At that moment Pan Michael and Lantskoronski looked at him. It was a beautiful picture. The bowman was sitting on his horse; he held his left hand out straight before him, in it the bow, as if in a vice. The right hand he drew with increasing force to the nipple of his breast, till the veins were swelling on his forehead, and he aimed carefully. In the distance were visible, under a cloud of smoke, a number of scows moving on the river, which was very high, from snow melting on the mountains, and was so transparent that the scows and the janissaries sitting on them were reflected in the water. Pistols on the bank were silent; eyes were turned on Pan Mushalski, or looked in the direction in which his murderous arrow was to go.
Now the string sounded loudly, and the feathered arrow left the bow. No eye could catch its flight; but all saw perfectly how a sturdy janissary, standing at an oar, threw out his arms on a sudden, and turning on the spot, dropped into the river. The transparent surface spurted up from his weight; and Pan Mushalski said—
“For thee, Didyuk.” Then he sought another arrow. “In honor of the hetman,” said he to his comrades. They held their breath; after a while the air whistled again, and a second janissary fell on the scow.
On all the scows the oars began to move more quickly; they struck the clear river vigorously; but the famous bowman turned with a smile to the little knight—“In honor of the worthy wife of your grace!” A third time the bow was stretched; a third time he sent out a bitter arrow; and a third time it sank half its shaft’s length in the body of a man. A shout of triumph thundered on the bank, a shout of rage from the scows. Then Pan Mushalski withdrew; and after him followed other victors of the day, and went to the town.
While returning, they looked with pleasure on the harvest of that day. Few of the horde had perished, for they had not fought well even once; and put to flight, they recrossed the river quickly. But the janissaries lay to the number of some tens of men, like bundles of firmly bound grain. A few were struggling yet, but all had been stripped by the servants of the chamberlain. Looking at them, Pan Michael said—
“Brave infantry! the men move to the conflict like wild boars; but they do not know beyond half what the Swedes do.”
“They fired as a man would crack nuts,” said the chamberlain.
“That came of itself, not through training, for they have no general training. They were of the Sultan’s guard, and they are disciplined in some fashion; besides these there are irregular janissaries, considerably inferior.”
“We have given them a keepsake! God is gracious, that we begin the war with such a noteworthy victory.”
But the experienced Pan Michael had another opinion.
“This is a small victory, insignificant,” said he. “It is good to raise courage in men without training and in townspeople, but will have no result.”
“But do you think courage will not break in the Pagans?”
“In the Pagans courage will not break,” said Pan Michael.
Thus conversing, they reached Jvanyets, where the people gave them the two captured janissaries who had tried to hide from Pan Michael in the sunflowers.
One was wounded somewhat, the other perfectly well and full of wild courage. When he reached the castle, the little knight, who understood Turkish well, though he did not speak it fluently, asked Pan Makovetski to question the man. Pan Makovetski asked if the Sultan was in Hotin himself, and if he would come soon to Kamenyets.
The Turk answered clearly, but insolently—
“The Padishah is present himself. They said in the camp that tomorrow Halil Pasha and Murad Pasha would cross, taking engineers with them. Tomorrow, or after tomorrow, the hour of destruction will come on you.”
Here the prisoner put his hands on his hips, and, confident in the terror of the Sultan’s name, continued—
“Mad Poles! how did you dare at the side of the Sultan to fall on his people and strike them? Do you think that hard punishment will miss you? Can that little castle protect you? What will you be in a few days but captives? What are you this day but dogs springing in the face of your master?”
Pan Makovetski wrote down everything carefully; but Pan Michael, wishing to temper the insolence of the prisoner, struck him on the face at the last words. The Turk was confused, and gained respect for the little knight straightway, and in general began to express himself more decently. When the examination was over, and they brought him to the hall, Pan Michael said—
“It is necessary to send these prisoners and their confession on a gallop to Warsaw, for at the king’s court they do not believe yet that there will be war.”
“And what do you think, gentlemen, did that prisoner tell the truth, or did he lie altogether?”
“If it please you, gentlemen,” said Volodyovski, “it is possible to scorch his heels. I have a sergeant who executed Azya, the son of Tugai Bey, and who in these matters is exquisitissimus; but, to my thinking, the janissary has told the truth in everything. The crossing will begin soon; we cannot stop it—no! even if there were a hundred times as many of us. Therefore nothing is left but to assemble, and go to Kamenyets with the news.”
“I have done so well at Jvanyets that I would shut myself up in the castle with pleasure,” said the chamberlain, “were I sure that you would come from time to time with succor from Kamenyets. After that, let happen what would!”
“They
