Cjje HSiadtemtjj of latino


THE M ACM ILL AN COMPANY
HW KMX . BOSTON . CHICAGO . DALLAS
ATLANTA . SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., Limito
LONDON . BOMBAY . CALCUTTA
MELBOURNt
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
OF CANADA, Limns
lUlONTO





of Vtlno
A TALE OF
POLAND IN THE YEAR 183a
BY ERIC P. KELLY
Pictures made in Vilno by
Angela Pruszynska
iBeto got*
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1930


Copyright, 1930,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
All rights reserved — no part of this
book may be reproduced in any form
without permission in writing from
the publisher.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 193a

SIT C? BY BROWN BROTHERS LTNOTYTERS
• PRINTED IN TEE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA •


to my mother
Massalena Philbrook Kelly





Mi*3 CONTENTS
PACE
Prologue—The Song of the Poet xv
CHAFTR
I. The Old Man of the Woods i
II. The Mysterious Horseman in Vilno .... 16
III. The Mazurka of Dombrovski 31
IV. The Home of the Charcoal Burner 43
V. An Edict of the Tsar 55
VI. Stanislaus Makes Poetry 66
VII. "Beneath Thy Protection" 79
Interlude 87
VIII. The Parting of the Ways 9°
IX. The Attack on the House in the Woods . . . 101
X. In the Lithuanian Forest 117
XI. The Temple of Perkun 127
XII. The Lost Legionnaire 144
XIII. The Defense of the Smithy 158
XIV. Pierre Comes Home 173
Epilogue—The Song of the Poet 181
Notes 185





ILLUSTRATIONS
Stefan kept glancing at them as he plied the bellows . Frontispiece
PAGE
The Old Man of the Woods 13
The guide waited for the horseman to come up to him .... 22
"We will be brothers" 63
"What have we here?" shouted the sergeant in command . Facing 84
"They have set fire to the house/" 109
"We must be getting near the center of the woods," Stefan
thought Facing 124
The Royal Crown of Poland 141
Pierre loaded and fired 169





"Literature saved Poland in the Nineteenth
Century. It may be called upon to save all
Europe in the Twentieth."—Professor Roman
Dyboski, University of Krakow.





Clje Blacfcamftl) of Ptlno


4


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
these Muscovites the Ruthenians might revolt and turn upon their
Lithuanian conquerors. Courageous were these Muscovites and
able in battle, descendants of that brave Rurik the Dane, who led
the East Slavs for so many years.
To the southwest—and here lay perhaps the solution of this
ever-perplexing problem—lived the Poles, the dwellers in the
fields. They had raised up a mighty nation with a capital at
Krakow on the Vistula River in the shadow of the Carpathian
Mountains, and they had, after many years, succeeded in driving
back the Tartars from off their lands. Their lands were rich and
prosperous, their warriors were brave and valorous. Their
scholars were among the first in the world, their faith was that
of the West for which men had given their lives without ques-
tion, nay indeed with pride; and the figure of the Christ was
upon all their banners. With such people there had been no war,
though these were Christians while his own people were still
true to Perkun and the sacred fires upon the hills.
And at once there came a knocking upon the citadel gates and
a company of men upon white steeds stood there in the snow
awaiting the warder's answer. "We are Lechs," they cry, and
the warder admits them, for in the old days the Polish men
called themselves Lechs, descendants of Lech the warrior who
dwelt with his people in the lands about the Vistula and Varta.
"The negotiations are at end," they cry, when they are admitted
to the presence of the Duke, "and now we summon you to the
royal throne of Poland. The hand of our Queen Jadwiga we
offer you in marriage. And the terms of the marriage are these:
that Lithuania and Poland shall become one, that you shall retain
your title as Grand Duke of the Lithuanians, and that you shall
rule all these lands from the royal castle in Krakow."
The blood leaped at once to the Grand Duke's cheek. He
was a man of noble cast, though somewhat rough and more at
[xvi]


THE SONG OF THE POET
home in the saddle than in satin; and though he saw that in this
union lay the salvation of either nation, yet he stood silent for
the moment, musing. How had this miracle come to pass? For
when but a short time before he had quitted the royal capital, this
girl-queen had all but flouted him, had almost refused his suit
outright in favor of a foreign noble whom she loved. How then
could it have come to such a successful issue? He could not
vision it, but had he possessed that power of intuition which
brings to man's imagination the pictures of actuality that pass
upon the screen, he would have seen this drama evolve.
Far away to the south in the old castle that looks out so
proudly from the Wawel Hill above the Vistula River, the Queen
Jadwiga, a girl of fourteen years, stands gazing out over the
court toward the mountains. Her cheeks are pale and her eyes
betoken much weeping, and there is in them a fiery indecision that
seems to mar momentarily the beauty of her face. For she is
extraordinarily beautiful, this child of old King Louis who had
ruled in Poland before her, and his death had brought her to the
throne at an age when most girls were in the hands of teachers
and masters. She wears a yellow gown upon which are woven
lilies, and over the gown a blue mantle which has long loose
sleeves.
To be a queen—she thought. What means it? That one
must forever do the will of others, and never once follow one's
own fancies? Are the heart's fairest wishes fancies?
For there had come to her a decree from the nobles, borne
out by the wish of her mother, that she should marry the Grand
Duke of Lithuania and thereby unite the two lands of Poland
and Lithuania. Yet even a decree of nobles must have the con-
sent of the monarch—monarch of what? she thought—and that
decree could not become binding without her consent. Yet it
was almost binding, it represented the wishes of the wisest minds
[ xvii ]


THE SONG OF THE POET
to land singing thy song of peace! Thou it is who, fearing not
war nor prison nor hunger nor thirst, travelest from day to day
in heat or cold, playing at the tavern door or in the castle yard,
or in the bitter winter drawing all before thee at the hearth to
hear thy gentle lays! Thou art the first poet of the world, the
first bringer of good tidings, the solace of our misery, the
prophet of our joys!
His head is thrown back and he is improvising. She stares
at him eagerly. Now leaning from the casement window she
meets his enraptured eyes with her own. For this is what he
sings:
Two noble peoples, side by side
By every cause and trait allied
Bespeak thee, Gracious Sun
To West and East their foes abound
To drive them from their sacred ground
Should they not stand as one.
By Moskva's moats the helmets gleam,
At Marienwerder swords are keen
And what defence have we?
The Tartar waits beside his steed
And glory beckons to the Swede,
Now may this union be!
Something caught in her throat. Her heart began to beat
loud and fast, and in it there was something, too, of a newly
awakened pride. Moskva—Marienwerder—the Tartar—the
Swede—enemies upon every hand, and yet the united nation might
withstand them! She then is to bring them together. She by
her sacrifice is to make this union possible. She listens again,
[xix]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
with tears now softened. He throws his soul into his eyes—he is
pleading—he sings with all his life:
O Queen of Piast's glorious line,
Thine ears unto our prayers incline
And save thy patient state.
Such marriage earth hath not yet known,
Nation to nation knit and sewn
To share one common fate!
The courtyard clears. The singer is gone, but in the air there
hovers yet the fragrance of his song. And at a high window a
very young queen is weeping with all her strength; something
greater than herself has touched her. She sees a vision of a
nation that is to be, a great nation that is to play a part in the
destiny of the world. And it is within her power to make or
break that nation. ... It grows dark, the torches light up the
court, and the candles are flashing in their cases. She turns from
the window and makes her way to the church where, upon her
knees, alone with her conscience and her God, she drinks the
bitter cup of sacrifice. . . . And when they come lightly to learn
from the queen of her decision she cannot answer them with her
voice, but she inclines her head in consent.
[xx]


CHAPTER I
THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS
,HE air of the evening on this day in early June of the
year 1832 was slightly sultry, although the sun had set
and a light wind was stirring the trees. In the west the
sky shone red and pink and orange, with here and there a crystal
beam of light shooting up from behind the horizon. Birds
were singing their good-night songs, cattle were lowing in the
sheds at the edge of the rich meadow that bordered the wood,
and it seemed as if peace and tranquillity had descended upon
this hamlet to be disturbed by no power that Man or Nature
was capable of. In the fields the men and women and children
had finished their labor; the day had been favorable for work
in the gardens—weeding the long rows of beets and cabbages
or harvesting the earliest of the first crop; but labor had not
been prolonged after the setting of the sun, according to the
old unwritten law of the land, and at the cottage doors the
people were gathered in groups scooping up their soup from
wooden bowls, talking, lolling on rough benches or singing.
Against the edge of pine trees where the little brook curved
and hesitated before darting into the meadows, there nestled a
little blacksmith shop. In front of it ran the road, which
continued on for a number of miles before it entered the
suburbs of the city of Vilno to the northwest, and in the other
direction skirted the thicket of trees and ran in the direction of

[I]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
Minsk. From the road one could look in through the large,
wide-open door of the smithy and see the coals glowing in the
forge fire, with a figure near by like a giant of old beating with
a hammer upon an anvil. The roughly built bellows of leather
were groaning like a wounded animal as a boy heaved them up
and down, but above the groaning came the clear, musical crash
and cadence of iron upon iron, the healthy, heavy smiting which
beat the red, glowing iron into wheel bolt or hasp. Clang-clang-
clang sang iron upon iron, then clang-clang-clang again,
followed by a hiss as the blacksmith dipped the metal into a tub
of water.
The shop formed a part of the blacksmith's dwelling.
Where habitation ended and shop began was a thick wall of
heavy timbers. From the outside, the whole building looked
like a small fortress—ancient, of thick unpolished beams, with
narrow windows and small panes of glass, betokening the fact
that the blacksmith was a man of some means, for in the country
few could afford glass in cottage windows. The windows were
very high, leaving the understructure about the height of a
man, two rows of beams in thickness like the walls of an old-time
fortress; and indeed in previous years it had served as a place of
refuge for the family living there, against marauders and
highway thieves. For a hundred years there had been but few
of these, but yet according to custom the smith bolted his
windows with bars before he retired at night, and the huge
oak door that led to the smithy itself was closed and secured
by iron rods and locks. The great roof that lay over the whole
building was of heavy thatch, fresh and smooth on the outside
save where here and there birds had penetrated and nested,
and firm and blackened within, with no hanging strands to
catch the sparks that danced from the burning coals when the
draught from the bellows played through them.
[2]


THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS
The forge was at the end of the shop farthest from the
double wall that separated it from the dwelling. It was like
a brick oven beneath; directly over it hung a hood of metal to
catch the smoke and sparks. From the hood a pipe zigzagged
to an old brick chimney from which the soot was cleaned each
month lest a fire should start there and throw live cinders into
the roof of thatch. The anvil stood back a short distance from
the forge, nearly in the middle of the shop, to give the black-
smith room to swing his hammer. The water butt was beside
the anvil. Around the walls hung scythes, and odd bits of wire
and harness and metal, and along the wall which divided shop
from house was a long bench supported at each end by stout
braces.
On this night the bench held four people, all watching Peter
the smith and his boy Stefan at work. Two of them were
farmers, who upon returning from market in Vilno that day
had met with misfortune upon the road. The horse of one had
cast a shoe. Peter was at work upon another now. The second
had lost a bolt from his cartwheel. Peter was about to make
him another when he had finished with the shoe. The other
two were friends of the smith, and Stefan the boy kept glancing
at them as he plied the bellows.
It was quite dark within the smithy now except for the splut-
tering fire which threw its reddened glow directly upon the faces
of the men on the bench. The nearer man to Stefan was a
priest—his gown and cap betokened that—Father Jan, slender,
lean, with white skin and an intellectual cast of features and
brow. The farther one at the end of the bench near the door
was a curious figure. He was as large as a mountain, Stefan
thought, as the flames played with the shadows: huge, round
head with white hair, a body whose bulk was exaggerated by
the long, old-fashioned Polish coat about it. At that moment
[3]


THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS
sians had not perceived the allegory, but the feeling stirred up
among the Poles by the poem, and the revolution against Russia
which followed, caused the Russians to regard the poem with
particular hatred. The revolution had come in 1830-31, and
this was 1832, only one year later, at a time when Poland was
overrun with Russian agents and spies trying to scent out
"patriots" and to send to the gallows or to Siberia all those who
had taken part. Had a Russian agent overheard these words,
the poet might have faced death and all those in the shop would
have been exiled to the mines in Siberia.
"No more of this foolishness," continued the blacksmith.
"You have endangered the lives of all of us." And every man
in the shop wiped sweat from his brows, and it was not sweat
drawn out by the heat of the day or the fire in the forge.
"I am sorry." Stanislaus was not less perturbed than they.
"I shall not do so again. But you scoffed at poetry. ..."
"I know," answered the smith. "I shall remember a second
time. But it is fortunate that we are all good Poles here."
"Our poor country." It was Father Jan who spoke, and
hardly above a whisper.
There was silence for a long time until the twilight had died
out of the sky, and the red coals alone gave light.
"They say that the Old Man of the Woods is about," spoke
up one of the farmers.
"No?" inquired Father Jan.
"Yes. He has been seen of nights along the Minsk road.
Two men in a wagon, returning from the market, met him but
day before yesterday not two miles from here. He was dressed
in bark and the skins of animals. He carried a heavy pine club
and he shouted at them in an unknown tongue."
"Curious," said Father Jan. "I was brought up in this
parish and I have heard tales of this Old Man of the Woods
[5]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
since I was a boy, yet I have never seen him nor seen anyone
who has seen him. It's always some one who has seen some one
who has seen him. Whenever I hear animal cries from the
woods they tell me that it is the Old Man of the Woods. Truly
I don't believe there is any such person."
The farmer crossed himself. "Upon my word, I have seen
him. It was ten years ago. My father went to the woodcutter's
for slabs and I went to hold the horses. We were in a lonely
part of the wood, and my father was a long way ahead. Sud-
denly I looked up; there he was, your reverence, just as plain
as the fires in that stove. He had long white hair and a white
beard, and he was dressed in skins just as these men said he
was."
"He speaks the truth," Stanislaus rose in excitement. "I
have heard of this even in the town of Vilno. He is one of the
old men that still worship the Fire God Perkun in the depths of
the forest."
Peter rested his hammer. "The poet speaks again. Such as
he would fill our woods with fairies, our streams with nymphs."
The poet threw a warning glance at the blacksmith which
was unfortunately lost in the darkness. The other farmer who
had remained silent until now broke in with: "And I have seen
him too. At dawn I saw him in the forest, and he was carrying
a young deer upon his shoulder."
"It is he who lights the Fires of Perkun," insisted Stanis-
laus.
The blacksmith was silent a moment. "Indeed, I have seen
the fires you mention. Or at least a reflection of them in the
sky. But it is a long distance away and looks more like the
reflection of lightning on cloud than like the fire that man
makes."
"Such it is." Father Jan was ready with an explanation.
[6]


THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS
"I have seen the fire you mention—though it is not fire at all
but reflection upon the sky. I have watched it many a night
far in the distance, high in the air and changing often from
yellow to red. But there is no 'old man' who makes it. It is
a natural phenomenon like will-o'-the-wisp in the swamp, some
gas that burning in a morass throws its light on the clouds. No
man has ever penetrated those deep forests, but I hear that the
Russians are to cut down the trees and then we shall know."
Stanislaus was about to reply when there came the sound
of a horse's hoofs from the road, and a rider dashed down the
narrow path to the smithy and flung himself from his horse at
the very door. And at once every man was on his feet. Hearts
thundered at ribs, for the sudden approach of any unknown man
in those terrible days might forebode the worst terror that man
knows.
"Is this a smithy?" demanded the rider in a hoarse voice.
He spoke in the Russian tongue.
Peter advanced quietly. "It is. Can I do anything for
you?"
"My horse has lost a shoe. Put one on." There was noth-
ing ingratiating in the tone. It was a direct command.
A coal on the fire blazed up suddenly. The man's face
stood out from the surrounding darkness like a picture behind
a candle. Stefan let loose the bellows handle with a start, and
the wind sucked into the leather pouch, groaning. Such a
face—
Dark as if tanned by sun and wind, lips huge, with underlip
rolled up and pointing to the nose, nose a bit upturned with
black, squinty eyes above. A scraggly fuzz of hair covered the
chin, and thin thready wisps of hair rolled down from under a
round cap. Tartar, Turk, Cossack—what might this man be?
One of the birds of prey perhaps, drawn to Poland from the
[7]


THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS
horse must be shod and he shall be, at once. Now—at once.
Do you hear?"
"But—"
"I want none of your buts. I come here a servant of the
Emperor, and a great hulking braggart asks me to wait while
he finishes the work of his countrymen, who may be perhaps
revolutionists for all I know."
The blood rushed to Peter's head. "You shall wait," he
shouted, his feelings getting the better of his discretion. "And
what is more, you shall wait until I have finished with this sec-
ond man who has already been here an hour."
The answer to this was a scream of wrath. "Low fellows
—dogs—I'll show you!" And like a flash the short sword was
out of his belt. Father Jan, who had suspected from the begin-
ning that the stranger had come to the smithy looking for just
such an opportunity to fight, rose quickly to interpose, but Stanis-
laus held him back.
"Give him the hammer!" shouted the poet, his fat cheeks
blazing. "Crack the nut that is his head!"
But he had no need to direct the smith. Peter had his
hammer well raised just as the other sprang at him with his
sword. Sensing the need of light, Stefan hurled a few fresh
pine chips into the forge and plied the bellows. The smithy
quickly became as light as day.
"Strike me with that hammer and you'll rot in Siberia for
life!" the man was screaming as he lunged at the smith, who
warded off the blow with the oaken handle.
"Will you cease then?" asked the smith, for his blood was
cooling as he contemplated the consequences of this affray.
"Not until I've drawn blood," retorted the other, and lunged
again savagely.
Peter countered; the blow fell harmless. "Have it your
[9]


THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS
took part in the revolution. He makes long reports to Peters-
burg, they tell me, and in those reports he indicts innocent
people, but he is well paid for his work, and the larger the
number of alleged suspects he reports on, the greater is his
reward. I fear that there will be bad consequences from this."
Peter threw himself upon the bench and buried his face in
his hands. "God help me," he cried. "I could do nothing elsel
Is it that we are to be forever insulted and degraded in our
own land? And yet my cursed temper is always at fault. For
myself I do not care, but I have endangered the lives and hap-
piness of you and Stanislaus and Stefan here. Why did I do
this? Why did I not remember the lines of the poet and be a
slave, for a slave has nothing to fear."
Father Jan was thinking deeply. "Now we must do some-
thing," he said at last. "There was something sinister in his
reference to Stefan. Could it be that he would take a fifteen-
year-old lad away from the hearth of his guardian? Could it
be that Bek came here upon that mission, to learn if Stefan
were really here? He must have had some information, but I
do not know what it means."
A woman's scream from the darkness brought them to their
feet.
"What, more upon this accursed night?" exclaimed the black-
smith.
Then a bedlam broke out on the night air, cries and yells
and screams, the ringing of bells, the blowing of whistles. A
white-faced youth dashed through the open smithy door shout-
ing, "They've seen him. They've seen him."
"Seen . . . whom?" demanded the priest, catching the boy
by the sleeve of his shirt.
"Old Man of the Woods! Old Man of the Woods! He
came down the road and shouted at Stepcha and Janek and me.





THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS
"No such thing," answered the priest. "He brushed against
me and he is certainly flesh and bone."
Some waited for the dogs to come up. Others went home
half convinced by the priest, but the legend of the Old Man of
the Woods had been too long about the village for folk to
regard the apparition with anything but alarm. When at last
the dogs began to bay in pursuit Father Jan went back with
Stefan to the path leading to the smithy.
"They will never catch him in those woods. He knows the
forest much better than they," he said. "But look!" he
exclaimed suddenly, "there is what they call the Fires of
Perkun." And sure enough, over the distant forest there hung
a red glow like the light of many lamps diffused in a mist. The
dogs must have noticed it, too, for they began to slink back
by the road despite the commands of their masters.
"I wonder what it can be," thought the priest to himself.
"There is some great mystery here; not in the light, for that
might come from many things; but the presence of this old man.
It is true, it seems, that he has been there in the forest for
twenty years; who can he be and why is he there?"
And then they went back to the smithy where the blacksmith
still sat upon the bench with his head in his hands, and Stanis-
laus sat with his huge right arm about him.
C li ]


CHAPTER II
THE MYSTERIOUS HORSEMAN IN VILNO
LITTLE earlier on that same evening an inconspicuous
horseman on a brown horse tightened his reins at the Rus-
sian outpost on upper Pohulanka street in the city of Vilno
and drew out from his gray cloak a set of papers wrapped in
oilskin. It was still light enough to read, and the sentry and his
officer who examined the papers stamped them and nodded to
the horseman to continue on his way. He rode straight down
Great Pohulanka street, musing as he looked at the rich gardens
on either side, and later at the silent, barred buildings about him.
"How different it was twenty years ago this month," he
thought. "Would that I could have lived then! For in that
year, 1812, came Napoleon to Vilno with his great army on the
way to Russia. From all these windows came shouts of greet-
ing; flags were flying, bands playing and our great leader General
Dombrovski was at the head of our Poles. What a day that
was! How people speak of it now—of the days of hope and
promise that followed, and then that terrible retreat from
Moscow!"
He shifted a bit in the saddle and straightened out a large
bundle that lay under a wad of blankets across the horse's back.
"Lucky for me that my papers were well forged. It was a
master that forged them. They make me out to be a merchant
doing business with the Russian government in Vilno and they
bear the official stamp. What will money not purchase in this

world?
[16]


THE MYSTERIOUS HORSEMAN IN VILNO
Then suddenly he began to scan the streets as he went along.
"Pohulanka—the street of the Dominicans. Yes, that is the
bell tower, St. John's they called it. Then again to the left and
around a corner by the university of Stefan Batory." He looked
up to the windows of the university, fastened tight and barred,
with a huge proclamation on the door below in Russian letters
announcing the closing of the university. "That building oppo-
site must be the palace where Napoleon wasted his days from
the 28th of June to the 16th of July in 1812—idling away his
time, with troops impatient to take the field, while distant Winter
was breeding his storms day by day to destroy our magnificent
army. Oh, fatal weeks!"
Something suddenly stirred at the entrance to a court adjoin-
ing the university. The rider pricked up his ears, listened and
watched. In the next instant, that which had seemed a piece of
wood leaning against the door came to life with a start; it was
a man dressed in black who had remained there so motionless
that he had seemed part of the building. As the horse pawed
in slowly toward him the man stepped swiftly to the rider.
"Praised be Jesus Christ," said he, giving the old greeting.
"To the Ages of Ages," replied the horseman, lifting his cap.
"The Third of May," said the man again, naming the anni-
versary of the birth of the Polish Constitution.
"I have found you then. Where do I go?"
"Follow me at a distance. The Brotherhood is awaiting
you."
He was away again at once, flattening himself against the
wall, then moving slowly in the direction from which the horse-
man had just come. The latter waited until he had gone some
distance, yet within sight, fingered his package beneath the
blankets, and let his horse follow the man slowly. As they went
along, the streets grew narrower and darker, the buildings grew
[17]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
smaller and smaller, the street cobbles became slippery as if with
water and refuse, and now and then huge stone arches hung over
their heads like bridges.
For this was the old Black City, the dwelling place of the
Jews in Vilno. Deep within the heart of the city it lay, with
narrow streets and winding lanes, its ancient buildings toppling
here and there, with doors and windows barred with iron and
metal as if to stand a siege. They passed courts built about
ancient moats and filled with crazy, rickety stairs. Down below
the earth now and then appeared a staircase that seemed to lead
to a subterranean dungeon; little windows just large enough to
serve for the flight of an arrow looked out upon them at every
hand. And every now and then a black-clad dweller in the city
would peer out from behind a creaking gate or rush tumultuously
across a little street.
So had it been in Vilno since the earliest times men remem-
bered, that the Jewish folk sought refuge and solace here.
Persecuted and driven out of many nations that called them-
selves Christian, the Jewish people had settled in Poland to
pursue their ancient religion and customs.
Crowded into these small quarters they had clung tenaciously
to their old faith, and here their rabbis and scholars had pre-
served their marvelous traditions and culture where many a
people might have lost all years ago. And the bridges that ran
above these little streets were the remains of the old gates and
fortifications that had once sheltered them in days when nations
were more wont to make war than in later times. Here the
kings of Poland had granted privileges to the Jewish people in
order that they might better live and carry on their peaceful
pursuits.
For Vilno was a city about which men had waged war since
the beginnings of civilization in Europe. There was a colony
[18]


THE MYSTERIOUS HORSEMAN IN VILNO
of Slavs here in early days about the old Bakshta Hill, when
Prince Gedymin the Lithuanian built his fortress on the Zamek
Hill. Men called that hill Turza, or hill of the Bison, because
it was there that Gedymin, while sleeping after a bison hunt,
dreamed of the Iron Wolf that later became the by-word of his
line of warriors. And when the Poles grew to mastery of Vilno,
when the Dark Ages had but ceased their hold on the world, the
blazing torch of Christianity lighted up the most distant recesses
of Lithuania, and with the coming of Christianity civilization
spread.
And for four hundred years the Poles and Lithuanians held
Vilno as one race, intermarried in blood and culture and tra-
dition and religion. Upon them fell the brunt of war after war,
of siege after siege, of devastation after devastation. Sixteen
times the armies of the Muscovite fell upon Vilno. A dozen
times the armies of Cossacks and hordes of Tartars ravaged
the country about; where Poland built cathedral, university,
monument, castle, or town, the Muscovite destroyed it; and if
it was not the Muscovite, then it was one of the so-called knightly
orders that ravaged Lithuanian lands—the order of the cross
or the order of the sword.
But though men burnt and destroyed, the foundations
remained and were built upon again. Gone is the castle built
and embellished by Polish kings; a single ruined tower stands
where Jagiello, king of Poland, built his stronghold; gone is the
city wall with its gates and its towers and its citadels. But upon
these foundations the proud city of Vilno has risen again and
again, and to-day one may see the towers of every church by
which man may serve God; and the Jewish synagogue, and the
churches of Catholic and Protestant, and the mosque of the
Mohammedan are among them.
And from the influence of this city and its university
[19]



The guide waited for the horseman to come up to him.


THE MYSTERIOUS HORSEMAN IN VILNO
the hook at the end of the horse's bit. "Now bring your pack-
age and come with me."
They descended a flight of damp stone stairs and waited
until a door at the bottom swung open. Farther along a corri-
dor with wet walls, another flight of stairs was descended and
another passageway traversed. Finally the guide tapped three
times at an iron gate. A slide in it opened, a candle on a board
was held at the opening for a second; the grating closed and the
door was thrown open. The candle in the meantime had been
extinguished, but the rider, moving forward, could feel that he
was in a room that held a number of people. Their breathing,
suppressed though it was, was quite audible to his keen ears.
At length a deep, quiet voice spoke from the distant wall; a
Latin sentence fell upon his ears, the challenge of the Brother-
hood, and this he answered in well-known words. Another voice
took up the strain, and again he answered in Latin.
At this the room was flooded with light, as it seemed to him,
though the light came only from an opened lantern held close
to his face. He glanced about. There were five people in the
room.
One of them, a priest with white hair and venerable beard,
came forward and kissed him on both cheeks. "You have the
charge?" he asked.
"I hold it," he answered in Latin.
A table was pushed forward, and on it he placed the package
he had been carrying. And now as he glanced about he saw
that the walls here were damp and covered with moss. The
room itself was circular, and high up he could see iron gratings,
as if at one time it had been a cell in a prison. The faces that
looked upon him were the faces of men in dire extremity. Want
and fear and suffering had written messages upon their lean
cheeks that only death could remove. They were five of the
[23]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
Vilno leaders of that unfortunate though glorious uprising of
1830 and 1831, and upon their heads were prices that would
have ransomed a king.
"Let us look upon the prize." A man in rags and tatters
thrust his long, bony fingers into the straps that held the cover
in place. For the package was a round leather box a little larger
than a man's head in circumference and perhaps a foot in
height.
They moved the light nearer. The cover fell off. Silence
as deep and as dark as the gloom that surrounded them arose in
that cell and yet somehow became as eloquent as the orator's
tongue.
"Now may I die in peace," breathed one of the men.
"The prize is not secure yet," said another. "It must be
taken to that place where our sons will find it in the glorious
day of Poland's rebirth."
"Have you further directions?" asked a third man of the
rider.
"I have not."
"Then here they are. Here is another pass to take you out
of the city on the road to Minsk. When you leave this house
you must follow along to the street of the Germans, and along
that by the old town house to Subotch street. At the place
where the gate once stood there will be a guard. This pass will
see you through."
"And after that?"
"You must ride like the wind about five miles along the road
until you come to a blacksmith shop. The blacksmith is one
of us."
"And will he know the sign?"
"He will. He will answer you, not with the Third of May,
but with the Mazurka of Dombrovski."
[24]


