras for some hours was disconsolate, but his faith in justice restored him. He called together the people. "The right will right itself," he cried. "I trust in God and believe in the Emperor. We must go to law!"

But his influence seemed gone. "It is your fault," they exclaimed, "and you must bear the consequence! We men of Zulawce carry a cause with gun and axe, and not pen-and-inkwise. It is just your tardiness that lost us half the field, we will not lose the other half by a law-suit. Or, at least, if you will try the law, do so at your own expense."

"I am ready for that," said Taras. "A man standing up for the right must not stop short of victory, even though he should be ruined in the attempt."

Again he went to Colomea and called upon the district governor. But Herr von Bauer turned on his heel. "We have done our part," he said curtly; "if you are not satisfied there is an attorney in the place."

"I do not understand," replied Taras, modestly but firmly. "I want the law to see us righted and is it not you who, in the Emperor's stead, are here to dispense it?"

"You great baby!" snorted the governor. But good nature supervened; he came close to Taras, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "Let me make it plain to you," he said. "If you go and kill the mandatar, or if he kills you, it will be my business to come down upon you with the law, even if no complaint has been urged, for that is a crime. But if you and your peasants assert that a field is yours, which the steward of the manor has possession of we can only interfere if you bring an action, preferring your complaint through an attorney, for that is a matter in dispute. Now do you understand? if so, go and instruct your lawyer. Do you take it in?"

"No," said Taras; "the right surely must be upheld, whether life or property be touched; and to the men of Zulawce that field is as sacred as my life is to me. Is not justice in all things the world's foundation? and does not he who disregards it wrong the very law of life! Can it be the Emperor's will that such wrongdoing is not your business?"

"Dear! dear!" groaned the magistrate; "have I not always said, it's a precious business to be a district governor in Galicia? Why, you are just savages here--no notion of how the law works! But you don't seem a man to be angry with, so begone in peace."

Taras quitted the office, standing still outside. Disappointment and a sense of personal injury surged up within him with a pain so vivid, that he had to wrestle with it for fear he should burst into a shriek like some wounded animal.

But he recovered himself and went to seek the lawyer. He soon found him--Dr. Eugene Starkowski--a sharp-witted attorney, who at once caught the gist of the matter. He shook his head. "It was foolish," he said, "to move a landmark! But I will see what I can do for you."

"How soon can we expect a decision?"

"Some time in the autumn."

"Not before!" exclaimed Taras.

"No, and you will be lucky if more of your patience is not required. It will not be my fault, but you see the gentlemen of the court like to take it easy."

"Take it easy!" echoed Taras, as one in a dream, staring at the lawyer in helpless wonder. "Take it easy!" he repeated wildly. "Oh, sir, this is not right! Justice should flow like a well which all can reach, for it is hard to be athirst for it."

Starkowski looked at the peasant, first with a kind of professional interest only, but with human sympathy before long. He smiled--"I will really do my best for you," he said, and his voice was that of a man comforting a grieving child.

And he did his best, using his every influence to expedite the matter. In most lawsuits at that time in Galicia six months would slip away before even a writ was served upon the defendant, but Mr. Hajek, in the present case, received his within a week. To be sure, he was entitled to a three months' delay to get up his defence, and he availed himself of it to the day--for what purpose, the poor peasants presently had reason to suspect. On the very last day of the term allowed to him he sent in his reply, pleading in exculpation the reasons he had given to Taras, and demanding in his turn that a commission should be appointed for the examining of witnesses on the spot.

Taras's counsel was not a little surprised. To examine the peasants upon their oath was the one means within the reach of the law for arriving at the truth concerning the alleged removing of the cross which marked the boundary. It plainly was in the mandatar's interest to prevent this if possible, and to take his stand on the ocular evidence in his favour, as given in the title deeds. Strange that he should propose the very means of settling the contest which of all was most likely to go against him! Dr. Starkowski could not make it out. "He is a fool," he thought, "unless, after all, he is sure of his claim, or, indeed, has bribed his witnesses." And both conjectures appeared to him equally unlikely, the former because of the solemn soul-stirring manner with which Taras had invoked his help; the latter because of the good opinion Mr. Wenceslas enjoyed in the district town. For his Parisian antecedents were not known there, and society had admitted him to its bosom as an amiable gentleman of irreproachable character.

