The Deluge. Vol. 2. Генрик Сенкевич
breasts breathed more freely. There could be no real question but that of retreating with honor.
On the morrow, the day of Saint Stephen, the officers assembled to the last man to hear Kordetski's answer to Miller's letter, which proposed a ransom, and was sent in the morning.
They had to wait long. Miller feigned joyousness, but constraint was evident on his face. No one of the officers could keep his place. All hearts beat unquietly. The Prince of Hesse and Sadovski stood under the window conversing in a low voice.
"What do you think?" asked the first; "will they agree?"
"Everything indicates that they will agree. Who would not wish to be rid of such terrible danger come what may, at the price of a few tens of thousands of thalers, especially since monks have not worldly ambition and military honor, or at least should not have? I only fear that the general has asked too much."
"How much has he asked?"
"Forty thousand from the monks, and twenty thousand from the nobles, but in the worst event they will try to reduce the sum."
"Let us yield, in God's name, let us yield. If they have not the money, I would prefer to lend them my own, if they will let us go away with even the semblance of honor. But I tell your princely highness that though I recognize the count's advice this time as good, and I believe that they will ransom themselves, such a fever is gnawing me that I would prefer ten storms to this waiting."
"Uf! you are right But still this Count Veyhard may go high."
"Even as high as the gibbet," said the other.
But the speakers did not foresee that a worse fate than even the gibbet was awaiting Count Veyhard.
That moment the thunder of cannon interrupted further conversation.
"What is that? firing from the fortress!" cried Miller. And springing up like a man possessed, he ran out of the room.
All ran after him and listened. The sound of regular salvos came indeed from the fortress.
"Are they fighting inside, or what?" cried Miller; "I don't understand."
"I will explain to your worthiness," said Zbrojek, "this is Saint Stephen's Day, and the name's day of the Zamoyskis, father and son; the firing is in their honor."
With that shouts of applause were heard from the fortress, and after them new salvos.
"They have powder enough," said Miller, gloomily. "That is for us a new indication."
But fate did not spare him another very painful lesson.
The Swedish soldiers were so discouraged and fallen in spirit that at the sound of firing from the fortress the detachments guarding the nearest intrenchments deserted them in panic.
Miller saw one whole regiment, the musketeers of Smaland, taking refuge in disorder at his own quarters; he heard too how the officers repeated among themselves at this sight, —
"It is time, it is time, it is time to retreat!"
But by degrees everything grew calm; one crushing impression remained. The leader, and after him the subordinates, entered the room and waited, waited impatiently; even the face of Count Veyhard, till then motionless, betrayed disquiet.
At last the clatter of spurs was heard in the antechamber, and the trumpeter entered, all red from cold, his mustaches covered with his frozen breath.
"An answer from the cloister!" said he, giving a large packet wound up in a colored handkerchief bound with a string.
Miller's hands trembled somewhat, and he chose to cut the string with a dagger rather than to open it slowly. A number of pairs of eyes were fixed on the packet; the officers were breathless. The general unwound one roll of the cloth, a second, and a third, unwound with increasing haste till at last a package of wafers fell out on the table. Then he grew pale, and though no one asked what was in the package, he said, "Wafers!"
"Nothing more?" asked some one in the crowd.
"Nothing more!" answered the general, like an echo.
A moment of silence followed, broken only by panting; at times too was heard the gritting of teeth, at times the rattling of rapiers.
"Count Veyhard!" said Miller, at last, with a terrible and ill-omened voice.
"He is no longer here!" answered one of the officers.
Again silence followed.
That night movement reigned in the whole camp. Scarcely was the light of day quenched when voices of command were heard, the hurrying of considerable divisions of cavalry, the sound of measured steps of infantry, the neighing of horses, the squeaking of wagons, the dull thump of cannon, with the biting of iron, the rattle of chains, noise, bustle, and turmoil.
"Will there be a new storm in the morning?" asked the guards at the gates.
But they were unable to see, for since twilight the sky was covered with clouds, and abundant snow had begun to fall. Its frequent flakes excluded the light. About five o'clock in the morning all sounds had ceased, but the snow was falling still more densely. On the walls and battlements it had created new walls and battlements. It covered the whole cloister and church, as if wishing to hide them from the glance of the enemy, to shelter and cover them from iron missiles.
At last the air began to grow gray, and the bell commenced tolling for morning service, when the soldiers standing guard at the southern gate heard the snorting of a horse.
Before the gate stood a peasant, all covered with snow; behind him was a low, small wooden sleigh, drawn by a thin, shaggy horse. The peasant fell to striking his body with his arms, to jumping from one foot to the other, and to crying, —
"People, but open here!"
"Who is alive?" they asked from the walls.
"Your own, from Dzbov. I have brought game for the benefactors."
"And how did the Swedes let you come?"
"What Swedes?"
"Those who are besieging the church."
"Oho, there are no Swedes now!"
"Praise God, every soul! Have they gone?"
"The tracks behind them are covered."
With that, crowds of villagers and peasants blackened the road, some riding, others on foot, there were women too, and all began to cry from afar, —
"There are no Swedes! there are none! They have gone to Vyelunie. Open the gates! There is not a man in the camp!"
"The Swedes have gone, the Swedes have gone!" cried men on the walls; and the news ran around like lightning.
Soldiers rushed to the bells, and rang them all as if for an alarm. Every living soul rushed out of the cells, the dwellings, and the church.
The news thundered all the time. The court was swarming with monks, nobles, soldiers, women, and children. Joyful shouts were heard around. Some ran out on the walls to examine the empty camp; others burst into laughter or into sobs. Some would not believe yet, but new crowds came continually, peasants and villagers.
They came from Chenstohova, from the surrounding villages, and from the forests near by, noisily, joyously, and with singing. New tidings crossed one another each moment. All had seen the retreating Swedes, and told in what direction they were going.
A few hours later the slope and the plain below the mountain were filled with people. The gates of the cloister were open wide, as they had been before the siege; and all the bells were ringing, ringing, ringing, – and those voices of triumph flew to the distance, and then the whole Commonwealth heard them.
The snow was covering and covering the tracks of the Swedes.
About noon of that day the church was so filled with people that head was as near head as on a paved street in a city one stone is near another. Father Kordetski himself celebrated a thanksgiving Mass, and to the throng of people it seemed that a white angel was celebrating it. And it seemed to them also that he was singing out his soul in that Mass, or that it was borne heavenward in the smoke of the incense, and