THE MYSTERIOUS HORSEMAN IN VILNO
"And after that?"
"He will lead you to the charcoal burner's in the forest."
"And afterwards?"
"He knows the whereabouts of the hiding place. Your
papers will tell the rest."
"Good. When do I start?"
"At once. Word of this has already reached Petersburg.
If I mistake not there will be a pursuit this very night, and you
must make speed after leaving the place of the old Subotch gate."
Each old man in turn came to the open packet and kissed
that which lay within, then all stood gazing at it as in adoration.
The priest made the sign of the cross above it and each man
crossed himself in turn.
"Now go." They kissed him as fathers might kiss their
sons. The guide was before him until he found his horse in
the court.
"There is the street of the Germans," whispered the guide.
"I dare go no farther, for there are spies even here." He too
kissed the rider. "I have a son like you somewhere on earth,
somewhere in a distant land, for he is one that dares not call
Poland his home. May God bless you and keep you!"
The rider strapped the sacred package back in its place on
the horse's back and covered it with blankets as before, then
stumbled through the narrow way until he reached a wider street
which he knew to be the street of the Germans.
This street had always been a busy street in Vilno. In years
gone by when the Hanseatic League reached out its broad arms
to trade with Novgorod and the lands of the Russian Grand
Dukes, the merchants of the league made Vilno an important
post, and chose the old street called the Street of Money
Changers in which to do their business of weight and exchange.
Later this street took the title of the German merchants them-
[25]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
selves and it bears that name until this day. The rider, now
mounted, made his way through this street past the old town
house and into Subotch street—a street which at its crossing with
Bakshta street marks one of the oldest landmarks in Vilno. At
this crossing he was challenged by a guard in uniform.
The captain of the guard was about to affix his seal of
approval to the rider's papers when his attention was suddenly
taken by the appearance of another rider, this one in uniform,
who came toward the gate from the cross street at the north.
His horse, in the glimmer of the smoky oil lamp held by the
sentry, could be seen to be smoking as if on fire. The man had
ridden him like mad.
"Dispatches! Dispatches!" he cried. "I bring dispatches
from Petersburg!"
"Quick. Let me see them." The captain snatched at the
outstretched hand.
He had forgotten the seal upon the first rider's papers. And
that rider seemed to know by instinct just what the new dis-
patches contained, for the warning of the old man in the cell
had been in his ears ever since he had left the gathering. In a
moment the papers just received would be opened and read—
and what then? What might be the fate of the cause as a
consequence? He could not know—but the time for deliberation
was past; wheeling his horse about he rode out boldly past the
sentinel at the gate just as the preoccupied captain disappeared
within the house.
Luck was with him. The sentinel thought that the captain
had sealed his papers! He too, being human, was more occupied
in mind with the dispatches from Petersburg than with the fate
of a Polish trader, for such the rider's appearance as well as
the new passport proclaimed him to be, and since the sentinel
had seen the captain take the trader's papers and glance over
[26]


THE MYSTERIOUS HORSEMAN IN VILNO
them without comment, he took it for granted that the consent
to proceed had been given. And now again the mysterious
horseman was upon the road.
As he passed the Church of the Missionaries, he heard from
the darkness ahead the sound of another horse coming from the
opposite direction. He reined in his own steed to avoid a col-
lision, close by an open shrine where some late worshiper had
left a candle. The result was that as the other passed by he
saw his face; it struck him by its ugliness—a huge underlip and
upturned nose. The other rider marked him as well, and even
turned about in his seat the better to keep his eyes upon his
face. Then both horses galloped and the sparks went out from
underfoot.
The other rider was Bek, hurrying back from the smithy to
report the treatment he had received to the captain of the guard.
"He shall smart for that; he shall smart for that," he kept say-
ing to himself, "and as to that boy he shall soon be in a uniform
in a Siberian regiment."
But as he reached the captain's quarters he found that official
in a very stew of excitement. Indeed he seemed so perturbed
that Bek, heated even as he was, decided to let his own matter
wait.
"I'm glad you have come," exclaimed the captain. "This is
something in which you can help me. I have important dis-
patches from the capital with orders to be on the lookout for
a certain Polish nobleman, who is riding alone through the
country with a very valuable parcel in his possession."
"From what point does he come?" queried Bek.
"From Warsaw. He was seen in Bialystock three days ago,
traced that far by secret agents, but in Bialystock he disappeared,
although it was supposed that he was headed for Vilno."
"Is the matter so very important then?"
[*7l


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
The captain whispered in his ear. Bek drew an audible
breath. "The Tsar himself. And what can it mean?"
The captain drew himself up. "That is not my business.
My task is to find this man and arrest him."
"How old a man was he?"
The captain showed him a description. Bek read it, pulled
at his lower lip, and thought very hard. "Now this is queer—"
"How—queer?"
"You say this man is riding alone?"
"So the reports show."
"And the descriptions are trustworthy?"
"From our best agents."
Bek thought a moment, looked at the captain, scrutinized
the floor, rubbed his chin, and sneezed. Then, as if the words
had exploded within him and were finding a vent— "I have seen
the man!"
"What?" The captain grew pale with excitement. "When?
Where?"
"Within a few paces of here—just now."
"Here? Now?"
"Yes. He was riding alone in the dark along the road that
extends from Subotch street, and he was going in the direction
of the blacksmith shop."
"What blacksmith shop? Tell me, manl I'll go crazy, or
perhaps you are crazy now."
"Stop. Think a minute. Did your guard just pass a man
through this post?"
"Yes, I suppose he did. I quite forgot him. Indeed I did
not seal his papers. He must be there now, waiting." The cap-
tain started for the door.
Bek caught up his words. "He is not there. I met him
on the road."
[28]


THE MYSTERIOUS HORSEMAN IN VILNO
"But I did not put the seal on his papers. He cannot go on.
He will be stopped at the next post."
"You forget there is no other post on this road. The man
has escaped."
The captain thought hard now. "No. He is not the man.
He was no nobleman. He was but a trader. It said so in his
papers."
"They might have been forged."
"That's so. That's so. Come to think of it, he was a young
man. Here, sentry," he called from the window, "come here."
The man came running over. "Did you pass that man on
horseback?"
"I did, your excellency. You had examined his papers."
"But did you see them?"
"I did not, your excellency."
"You should have. That man was a suspect."
"But, your excellency "The soldier's face whitened.
He saw visions of a Siberian regiment.
"Sergeant," the officer called. The under-officer came run-
ning up. "Put this man under arrest. Charge neglect of duty.
I shall see him in the morning."
"A pretty kettle of fish," muttered Bek to himself. But
aloud he addressed the captain. "I have a plan that I think will
suit you, something that will serve two purposes. Are you
ordering a pursuit?"
"Yes, and at once," answered the officer.
"Then call out your men and listen to me. Several miles
in the country there is a blacksmith shop that I believe has been
the center of revolutionary proceedings. The proprietor was
suspected of being involved in the uprising of a year ago, indeed
many thought that his blacksmith shop was an arsenal for the
Poles. However it was never proved and after being ques-
s
[29]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
tioned he was allowed to go back to his work. If there is any-
thing amiss in this part of the country I am sure that you can
lay the mischief at his door. It was toward his shop that this
stranger was headed."
There was some delay in getting out the horses, but the
captain finally selected half a dozen that had not been used dur-
ing the day and mounted the best himself. A party of soldiers
followed him on the fresh mounts and in the rear came Bek.
Soon the lights of the post dropped away behind and they were
all galloping in the darkness.
[30]


CHAPTER III
THE MAZURKA OF DOMBROVSKI
""P7NOUGH for one night," said Peter the blacksmith,
rousing himself from his meditations. "Wake up, Stan-
islaus—I believe you're asleep." He prodded the huge
poet in the ribs. Stanislaus yawned and stretched.
"Man must sleep."
"I believe you'd sleep in the midst of battle," said Father
Jan, who had been conversing with Stefan.
"And why not? God gave sleep. He did not give battle."
"Indeed He did not. But there are now more serious things
than battles confronting us. In battle one has a chance to fight.
Here we have none, and a threat has been made concerning
this boy. We must get him safely off somewhere."
Stefan looked at him gratefully. And indeed he might look
gratefully at all three men, for they had befriended him in the
time of trouble as zealously as if he had been a son to each.
When his own father had been killed in that battle on Ponary
Heights in 1831 in the struggle between the Russian forces and
the revolutionists for the possession of Vilno, it had been Father
Jan who took him to Peter the blacksmith for refuge and work.
Of his mother he had but little recollection, since she had died
in the years of his infancy; but the blacksmith's wife, having no
children of her own, had lavished so much affection upon him in
his year in the smithy that he already held toward her the feel-
ing which boys and men have for their own mothers.

[31 J


THE MAZURKA OF DOMBROVSKI
pass into the man's face at Peter's answer. Did he want more?
This was the old greeting and the old answer. After the greet-
ing and the answer among Poles the next step was to begin con-
versation, but here none began.
"Bring your horse to the door. It is late and I must wait
until I have hot irons."
The stranger led the animal to the door and took from its
back a package wrapped in blankets. "Are these your friends?"
He pointed hesitatingly to the priest, the poet, and Stefan.
"Friends dearer than life—and this my adopted son."
The stranger still hesitated as if waiting for some further
words.
At length he said: "My horse has had a hard day. I am
traveling far but I would give him lodging and rest."
"Yes, and food and water and straw—and a bed for your-
self," shouted Stanislaus, to the amazement of the others. "He
who thinks of his horse before he thinks of himself is a true
Pole. I bid you welcome." He sprang forward and embraced
the stranger, much to the amusement of Peter, with whose quar-
ters Stanislaus was taking so much liberty.
"Yes," added the blacksmith, "rest with us. Your horse is
tired and you yourself must need food."
"It is true." The man smiled gratefully. "I have not eaten
since noon, and then on the Bialystock road far from here."
"On the Bialystock road? Then you come from a long
distance?"
The man cogitated, glanced up. "Yes," he said at length.
Peter's eyes widened. "And what do you carry there?"
"Some goods of my own," and now he looked significantly
into Peter's face.
"Quick. Blow the bellows," shouted Peter, and Stefan sent
the sparks flying high. "Give me my hammer."
[33]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
He struck the anvil with his hammer as if testing the metal.
Then suddenly he began to drum away like mad. The anvil
vibrated, hummed, seemed to dance.
Stanislaus looked up in amazement, the priest eagerly, Stefan
all at a loss. The blacksmith was not one to play jokes or drum
idly upon an anvil, yet here was an uncalled-for, clanging
pandemonium.
Bang—bang—bang—then a double stroke repeated—a single
stroke—then the whole cadence again, over and over and over.
Stanislaus leaped into the air, then danced in his heavy shoes,
ripping up long splinters from the floor where they caught in his
soles. A light of comprehension played in the horseman's eyes
after a moment, but still he did not speak. He let the black-
smith pound and Stanislaus dance. Stefan still wondered. The
priest rose eagerly.
Then— "Cease!" shouted the horseman, the tenseness of
doubt all gone from his body. "It was magnificently done.
Cease, I say—I have it."
The hammer lay on the anvil.
"The Mazurka of Dombrovski," he whispered.
For what Pole could miss that cadence? That glorious song
of the Polish Legions in the Army of Napoleon, that song which
in the spring of 1812 resounded all across Europe, and the men
came marching "from Italy to Poland"?
It was the countersign. At the beginning the smith had not
realized who the horseman might be, and the horseman naturally
was perturbed when the expected answer was not given to his
greeting. But as the smith began to think, and as he saw the
package and put two and two together, it dawned upon him that
this was the man the Brotherhood was expecting. It had been
put out of his mind that night by the immediate danger sur-
rounding his own family; and then, too, he had not received
word that he might expect the stranger so soon.
[34]