But since both parties were ready to be put upon their oath, there was nothing else to be done. And the same genius of justice who in the spring had so capably decided that there was no one to be accused of murder, was despatched in the autumn to act for the civil law.

"Examine matters carefully, Mr. Kapronski," said the district governor; "take the depositions of every individual witness, impressing them with the sanctity of the oath. Go into the case thoroughly--there is no danger to yourself--and be sure not to hurry it over."

The commissioner, with an obsequious wriggle, departed on his mission. "The old fool," he said, when seated in his vehicle, "as though it did not depend on a man's sagacity much more than on his taking time! I'll see through the business in less than two hours, I will."

He was expected at Zulawce, and all the community had turned out to receive him--men, women, children, not to forget Father Martin, who, let it be said of him, for once had eschewed his favourite solace, and was perfectly sober. Mr. Hajek, too, had arrived, followed by the gigantic Boleslaw and a number of labourers on the estate. The commissioner drew up amongst them, and alighting beneath the village linden, called for a table from the inn.

"That is the first of my requirements," he said to the mandatar; "the second I have brought with me," pointing at a puffing clerk, who was seen descending from his seat by the coachman, with a huge parcel of red-taped foolscap and an inkstand large enough to bespeak the importance of the proceedings. "The third requisite," continued the commissioner, "a crucifix, no doubt these good people can provide."

They procured one from the nearest house. It was placed upon the table.

"To add to the solemnity," whispered the clerk, "two burning candles … "

"No need," interrupted the commissioner. "I myself will be a light to their understanding." But his voice, as he turned to the people, quivered with anxiety. "I have come," he said, "to find out where the black cross, now in the centre of the so-called parish field, may have stood sixteen years ago. This is all the evidence I care for. So whoever of you has no testimony to offer on this head may take himself off--have the goodness to retire, I mean!"

A few labourers from the lowlands only obeyed this injunction, no one else moving. All eyes were fixed on him, such proceedings, indeed, not being an every-day spectacle.

"It is alleged," resumed Mr. Kapronski, "that the cross in question was removed from its formed position fifteen years ago. Now, those only can affirm or deny this who were not children at the time. I will listen to no one, therefore, who has not passed his thirtieth year. I mean, all that are younger, I will ask them kindly to retire."

No one stirred. Kapronski looked about with an uncertain gaze. Happily, Taras came to the rescue.

"Have you not understood?" he cried, with far-reaching voice. "Whoever has not reached his thirtieth year is not wanted."

It sufficed. First the girls ran away, followed by the women and children, the young men leaving reluctantly. Some two hundred of the villagers were left, forming a dense crowd round the table.

"And now, listen," continued the commissioner. "Whoever has no clear personal recollection where the cross stood sixteen years ago, let him lift his right hand."

Only two hands were lifted--those of the leaders of the contending parties. "I came to the village eighteen months ago," said the mandatar. "And I ten years ago," said the judge.

"Never mind!" cried Kapronski, hastily. "Please stay; these men might----" he surveyed the stalwart assembly with evident embarrassment, and then added, "you have a right to watch the proceedings! Please, Mr. Mandatar, step to the right of the table; and you, Mr. Taras, to the left."

"Now then, listen!" he repeated, addressing himself once more to the people. "Whoever of you remembers for a certainty that sixteen years ago the black cross stood where it now stands, in the centre of the field, let him step to the right, taking his place beside Mr. Hajek. But whoever, on the contrary, is sure of recollecting that the cross sixteen years ago stood by the river and was removed thence to its present place a twelvemonth later, let him step to the left side, joining your judge."

