But as soon as ever it began to dawn, and men to raise their heavy slumberous heads, and open their dim eyes, Antek ran round to the belfry and tolled the alarm-bell.
Ambrose and the organist would have prevented him, but could not; he loaded them with curses, was near beating them, and went on ringing and swinging.
The bell tolled slowly, dolefully, dismally; terror fell on everyone; people on every side rushed out in dismay, half clad, and wondering what had befallen, stood outside their huts as if petrified. The day was breaking; the solemn and sonorous notes still continued to be heard, while the frightened birds winged their way to the forest, and the people, full of evil forebodings, crossed themselves and set their faces hard; for Matthew, Kobus and his mates were scouring the village, beating on the fences with their staves and crying:
“To the wood! To the wood! Come, all of you! The meeting is in front of the tavern.—To the wood!”
They dressed in the utmost haste, some buttoning themselves and saying their morning prayers on their way; and all were soon at the trysting-place, where stood Klemba and some other peasant-landowners.
The road, and the hedgerows, and all the yards and premises in the neighbourhood, were presently swarming with people. Children made a great noise, and women screamed in the orchards, and the confusion and tumult and uproar were such as a fire in the village might cause.
“To the wood!—Let every man set out with any weapon he has—scythe or flail or bar of wood or ax: ’tis all one!”
And the cry, “To the wood!” echoed all through the place.
By this time it was broad day—fair, bright and frosty, with a web of gossamer woven over the trees, and the frozen puddles in the roads crackling underfoot and breaking with a thin sound as of splintered glass. The bracing air smelt keen and sharp in the nostrils, and carried afar the noise of the tumult and shouting.
These, however, died away slowly, for everyone was prepared to act; a sense of grim, stubborn, relentless strength and assurance had hardened every mind with its harsh commanding power.
The crowd, increasing, had now filled all the open space between the tavern and the high road, and stood in serried ranks, shoulder to shoulder.
Each greeted his friends in silence; everyone stood where he could find place, looking about him patiently, or at the elders, who now arrived with Boryna.
This was the first man among them all; he was their only leader: without him, not one farmer would have moved an inch.
They stood there, still, attentive, like a forest of pine-trees, closely crowded, that listens to hear the voices within its own depths. Now and again a word was uttered, or a fist would shoot upwards; then their eyes would gleam, a wave of restlessness sweep over them, a face or two flush crimson; and then they once more stood motionless.
The blacksmith came in hot haste, trying to hold the people back, and deter them from their intent by the fear of results—ruin and chains for the whole village; and the miller spoke to the same effect. No one listened to them. Both were well known to be in the pay of the manor; opposition was their business.
Roch, too, came and besought them with unavailing tears.
And, at last, the priest himself appeared, and began to speak to them. But even to him they paid no heed. They stood unmoved; no one kissed his hand, no one even doffed his cap to him. Someone went so far as to cry aloud:
“Preaching is his livelihood!”
And another added, sneering:
“Our wrongs are not to be redressed with a sermon!”
So ominously louring were their faces that the priest burst into tears as he looked at them; yet he did not give up, but conjured them, by all they held most sacred, to return to their homes. It was useless; he was forced to be silent and go; for Boryna had come upon the scene, and they had eyes only for him.
Matthias was pale, stern and cold outwardly; but his eyes had the glint of a wolf’s. He walked erect, sombre but decided, nodding to his acquaintances, and looking round upon the people. They made way for him, and he stepped on to the pile of logs in front of the tavern. But, before he spoke, voices in the crowd were raised:
“Lead us on, Matthias! lead us on!”
“On! on to the forest!”
When these cries had ceased, he bowed and, stretching forth his arms, spoke with a mighty voice:
“Ye Christian people, Poles, lovers of justice, whether husbandmen or komorniki!—We have all been injured, and in such fashion as we can neither support nor forgive! The manor-folk are cutting down our forest … yes, those same manor-folk who will give no work to any man amongst us … those manor-folk who do all they can to harry us and drive us to ruin! Who can remember all the injuries and grievances and ill treatment our folk have suffered from them? We have appealed to justice: to what purpose? We have brought complaints: how have they been dealt with?—Well, the measure is filled: they are hewing down our forest. Men, shall we permit that too?”
“Never, never! Let us drive them off, let us slay them!” they answered him. Their faces were livid, but gleamed darkly, as a thundercloud with lightning-flashes: a hundred fists were shaken in the air, and a hundred indignant throats were clamorous.
“We have,” Boryna went on to say, “we have our rights, and no one respects them: the forest is ours, and they cut it down! What, then, are we to do, we who