THE MAZURKA OF DOMBROVSKI
"Are you all of the Brotherhood?"
"We are," answered Peter, "except the boy, and he soon
will be. His father was a patriot, killed at Ponary."
"Then I receive my instructions from you?"
The blacksmith nodded. "But first we must attend to your
horse."
Stanislaus led it away to the smithy stable, watered and
fed it and rubbed it down, while the stranger unfolded his busi-
ness in the smithy.
Peter closed the doors. "Have you the package safe?"
"It is there."
"Does no one suspect?"
"I think they do. . . . As I left the city to-night a mes-
senger arrived from Petersburg. I rode through without a seal
upon my papers and am sure that there will be pursuit."
The blacksmith started. "When will it come?"
"At once, I think. And for that reason I must be on my
way quickly. They told me in Vilno that you would furnish
a guide."
"Yes. I will go with you to the forest. It is a long way
from here and we must drive all night. . . . But stop—per-
haps Stefan will go. Should pursuers come they will suspect
less if he is absent. . . . Did you meet any one on the road?"
"No. I was quite alone. But stay—there was one man
who passed me near the church at the top of the street. A
curious-looking rider with upturned lower lip and nose."
"Bek!" exclaimed Father Jan. "And where was he going?"
"To the post, I think. He seemed to be in a hurry."
The blacksmith exclaimed: "By the lightning! Then there
is trouble in the air. We must get you off quickly. . . .
Stefan, drop the bellows and get into your long coat. Harness
up the cart and fill it with straw. Then drive to the forest to
the home of Vitold the charcoal burner."
[35]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
Stefan hesitated for further orders, but seeing that Peter
was absorbed in other plans hurried out of the smithy and har-
nessed up the cart by the light of a candle-lantern.
"You can leave your horse here," said Peter to the new-
comer. "He will be taken care of until you return."
He called to his wife, and at his bidding she came bringing
bread and cold meat which the horseman ate ravenously. Stan-
islaus, who had finished with the horse, filled a can with water
at the brook and brought it for the stranger to drink. A few
minutes later Stefan drove the cart into the smithy yard and
called out that he was ready. Father Jan and Stanislaus and
Peter kissed the stranger upon the cheek and made the sign of
the cross above him.
"With him go Poland's hopes," said the poet as the cart
rattled off down the road, and the three men sat down to talk
over the events of the evening.
Half an hour later they were settling themselves for the
night. The blacksmith had cleaned out the shop and arranged
various bits of work for the succeeding day. Stanislaus the poet
lay stretched out and snoring upon the bench, for being a poet
pure and simple with no other vocation he always made his
home with his friends; and Father Jan was getting ready to
leave to visit the bedside of a sick parishioner in the village.
Suddenly he pricked up his ears.
"More horses. They are coming down the road."
The blacksmith threw the door bars into place. "The pur-
suers, without doubt. Now for trouble."
"Will you let them in?"
"I must. Otherwise I shall only arouse their suspicions."
After a moment's consideration he said: "They must not find
you or Stanislaus here. If they come to make trouble I can
better face them alone."
[36]


THE MAZURKA OF DOMBROVSKI
"But, Peter, I cannot leave you in this fashion."
"You will do no good. I shall not oppose them. Come."
He took a bar of iron and thrust it into an iron ring on the
floor, a ring so hidden that none but those intimately acquainted
with the smithy might find it. A gigantic heave, and a trap-
door opened in the floor, disclosing a flight of stairs that trailed
off into the darkness. As Father Jan approached and looked
down he could see the reflection of the blacksmith's fire upon
the barrels of muskets piled there, and beyond them keg upon
keg of gunpowder. "My arsenal. Descend. I will send Stan-
islaus after you. Quick! I hear them turning into the yard.
The passageway leads to the edge of the trees. As you come
out stuff up the entrance with branches and leaves." The priest
descended cautiously and disappeared.
"Come, Stanislaus." The blacksmith rapped the poet in the
ribs. "Wake up! The Muscovites are here, and you must
escape by the hidden way. Quick."
"I am a match for forty Muscovites," said the poet, yawning.
"I know—but not now. Follow Father Jan through the
passage." He pulled the poet from the bench and urged him
toward the entrance of the tunnel.
Crash! The butt of a musket sounded on the door. "Open
in the Tsar's name! Open!"
"I am coming!" shouted the blacksmith. "In with you,
quick," he whispered to Stanislaus, forcing him down the steps
and closing the trap almost on his head. Then, pausing a
moment to scatter dust and iron scraps over the trap and the
ring, he hurried to the door and drew out the iron bars. The
soldier who had knocked on the door at first was now drumming
a tattoo on the oaken panels until the smith pulled loose the
fastenings and threw the door back.
Two soldiers with muskets strapped about their bodies
[37]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
rushed in. They were followed by the captain and Bek, and
then four more soldiers stood at the door.
"What do you want?" asked the blacksmith in Russian.
"You are our prisoner," answered the captain.
"On what charge?"
"Of harboring a fugitive from justice. Where is he?"
"I know not whom you mean."
"A horseman who rode down this road but a short time ago."
"He is not here. I have seen no man on a horse."
"You lie!" Bek pushed forward. "And where is the boy?"
"Your excellency," said Peter, turning to the officer, "your
uniform is the sign of your rank and your rights. I will answer
any questions that you may ask, but I shall not answer this man
until he shows me his authority."
He said this with such a manly bearing that the officer was
impressed. "The man is right. Stand back, Bek, and let me
find out what there is to know."
Bek bit his lips.
"Now answer me truly, for much depends on it. Are there
any other persons in this house?"
"None except my wife."
"And there have been none?"
"I have had visitors all evening."
"He is evading. He is evading!" screamed Bek. "I'd put
fire under his heels."
"We seek a fugitive," went on the captain, "and it becomes
my duty to search these premises." At this moment Peter's
wife appeared in the door. She had come around from the
front entrance when she heard the noise and voices and now
stood pale with terror behind the row of soldiers.
A light was brought from outside, and another lantern found
in the smithy was also lighted. The soldiers went through the
[38]


THE MAZURKA OF DOMBROVSKI
smithy, glanced in all the absurd places that soldiers can look
—under the bellows and beneath the bench—and then taking the
lights searched the house and barn. Thanks to the work of
Stanislaus all traces of sweat had been removed from the flanks
of the rider's horse, and he appeared only as one of several in
Peter's barn.
"There is no one here but the man and his wife," reported
the sergeant when the search was over.
"He was here. He was here. That I know," muttered Bek.
"One of you go look up the road and see if there are fresh
marks of horse's hoofs," directed the captain. Two soldiers
ran with a lantern and came hustling back.
"There are," one of them reported, "and also fresh marks
of cartwheels."
"Was that your cart?" the captain asked Peter.
"It was. Driven by my boy Stefan. He went to the woods
for charcoal."
"Was he alone?"
Peter hesitated.
"Was he alone?" Bek repeated the question with emphasis.
"No. He was taking some hens to the charcoal burner."
"Ah—let us follow him!" shouted Bek eagerly.
But the captain shook his head resolutely. "Not in the
Lithuanian forest at night. There are bogs there as treacherous
as quicksand. Nor could anyone but a peasant untangle those
roads among the trees. . . . Moreover, I am half inclined to
think that this man is truthful. If this horseman is indeed the
one we seek, could he not easily have stopped at some farm-
house, or even set out across country soon after meeting you?
However ..."
He turned to Peter, who was throbbing with apprehension.
"When will your boy return?"
[39]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
"To-morrow night perhaps."
"We'll be back, but you must go with us now."
"You mean that I am under arrest?"
"Put it that way if you like. We are holding you until the
boy returns."
"Why did I not tell him to go straight on to Krakow?"
groaned Peter to himself. Then aloud, "Have it as you wish."
Two soldiers led him away, but at the door his wife burst
through the company and threw herself upon his neck. "Oh,
Peter, Peter!" she cried.
"Be of good cheer, wife. I have done nothing and shall be
back with you in a day or two."
Bek grinned.
She sobbed upon his shoulder until one of the soldiers thrust
her aside. "Up there!" Peter was mounted behind the sergeant.
And then they rode off into the darkness, while behind them
the forge fire threw out its last flickering gleam over the
deserted smithy; deserted by all, except—alas!—that one lov-
ing heart who threw herself upon the bench and sobbed until
dawn.
In the meantime the little cart was pursuing its way in the
direction of the distant forest. It must have been after ten
o'clock when they had left the smithy, and there being no moon
Stefan was obliged to drive partly by starlight and partly, as
the captain had put it, by letting the little horse find his own way.
He had been to the charcoal burner's many times, and where the
road was clear, kept along at a steady jog. The stars too were
very bright, particularly the Milky Way. Now and then an owl
hooted at them from a tree, the frogs were still croaking in the
swamps, and once in a grove of willows two nightingales were
singing. Stefan let fall the reins loosely and began to muse as
[4o]


