Pan Yan therefore invited him to supper. The odor of roasted meats began to go out from the fire just then, tickling the nostrils and the palate. The attendant brought the meats, and served them on a plate. The two men fell to eating; and when a good-sized goatskin of Moldavian wine was brought, a lively conversation sprang up without delay.
“A safe return home to us,” said Pan Yan.
“Then you are returning home? Whence, may I ask?” inquired Abdank.
“From a long journey—from the Crimea.”
“What were you doing there? Did you go with ransom?”
“No, Colonel, I went to the Khan himself.”
Abdank turned an inquisitive ear. “Did you, indeed? Were you well received? And what was your errand to the Khan?”
“I carried a letter from Prince Yeremi.”
“You were an envoy, then! What did the prince write to the Khan about?”
The lieutenant looked quickly at his companion.
“Well, Colonel,” said he, “you have looked into the eyes of ruffians who captured you with a lariat; that is your affair. But what the prince wrote to the Khan is neither your affair nor mine, but theirs.”
“I wondered, a little while ago,” answered Abdank, cunningly, “that his highness the prince should send such a young man to the Khan; but after your answer I am not astonished, for I see that you are young in years, but mature in experience and wit.”
The lieutenant swallowed the smooth, flattering words, merely twisted his young mustache, and inquired—
“Now do you tell me what you are doing on the Omelnik, and how you come to be here alone.”
“I am not alone, I left my men on the road; and I am going to Kudák, to Pan Grodzitski, who is transferred to the command there, and to whom the Grand Hetman has sent me with letters.”
“And why don’t you go by water?”
“I am following an order from which I may not depart.”
“Strange that the hetman issued such an order, when in the steppe you have fallen into straits which you would have avoided surely had you been going by water.”
“Oh, the steppes are quiet at present; my acquaintance with them does not begin with today. What has met me is the malice and hatred of man.”
“And who attacked you in this fashion?”
“It is a long story. An evil neighbor, Lieutenant, who has destroyed my property, is driving me from my land, has killed my son, and besides, as you have seen, has made an attempt on my life where we sit.”
“But do you not carry a sabre at your side?”
On the powerful face of Abdank there was a gleam of hatred, in his eyes a sullen glare. He answered slowly and with emphasis—
“I do; and as God is my aid, I shall seek no other weapon against my foes.”
The lieutenant wished to say something, when suddenly the tramp of horses was heard in the steppe, or rather the hurried slapping of horses’ feet on the softened grass. That moment, also, the lieutenant’s orderly who was on guard hurried up with news that men of some kind were approaching.
“Those,” said Abdank, “are surely my men, whom I left beyond the Tasmina. Not suspecting perfidy, I promised to wait for them here.”
Soon a crowd of mounted men formed a half-circle in front of the height. By the glitter of the fire appeared heads of horses, with open nostrils, puffing from exertion; and above them the faces of riders, who, bending forward, sheltered their eyes from the glare of the fire and gazed eagerly toward the light.
“Hei! men, who are you?” inquired Abdank.
“Servants of God,” answered voices from the darkness.
“Just as I thought—my men,” repeated Abdank, turning to the lieutenant. “Come this way.”
Some of them dismounted and drew near the fire.
“Oh, how we hurried, batko! But what’s the matter?”
“There was an ambush. Hvedko, the traitor, learned of my coming to this place, and lurked here with others. He must have arrived some time in advance. They caught me with a lariat.”
“God save us! What Poles are these about you?”
Saying this, they looked threateningly on Pan Skshetuski and his companions.
“These are kind friends,” said Abdank. “Glory be to God! I am alive and well. We will push on our way at once.”
“Glory be to God for that! We are ready.”
The newly arrived began to warm their hands over the fire, for the night was cool, though fine. There were about forty of them, sturdy men and well armed. They did not look at all like registered Cossacks, which astonished Pan Skshetuski not a little, especially since their number was so considerable. Everything seemed very suspicious. If the Grand Hetman had sent Abdank to Kudák, he would have given him a guard of registered Cossacks; and in the second place, why should he order him to go by the steppe from Chigirin, and not by water? The necessity of crossing all the rivers flowing through the Wilderness to the Dnieper could only delay the journey. It appeared rather as if Abdank wanted to avoid Kudák.
In like manner, the personality of Abdank astonished the young lieutenant greatly. He noticed at once that the Cossacks, who were rather free in intercourse with their colonels, met him with unusual respect, as if he were a real hetman. He must be a man of a heavy hand, and what was most wonderful to Skshetuski, who knew the Ukraine on both sides of the Dnieper, he had heard nothing of a famous Abdank. Besides, there was in the countenance of the man something peculiar—a certain secret power which breathed from his face like heat from a flame, a certain unbending will, declaring that this man withdraws before no man and no thing. The same kind of will was in the face of
