Shaking his right hand lifted. “There is no
Agreement for the blood of the Horeszkos
With this Soplica. In your veins, Mopanku,
The blood of the Horeszkos flows. You are
A kinsman of the Pantler from your mother,
Who the Lowczyna being,70 was derived
From the second daughter of the Castellan,71
Who was, as well is known, my master’s uncle.
Listen, my lord, to your own kindred’s story,
Which in this chamber, and no other, passed.
“The Pantler, my late master, chiefest lord
Here in this district, rich and of high race,
Had but one child, a daughter, beautiful
As an angel; so brave noblemen and lordlings
Courted the Stolnikowna.72 And among
The noblemen was one great rioter,
A quarreller, Jacek Soplica, named
The Wojewode—in jest—but yet in truth
He was of great importance in the region,
Because he held beneath his captaincy
The clan of the Soplicas, and could rule
All their three hundred votes at his own will;
Though for himself, beyond a bit of land,
His sabre, and a mighty pair of whiskers
From ear to ear, he was possessed of nought.
And yet the Pantler often had as guest
This brawler, and received him in his palace,
Most at the time of sejmiks. Popular
For his relations and supporters, soon
This whiskered fellow so puffed up with pride
Became, by cause of these receptions gracious,
He took into his head the Pantler’s son
To be. More often without invitation
He rode unto the castle, and at last
He made his nest among us, as though in
His own house. And he had declared his wish,
But that already they had taken heed,
And served him at the table with black broth.73
May be he pleased the Stolnikowna’s eye,
But she concealed the matter from her parents.
Those were Kosciuszko’s times; my lord supported
The ordinances of the Third of May,74
And had already gathered noblemen
To march to help of the Confederates;
When suddenly the Muscovites by night
Surprised the castle; scarce was time to fire
A mortar off, in signal of distress;
To bar the lower doors, and with the bolts
To make them fast. In all the castle were
The Stolnik only, and myself, the lady,
The chief cook and two scullions (all three drunk),
The parish priest, two lackeys, and four heyduks,
The gallant men! So then unto our guns!
To the windows! There a crowd of Muscovites,
Shouting ‘Hurra!’ They from the gate rushed o’er
The terrace; we with ten guns, man for man,
Fired on them. Nought was to be seen from thence.
The servants fired off from the lower floors.
My lord and I fired from the gallery
Unceasingly; all went in order good,
Though in much fear. Upon this floor there lay
Here twenty guns; we fired off one; another
Was loaded quick; the priest himself in this
Service was very active, and the lady,
Her daughter, and the serving-maidens too.
There were three marksmen, and the fire went on
Unceasingly. The Muscovites below
Sent up a hail of bullets. We less often,
But with more judgment fired down from above.
Three times they burst out there before the door,
Three pairs of legs were kicking every time.
So underneath the storehouse soon they fled
For shelter. But already it was day.
The Pantler came forth joyous with his gun
Upon the balcony, and soon as peeped
A Muscovitish head from underneath
The storehouse, did he fire immediately,
And never missed. At every shot there fell
A black hat in the grass, and rarely now
Did any steal forth from behind the wall.
The Pantler seeing all his enemies
Thus struck with fear, to make a sortie thought.
And calling to his servants from above,
He gave commands, then turning round to me,
Said, ‘Follow me, Gervasy.’ At that moment
A shot came from the gate. The Pantler groaned,
Grew red, then pale, would speak, and coughed with blood,
I saw the ball, right in his very breast.
My lord, fast failing, pointed to the gate:
I knew that villain! that Soplica! knew him
By his whiskers and his stature! By his shot
The Pantler died! I had seen it. And the villain
Still held on high his lifted gun; the smoke
Still issued from the barrel! Him I took
For aim; the murderer stood as changed to stone.
Twice did I fire, but missed with both the shots;
From rage or grief I marked but ill. I heard
The women’s shriek—I looked—my lord was dead.”
Gervasy paused, and melted into tears;
Then said, concluding, “Now the Muscovites
Had stormed the gate, for with the Pantler dead,
I was as lost to sense, and knew not what
Was done around me. Happily arrived
Parafianowicz to us with succour,
And twenty of the house of Mickiewicz75
He brought from Horbatowicz, noblemen
Many and valiant, man for man, who hate
Soplica’s race since time began. Thus perished
A powerful lord, upright and pious, who
Had Chairs, and Staffs, and Ribbons76 in his house;
A father to his peasantry, a brother
Unto the nobles;—and he left behind him
No son to swear revenge upon his grave.
Yet had he faithful servants! In the blood
Flowed from his wound I steeped my rapier, called
The Penknife77—of my Penknife certainly
You have heard, my lord, renowned at every diet,
Market, and sejmik—I did swear to notch
The blade upon the necks of the Soplicas.
I followed them at diet, foray, fair;
Two in a quarrel slew I, two in duel,
One burnt I up inside a wooden house,
When we with Rymsza harried Korelicze;
Like mud-fish was he roasted; and I count not
Those ears I cut off. One alone remains,
Who no remembrance yet has had from me;
Own younger brother to that whiskered rogue.
Yet lives he, and he boasts him of his riches;
His boundary corners touch Horeszko’s castle.
He has honour in the district, holdeth office,
He is a Judge. And will you give the castle
To him, my lord? Shall his most wicked feet
Efface my master’s blood from off this floor?
No! while Gervasy has a mite of soul,
And so much strength, as with one little finger
To stir his Penknife, hanging on the wall,
So long Soplica shall not get this castle.”
“Oh!” cried the Count, and raised his hands aloft;
“ ’Twas a good instinct, that I loved these walls,
Though