THE MAZURKA OF DOMBROVSKI
a boy will upon all the wonders of life, and particularly upon
the wonder that had come so recently.
"And so this man carries the whole hope of Poland with
him," he thought. "I wonder what it can be. Perhaps it is the
document of the Constitution of the Third of May which men
are trying to save from the Russians; perhaps it is a precious
stone of enormous size which is of so much worth that an
army can be hired when it is sold. Perhaps—" But here the
horse turned from the main road and began to course along
through a grove of trees. As the cart went farther and farther,
the number of trees increased and the road seemed to get softer
and softer, for the cart began to roll. Stefan seized up the reins
ready for any emergency.
The stranger slept. Lying on the straw at full length in
the rolling cart he was quite unconscious to the world. But
rolled in the blankets under his head was the precious object that
he had brought so far. Now and then he would utter little
exclamations, and move in his sleep as if he were reliving the
events of an exciting day; then finally the breathing would grow
steadier and he was quiet.
To and fro rocked the little cart. The road had swung
entirely to the south now, and the pine trees were getting thicker
and thicker. "In a few hours we will be in the dense forest,"
thought Stefan. "I must be on the watch lest some wild beast
frighten the horse." For there were plenty of animals in the
forest: wolves, bears, even the noble bison; but of these only
the bears were to be really feared, and they only when frightened
or attacked. Still, one could never tell. They went farther and
farther, hours and hours, miles and miles, until suddenly the sky
above a clearing went red with the first darting ray of the
morning sun.
And then the magic of the night vanished, and a new magic
[4i]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
was upon the world. A singing, as of all the choruses of heaven,
rose up—the fiery red ball appeared through the trees, and then
as suddenly disappeared, for at this moment they entered from
the thinner woods into the forest itself, and the sun was no more
seen until he rose over the trees in the late morning. Stefan
looked about. The stranger was still asleep; a young face it
was—a youth just become man. "May it become my lot to serve
my country as he has," thought the boy, though he knew not
how nor by what means this youth was doing it. He knew only
from the words of the poet that some great service was being
performed.
And though they could not see the sun again until later in
the day, they could feel it and smell it. And about them a mist
began to rise from the bogs amidst the trees as the warmth of
the sun filtered through the branches. Once Stefan saw some-
thing of huge size stealing away from the road ahead and plung-
ing into a thicket. His heart leaped with excitement—perhaps
it was a bison. No—he came nearer and it remained at a dis-
tance looking over at him, and then suddenly with a start he
realized that it was a man.
"The Old Man of the Woods!" he shouted out, so that the
sleeper sprang up as if an alarm had been given. "See, behind
those trees—he is running now." And the stranger saw him
too, the old man with white beard and hair, with clothes of skin
and bark, whose presence in the village had caused so much
excitement the night before. Before their eyes he vanished, as
completely as if the woods had swallowed him up—and indeed
it is not a hard matter to vanish in Lithuanian woods, so full of
ditches and swamps and morasses are they.
The stranger heard the boy's story with much interest. "I
wonder who he can be," he pondered, repeating Father Jan's
words of the evening before.
[42]


CHAPTER IV
THE HOME OF THE CHARCOAL BURNER
MORNING in the forest! What words can equal the
happiness of these? When all about, the lofty trees
full of life and growth surround one, and the blood
flows quick in the veins in answer to the sap in the trees. When
there comes the smell of pine, when the soft needles underfoot
make the path noiseless, when the sun flicks the arches above
with golden sunbeams. What may one find in the world to bring
loftier thought than these? The spell of life brings with it a
feeling of infinite peace; life, life, everywhere that one looks
or hears or feels, there is life; even where the rotting trunks of
fallen trees lie trestle-like upon the earth, living moss and vine
have covered them and made them live again. Each little pool
is swarming with tiny creatures, each tree branch holds nests or
caroling birds. And in the clearing, where the rays of the sun
come direct, one may throw oneself upon the couch of moss and
dream and dream and dream. How small seems man's endeavor
beside these giants of creation, these pines, these oaks, which,
breathing no ambition nor feverish purpose, yet reach up to
Heaven from earth. Flowers of the wood are blooming with
their subdued hues, animals unused to man go scurrying across
the path.
On and on goes the cart, the wooden arch above the horse's
head bobbing up and down like the prow of a boat on the ocean.
[43]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
And now as noon approaches there is a scent of gray smoke
amidst the trees.
"We are nearly there. I smell the charcoal fires," said
Stefan.
"Good," replied the other. "It is the end of a long journey
for me, though indeed when I have disposed of my trust I must
begin a new journey for my own safety."
The trees are thinning before a clearing. A field of wheat
appears, high and green. Beyond, there is a pit smoking like
the crater of a volcano, and farther along is a little hut. In
the bright glare of the sun, to those who had traveled so long
in the shadows, the vista seemed like a glimpse of fairyland—
the field, the garden, the little house. It was a building of logs,
whitened, with a low-eaved thatch, casements instead of windows,
and a tiny chimney that smoked furiously.
"Hallo, friends, hallo!" The figure of a man came running
from the little house, and at his words the air reverberated with
the barking of dogs, who, fastened to the barn shed in the rear,
rushed out, clinking their chains, to inspect the newcomers. No
man may live without dogs in these forest recesses. One needs
them in the hunt, needs them to guard property; needs them to
drive away wild animals that come to eat the fowls; needs them
to stand forever on guard, particularly at night. And he who
knows his dogs may read in their barking whether person or
animal is approaching his house at night. There comes a yip,
yip, yip, when the rabbit crosses the path and hurries toward
the farther forest glade; there is the sharp bark of eagerness,
and the howl of distress at being chained and prevented from
pursuit, when a fox comes near a dwelling. The bear is greeted
with a mad bark and much showing of teeth. But when man
approaches in the night, there comes a long, cautious growl,
five or six loud yelps in succession, and then the growling again.
[44]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
ant cottage with whitewashed walls, and the single living-room
which was often shared with domestic animals.
"Oh, comfortable enough," said Vitold, for that was the
charcoal burner's name. "We have a cow and fowl and other
luxuries, and what else we need I buy each week in the village."
The daughter of the house came running. With a bound
she was upon her father's neck, and then, after greeting the
stranger somewhat shyly, held out a hand to Stefan. "How
glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed.
If the forest held anything fairer than this child, certainly
Stefan had not seen it. She was perhaps a year younger than
he, light of skin with yellow hair and eyes as blue as the Polish
skies. The freshness of the morning was upon her face, and
the sun itself seemed hidden in her hair where there was a
glinting like gold. She wore her hair loose in a single tress
caught in a blue ribbon that she had just been fastening. A
white blouse with flower embroidery upon it fell to her waist,
and the flowers continued in stripe-like patterns down her dark
skirt to the border, where an arrow design ran about the edge
of the skirt. There were white stockings below and sandals of
soft deerskin.
"And I to see you," he answered, meeting her frank glance.
Vitold stepped aside to look at the picture, "Storm cloud
and sun," he said, for the two young people presented such a
contrast: Stefan dark, with somber clothes and hair, yet not an
unhandsome youth, and she as light as the fairest Lithuanian.
"Janek," she called, "bring benches to the table and set the
meat and bread upon it."
"Lilia is my housekeeper," said Vitold. "Since her mother's
death these many years gone by, she has been to me all that a
daughter could be. She is truly my lily, my Lithuanian lily,
fairer than any flower in these woods—" And he hesitated
[46]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
From the garden they strolled to the edge of the woods.
Stefan appeared just as wide awake as if he had been sleeping
soundly, for in youth the gold of morning brings an enchanted
world after a sleepless night. There are no pangs of tired heart
or heavy eyelids, the heart beats as freshly as ever and the world
takes on new beauty. They sat upon the thick rich sward of
dry moss at the edge of the forest where the clearing came to
an end, and looked up into the lofty trees and dreamed of the
wonders therein. . . . Lack of sleep brings a curious sense
of discernment; familiar objects take new shapes, motion unno-
ticed in other waking hours now becomes apparent. . . . And
then, fed with the beauty of the sylvan world, Stefan suddenly
closed his eyes.
When he opened them Lilia was still sitting beside him.
"You have slept for some time," she said. "Do you know
why the messenger came to Father with the package he was
carrying?"
"No," he replied, a little ashamed of his drowsiness, "but
it is something very important. Indeed, it is a great secret."
And he told her what he knew of the stranger's errand,
not omitting the scenes at the blacksmith shop of the night
before.
"You are in some danger," she exclaimed, her eyes struck
with sudden childish pain. "It would be safer for you to go
to Krakow directly from here. Janek can take you to the forest
edge at the south and there you can hide with friends until a
wagon comes."
"Perhaps there is danger," he answered. "But it is not
immediate. I must return to the shop and see Peter and my
mother" (he thought of Peter's wife as mother) "before
I go."
"And will you not come back here again?"
[48]


THE HOME OF THE CHARCOAL BURNER
"I do not know."
"You must, or we shall come to you."
Their friendship had extended over many years, and they
had a kinship in most common things, a love of the woods and
fields, a love of books, which they devoured together in the
charcoal burner's house, and a natural friendship which had
already outlasted many others.
"If you go to Krakow, I shall try to see you before you go,"
she repeated. . . . "Stefan," she mused, "I wonder if good
days will ever come to us again. Father hopes and works, and
yet it all seems so useless. Shall we ever be able to enjoy our
native land again and be as free as our fathers were?"
"God helping us, we will," he answered.
She put her hand in his, for these were brave words. Many
an older tongue might have feared to utter them, for the country
now lay defeated and torn into three parts after what had
seemed its supreme struggle to free itself. And he, Stefan,
remembered this moment as one of the sweetest in his life, as
he sat there in the forest on this sunny morning, and close beside
him beat this loyal heart ready to bear him up in that which he
knew to be the great motive of his life.
"And as to the Old Man of the Woods you saw near the
smithy," she exclaimed suddenly, "I myself have seen him many
times."
"You have!"
"Yes. I think him harmless. Many a time I have heard
a rustling in the brush that I thought was an animal and then
have seen him scurrying away, over there, into the very heart
of the woods. He is a gentle soul, I think, one perhaps demented
by fear or cruelty, who lives hereabouts in the forest."
"And the Fires of Perkun?"
"I have seen that often, too, and I know not what to make
[49]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
of it. But I do not fear it. Indeed I always watch to see the
reflection in the sky. It is not a fire that spreads, and that is
curious, too, for sometimes our woods are very dry. It must
be a fire contained in something in the very heart of the forest,
and high too, for otherwise the tree-tops would hide the
reflection."
"Has no one ever attempted to find out?"
"No. We have here no other habitation save our own, and
the road by which you came ends at our house. The hunters
come here occasionally but they cannot go far. The forest is
not open. It is full of bogs and marshes, and fallen trunks are
often piled as high as city walls. Then, too, men fear the wild
animals—the wolves come sometimes even into our clearing in
the winter time when they are hungry. They come always
though by twos and threes, and never in large packs as men
say they do."
"Let us go a little way into the forest."
He still clung to her hand. Together they leaped over piles
of boughs and heaps of brush as the sunlight began to die out
around them. Little by little the shadows began to deepen and
a chill came into the air.
"Look!" she exclaimed, suddenly pointing. "Do you see
that large pool of water? Come to it and I will show you a
secret that no other knows. I found it here myself."
They made their way to it, and at its edge she stooped down
and cleared away brush that hid a stone. "Do you see this
stone?"
He did.
"Then look closely while I hold back this branch and see
what is inscribed upon it." He knelt down.
"Why, this is curious."
Upon the stone was carven with some rough instrument a