The division took place amid ominous growls, which broke into exclamations of unbounded wrath and indignant imprecations when the opposing parties stood facing each other. "You curs!" cried the peasants, brandishing their axes. For not only was the mandatar supported by the labourers and farmers of the manorial estate, but, contrary to all expectation, some of the villagers had gone to his side--drunkards and others of low character. Now, whatever these might be thought capable of, no one had given them credit for such open treason against the community--the very worst of crimes in the eyes of those people, to whom no bond is more sacred than that between man and man for the common weal. And what carried their disgust to its height was the fact that the son of their own old judge had joined the enemy. Harasim Woronka, too, had taken his place beside the mandatar, not won over by bribery like the rest of them, but by his own thirst for revenge: it seemed an opportunity for crushing the hated stranger. Harasim was fast going to ruin, and in his fuddled brain the thought kept burning: "If it were not for Taras I might be judge this day, besides being Anusia's husband and the richest man of the village." And whatever benefit he had received at the hands of the noble-hearted stranger had been like oil to the fire of his hatred. Too cowardly for an open act of revenge, he had lent a willing ear to the tempter coming to him in the guise of Boleslaw; but what little good was left in his degraded soul must have pleaded with his conscience even now, for he stood trembling visibly.

"You miserable woman of a man!" roared the insulted peasants; "you disgrace your father in his very grave!" Harasim grew white, his hands clutching the air like a drowning man, for not a more terrible reproach can be offered to a child of that race. Indeed, he would have owned his wickedness there and then by returning to the ranks of those to whom he belonged by kinship and destiny, had not Boleslaw interfered, seizing the wavering object with his huge hand and holding him tight.

"Murder!" roared the peasants, making an onslaught against the giant. It seemed as though the fury of bloodshed were let loose.

The three men by the table looked upon this scene with greatly differing sensations. The commissioner had grown ashy, being ready to swoon. Mr. Hajek, on the contrary, quivered with elation, but strove to hide his sense of victory beneath a mask of aggrieved consternation, saying to the representative of the law: "There, now, is it not almost impossible to maintain one's right with such people?" The virtuous creature would have felt doubly elated had one of the uplifted axes silenced Harasim for ever.

But that, to his disappointment, was prevented by the resolute and magnanimous courage of Taras, the judge. The treachery of Harasim had hurt him more than any of the others; but for a moment only did he yield to his feelings, duty coming to his rescue and making him strong. "Forbear!" he cried, with powerful voice. "Forbear," echoed the elders, and with them he faced the enraged peasants. They fell back, leaving a space between the two parties.

Kapronski kept shaking and quaking; his blanched lips opened and shut, but they framed not a sound. Luckily for him, an incident--partly ludicrous, but in truth most sad--at this juncture diverted attention from his own miserable self; for, when the parties once more stood facing each other, they perceived what had escaped their infuriated senses before, that one man had not joined either side, but was left standing in the middle--the village pope, Martin Sustenkowicz. Nor did the shepherd of Zulawce at this moment look like the happy peacemaker between his belligerent parishioners, being too plainly of a divided mind, and dolefully unsettled.

"Why, your reverence," cried the under-steward, "what are you about! Did you not swear to me yesterday that the mandatar was in the right?"

"Ah--hm--yes--yesterday!" stammered the pope, with a dazed look at the peasants, and taking an uncertain step to the other side.

"Stop! not this way, little father!" broke in Alexa, seizing him by his caftan; "did not you tell me this very morning: 'The field is yours most certainly, for with my own hands I consecrated the new cross fifteen years ago'?"

"Hm--ah--yes--consecrated!" groaned the poor man helplessly, a distracted figure in their midst. The mandatar took pity on him.

"Move this way," he said, with wicked sarcasm, "there is room behind the table right away from the contending parties. We have no candles to solemnise the scene, let the light of your countenance make up for it, illumining this crowd of witnesses."

The commissioner meanwhile had partly recovered, and had found his voice, though a husky one. "I must administer the oath," he said, "for you have given evidence by taking your position either on this side or on that. Let any one who cannot swear to his deposition show it by lifting his hand."