[So]


THE HOME OF THE CHARCOAL BURNER
bog—and laid them out in the sun. "I will tell you what I think
about the mark," she continued. "I believe that if it were pos-
sible to cross the bog one could go directly to the center of the
forest by that path that you can see so plainly on the other side.
That bog was undoubtedly known to the old Lithuanians who
lived in the forest, and served them as a moat of defense against
their enemies."
"And yet the Old Man of the Woods goes in there, you say.
How does he do it?"
"I do not know. Perhaps he has the secret. Indeed, he
must have, for no other person can penetrate there."
"But you told me you would tell me of the sign. Have you
ever seen it before?"
"Yes. It is just like the sign on the shield of the knight in
the Lithuanian coat-of-arms. You will find it somewhere on a
brick in the old bell-tower in front of the cathedral in Vilno.
That old bell-tower was once a temple of Perkun—or, at least,
if not a temple, then it was a building with a high pulpit from
which the priest of the God of Fire, Perkun, could address the
people of the neighborhood. Later it became a tower of defense,
and then when Christianity came and the priests extinguished
the sacred Fires of Perkun, it became a tower housing the bells."
Stefan was thoughtful for a long time. "And to think that
you have found this path! Who knows where it leads? If we
could follow it we might learn the secret of the Fires of Perkun,
and perhaps find the dwelling place of the Old Man of the
Woods. Perhaps he is one of those old priests, those wander-
ing bards, who watched the sacred fires, and perhaps we might
find there wonders untold."
"Stefan," she said, turning to him suddenly, "I think that
you saved my life."
"No. I am ashamed. I endangered it," he answered.
"But you drew me out. My feet were sinking in the bog."
[53]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
He was silent. "Speak no more about it," he said at length.
She caught his hand again. "Stefan, do you know that the
woods are full of living people?"
He looked at her in astonishment.
"I do not mean such living people as you think. But my
people were Lithuanians, and I think that we still feel that the
trees and streams and heavens are filled with strange and mystic
folk. There is a nymph in the river, the bubbling spring is but
the tears of a disappointed girl, there are little sprites in the
clouds that sit on each billowy feather in the heavens and guide
it wherever it goes. When the lightning flashes and the thunder
rolls, it is the great God Perkun himself who is speaking. And
in the sky the moon is the wife of the sun, but he does not see
her, for she has been disobedient. And the little stars are their
children who roam the heavens looking always for flowers."
"You are a poet," he said, entranced.
"No, I am no poet. I am, I think, a pagan."
"Yes, you are a poet, and the poet is the greatest of men."
"Do you think so, Stefan?" she asked. "I have always
thought so, and when my father reads me the poems of old days
and new, I think that if men would follow the words of poets,
then the world would be a better place to live in."
"Indeed it would," he said.
"For did not the poets inspire us to rise in revolution in
1830 and '31? Was it not the poet's word that freedom was
the greatest blessing of mankind, that led our people to seek
their freedom in the only way they knew. . . . Ah, the poor
poets!" she exclaimed. "They receive no recompense—they are
thrown into jails—they must wander to and fro, exiles upon the
earth as long as they live."
"But afterwards—"
"Stefan, the day will come!"
[54]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
"The smith did not at first give me the countersign. Then
finally he played it on his anvil."
Vitold laughed. "He is a rare one, that Peter. And you
sec the Brotherhood had wisdom too. For a smithy is a public
place, and had you come there when others were in the shop the
countersign might have been detected. The blacksmith was
undoubtedly ordered to play the tune upon his anvil as you
heard it, although he might have done it at his own caprice."
"But what of the future?"
"I must think. But it is true that, in order to reach the
place designated here, a long journey is necessary. It seems to
be near the center of the woods, but as I said there is no road
on this side. In such case we must make a long detour, clear
back over the path you have already followed, even to the black-
smith shop, and around to the right. There will be this advan-
tage—there is a priest near there, Father Jan, who knows almost
everything about this locality. We can call on him for aid and
perhaps the blacksmith too."
"But if it is necessary to retrace my steps, why did not the
Brotherhood send me by that path at the beginning—that is,
from the blacksmith* shop and not from here?"
"I can't understand. This chart has two paths to the center
of the woods marked in ink. One of them goes from here
directly to the place. That would be the shorter way, but, as
I said, there is no path here. 'The forest is impenetrable, and
there is a bog that is impassable. The second path goes around
from the blacksmith shop and strikes into the forest at a different
angle. That is the path that we must try, although we may
find it impossible to follow. Few people know about it, and in
my day I have known of no one who has ventured far on it."
"When shall we start?"
"To-morrow before noon. I shall send Stefan away early
[56],


AN EDICT OF THE TSAR
in the morning to return to the smithy alone. Saying nothing
of our plans to any one but Lilia, we will set out in a cart some
hours later, driving as far as we deem safe. From the black-
smith shop we must travel on foot, of course, and a long journey
it will be at best. But now—" he added with compassion in
his eyes, "you must sleep. We will wake you later in the evening.
In the meantime I will make preparations to leave. Janek is the
most faithful boy on earth. I will leave him and Kuba here
with Lilia. I hate to leave her in these troublesome times, but
there is no other way when the safety of the cause is at stake."
Early in the morning Stefan set out with a half-load of
charcoal wisely provided by Vitold to conceal the nature of his
journey to the forest. At the edge of the clearing he turned to
wave back at Lilia, who stood at the door watching his cart
vanish amidst the trees. The weather was fair as it had
been for several days, and toward the late afternoon he passed
out of the forest and drove along the country road. There was
no need for hurrying, the journey was pleasant, and he had
ridden so many times on a rocking cart that the motion did not
bother him. Past familiar hills and groves he rode, until at
last he saw the wooded slope that rose on'the farther side of
the little brook that trickled by the blacksmith shop.
They should have been there to greet him, he thought, as
he looked ahead—Peter and his wife, and Father Jan perhaps.
But there in the door of the smithy was no one; indeed, the
smithy door was closed. But as he looked, the door of the
house opened and some one came out. He looked again, and
then the blood fled suddenly from his heart. The person who
had just come from the house was a soldier in Russian uniform!
He whipped up the horse and dashed into the yard. What
if that evil-faced Bek had already caused trouble and taken the
blacksmith away? What if his journey into the woods had been
[57]


AN EDICT OF THE TSAR
And you, Stefan Kovalevski," he went on, while folding the
paper back into his coat, "are to be taken to Vilno and there
lodged as a prisoner until you can be put into a company of other
orphans and sent to Russia. There are many others awaiting
you."
"But why in God's name do you put irons on him?"
demanded the smith, running forward. "He is no criminal.
He has done no wrong. If you must take him, take him—but
why lead him through the streets like a common thief?"
"All orphans are to be so conducted to Russia," said Bek
with a smile, enjoying to the utmost the agony of the smith.
"And be careful what you say, or there may be found a charge
upon which you yourself may be conducted in like manner."
This broke the smith completely, and the big fellow threw
himself on the bench, his bosom heaving with grief.
"Do not grieve so for me," said Stefan, at the moment
forgetting his own agony in the agony of these whom he loved
as father and mother. "We shall see each other again."
Peter rose. "I was a child," he said. And after kissing the
boy on both cheeks he made the sign of the cross above him.
Then lest he should give way again he rushed into the smithy
and began to pound with a hammer upon the anvil.
The soldiers were on their horses, the boy behind one of
them, awaiting the word of command from their sergeant to
move forward to the road. Stefan, to keep his eyes from the
pained faces behind him, gazed into theirs. These faces did
not seem excessively cruel; indeed, it is probable that most of
them hated the job that they were ordered to perform. But
they stood in fear of the most terrible authority that the world
has ever known, the authority of the Russian Tsar.
"Forward!"—they were off.
And now they were clattering over the stones. Through
[59]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
at the upper end where there were more soldiers on guard.
"Upstairs," said the sergeant, throwing open a door.
This was the famous old Bazylian cloister where the mem-
bers of that University Society, the Philaretians, had been
imprisoned a few years before. Turned into a prison by the
Russians at that time, it continued to do service as such, on
occasions, until many years later. For the number of prisoners
in Poland under the Russians always far exceeded the capacity
of the regular prisons, and the Russians were not averse to
using church or cloister or school for purposes of imprisonment.
The cloister had dungeons, but as yet the upper floors held all
the prisoners. It was in one of these upper-floor cells, indeed
the same cell into which they thrust Stefan, that the young poet
Mickiewicz had been imprisoned with the Philaretians, and this
cell has been immortalized in that poet's poem "Forefathers'
Eve."
Two soldiers worked at Stefan's bonds when he had been
thrust through the door of this cell; the bonds came loose, but
immediately the loose end of a chain was caught about the boy's
foot. As he jerked at it in a spasm of pain, he heard a cry
beside him, and then saw that he was chained to another boy.
The two were to be kept together in the room.
"What is your name?" he whispered, after the soldiers had
locked the cell door and disappeared.
"Zygmunt. And yours?"
"Stefan."
They grasped hands.
"We will be brothers."
Zygmunt made the sign of the cross. He was not so tall as
Stefan, and much less in girth.
"Have you been here long?"
"Ten days."
[62]



"We will be brothers."





AN EDICT OF THE TSAR
"Are you an orphan?"
"I was brought up with foster-parents. They regarded me
as their son. Now—well—" the boy brushed away a tear with
a dirty cuff.
They talked until twilight fell. A soldier came in and set
a bench against the wall. Somewhere in the corridor a candle
flickered. Outside in the courtyard they could hear other pris-
oners brought in and chains clinking as they were assigned to
cells. Now and then some boy in another cell could be heard
sobbing; another was at his prayers. But to bolster up his own
courage and the courage of his companion Stefan kept up a
steady stream of talk. He told him of the brave deeds done by
his father in the uprising of the previous year, of the deeds in
days of old under Kosciuszko and the glory that once had been.
And as they said their prayers together, invoking the aid of the
Mother of Mercy whose picture hung above the gate outside,
there came upon them that calm that so many Polish exiles have
known. Soon the boy's breath came slowly and regularly, and
he was fast asleep in Stefan's arms.
[65]


CHAPTER VI
STANISLAUS MAKES POETRY
ILNO is the city of the romanticist, the mystic, and the
poet. First built as a clearing in the midst of a forest
that stretched across central and eastern Europe, it was
the shrine of the Worship of Fire, and that worship lasted nearly
until our day. Western civilization has never yet put a definite
stamp upon it; it remains different from all other cities in Chris-
tendom; it is, and yet it is not. For in the Lithuanian forests as
well as in these narrow streets the soul of man seems ennobled
and magnified. Dreams and fancies, which in a safer and more
conventional world one would label as dreams and fancies and
cast aside, here become realities; here spiritual truths are more
evident than in the Western city. Here in his stronghold may
the Jew expect daily the coming of his Messiah—here the Pole
did hope and pray for a Messianic nation. Here in the sur-
rounding forests, according to some savants, the world of men
began; in the old Lithuanian language one finds words that
strike familiarly upon the ears of all dwellers in Western lands.
As drawn into a whirlpool so were all nations drawn into
this city. Asia in motion sent its waves clear through to the
Baltic Sea and upon those waves rode natives of far-distant
countries. The knights returning from the Crusades found here
new fields for conquest. The Jew and the Khazar, tossed here
by circumstance of war and peace and trade, settled within these
walls. The peasants from Bialorus or White Ruthenia spread
over the fields, and Tartars and their children came and went.

[66]


STANISLAUS MAKES POETRY
But it was Pole and Lithuanian who had lived in Vilno since the
old days and who had built the city and the civilization sur-
rounding it.
Mystic city of the North! None may know thee who have
not been close to thy heart. Fair to look upon in the valley
where the Vileyka River meets the Vilia, where amidst green
trees and beautiful vistas rise thy hills and monuments—an
inspiring sight to the stranger who first casts his eyes upon them.
But thou art a mystic and a hidden city. It is the allegory which
fits thee best. For that which is the outside of things is not
that of which thou art proudest. That which thou shelterest
within thy bosom is hidden from all men save those who love
thee. The outside of each dwelling and street front is but a
gate, and within this gate live thy hidden devotees. Thou art
secret and precise, saving thy charms for those who seek to learn
thy heart. Born of the forest, the forest's mystery still lives in
thee. From the outside thou art like other cities—but once
the scales have fallen from the observer's eyes thou art seen to
be unique, alone. The surface means nothing; that which is
underneath counts for all. Along one curved street of thine
are an hundred ordinary doors; ordinary—yet if the stranger
will parley with the keeper of the gate and look inside, he will
see marvels. Cities within cities, dreams within dreams,
thoughts within thoughts. And time means naught to thee.
All thy magnificent Gothic, thy walls, thy castles, thy churches—
destroyed by enemies, plundered, burned, wrecked—these still
live in thy heart, and he who seeks can find them. For in each
stone there is a story. The peasant who builds his walls of
stones from the earth but uses stones which some Lithuanian or
Polish prince of olden times used for building his castle.
And then thy great mystery, the Madonna of the Ostra
Brama. How many hearts and bodies and souls have been com-
[67]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
fortcd before the picture of the Eternal Mother there? Man's
self is like unto the city—in outer things resembling his brothers,
but in the inner self there is the individualizing flame. And
there it burns beside the picture, the light of man's faith on
earth. For faith in God and faith in man will redeem the world
and make it good, and for this come the thousands of pilgrims
to the shrine.
Thus mused Stanislaus the poet on this same evening, as he
went about the city earning his daily bread. Existence for the
poet was hard in those times; he must live literally upon the
crumbs which men gave him from their tables in exchange for
his verses. In search of crumbs he wandered into the restaur-
ants. He tried at first the small ones, but they were empty and
deserted. Poles feared to gather even to eat, lest suspicion
should fasten the dread word Conspiracy upon them. They
were eating their bitter bread behind closed shutters. He went
finally to his favorite place, a little eating-house down three steps
from the sidewalk on Great Street. The door was open and the
proprietor stood behind his little table, but there were no cus-
tomers.
"Life is hard," he said, greeting the poet.
"That it is. I have good poems but no one to read them to."
"And none could pay." The man lighted a little oil lamp.
"Still wearing that great elephant hide, Stanislaus? Are you
thin-blooded that you need such a covering in summer?"
The poet shook loose his huge coat which dragged on the
ground as he walked. "No. It is my fancy to wear such a coat
as this. In old days there was no great Pan but wore a mantle
sweeping the ground. And when I am too old to work, then
will I have this coat cut up into a suit of clothes, and from that,
when I am ready to die, will I have four suits made to give to
orphans." He caught the edge of the garment and wrapped
[68]


STANISLAUS MAKES POETRY
sions, had stood for all things that he loved best. And now the
son was in prison—well, he would do what he could.
Bek was just opposite the stone steps leading down to the
little eating-house where Stanislaus had stopped earlier that
evening. The tiny glimmer of its dirty oil lamp cast through
the open door a faint and yellow light upon the stones. Bek
hesitated. Like a flash of lightning Stanislaus was upon him
from behind and hurled him with such suddenness down the
steps and followed, himself, with such rapidity that if the hap-
pening had occurred in broad daylight it is possible that no one
might have noticed anything, save perhaps that two strangers
had stumbled over a flight of steps.
The proprietor leaped to the door. "Shut it and put out
the light," commanded Stanislaus. "This man beneath my
hands is unconscious. That sudden fall knocked the wind out
of him. He is an informer and has my friend's life in his
hands." The proprietor blew out the light and crouched with
the poet over the prostrate man.
Bek was breathing, but the fall had stunned him. So much
force had Stanislaus expended that he lay entirely within the
little eating-house door, and it was an easy matter to slam the
door to.
At that minute there came footsteps on the stones outside,
regular, heavy, measured. "It is a sentinel," whispered Stanis-
laus. "I think he has heard nothing."
The soldier passed by. Stanislaus drew a long breath. "I
did that just in time. Fortune has been with me so far, but the
worst is ahead." He felt Bek all over and took a folded paper
from inside his coat. "This is it, I think. I must make sure.
Go back into your kitchen and strike me a light so that I can
see. No, I have a better scheme. Get a piece of rope and tie
this fellow hand and foot. Gag him and leave him in the court
[73]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
back of your house. Then we'll see to the paper. He carries
no other papers with him." The poet made doubly sure of this
by rummaging again through the informer's clothes. "I am sure
that this is it."
They bound and gagged him and thrust him outside the
rear door into a small, enclosed court. "In the morning he will
not know which door he came through," said Stanislaus. "He
will make you no trouble, anyway."
The paper on examination proved to be the desired pass.
Stanislaus was exultant. "Why, with this I can pass any guard
and any sentry in the city 1" he exclaimed. "Provided only that
that accursed captain does not see me with it. And the best of
it is that Bek himself does not know what struck him. He'll
think that a bolt of lightning dropped on his head, in the morn-
ing."
He kissed the proprietor on both cheeks. "Keep up a good
heart," he admonished him. "Things will be better. Things
will be better." And then he slipped into the night again, resum-
ing his old crouching walk and lazy swagger.
Once a group of soldiers confronted him. A lantern was
swung in his face and a voice bade him stand. "It is only the
town poet," said the sergeant who was with them. "Get home
and stay indoors," he ordered the poet.
"I am going. I am going," he replied in a quavering voici.
"But if you wish I will compose you something in verse."
"Home! Home!" shouted the sergeant.
"Yes, yes," muttered Stanislaus as if cowed, turning into the
street of the Germans.
The soldiers went along Great Street, but the poet, grasping
up the loose folds of his coat, waited only until he heard their
footsteps die out, when he straightened and turned into the
street leading to the old Black City. It was indeed a black city
[74]


STANISLAUS MAKES POETRY
on this night. Windows and casements were heavy with iron
bars and locks and chains; a homeless cat darting out from under
his feet ran madly into some subterranean cellar. Along the
street he trudged until in its blackest and most dismal turning
he felt with his hands a pair of heavy doors. With perfect
familiarity he reached his hand in through a hole in one of the
doors and pulled at a piece of wire. The bell was so far away
that he did not hear it ring, but a few moments later, with his
ear to the hole, he heard the cautious footsteps of a man.
"What do you want?"
"The Third of May," whispered the poet.
A portion of one door opened. "Come in."
"I am Stanislaus."
"Inside," whispered the other.
They went through a long corridor. A door opened as if
by magic, and they were alone in a small room.
"What brings you here?"
"Stefan Kovalevski, son of a patriot, is imprisoned in the
Bazylian monastery. I would rescue him."
"There are too many prisoners of importance. We cannot
take risks for a single boy."
"But I have a scheme and I need help. The boy is part of
our cause." He whispered further.
"Your plan is good. What can I do?"
"Have a cart in readiness, a half-mile from the Subotch
entrance. Fill it with straw and old clothes so that we can have
the boy under cover."
"It will be done. How can you get him there?"
"We will leave the city through the house near the Ostra
Brama. There is no guard at that point for no one suspects.
From the house we will go through the cellar under the street
and come out in the garden beyond the post. From there we
C7J]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
will creep along the wall to the point where your cart will be
waiting."
"It will be done."
"Then God be with you. I will see you or your driver later."
The other, who was the same who had met the mysterious
horseman, saw him to the gate and let him out cautiously.
"And now for the great effort," said Stanislaus to himself.
A short time later the officer in charge of the guard at the
arched entrance to the Bazylian monastery, used as a prison,
received a call from the sentry at the gate. He ran out hur-
riedly, for his task was an important one and it would not do
to let irregularities happen. At night the guard at this prison
was always doubled. A company remained in the guard room
waiting for any summons, while five soldiers paraded back and
forth inside the court. Besides these, the prison was well-
manned with soldiers—a sergeant having possession of the keys
and using them only at the orders of his superior. A high
bracket lamp burned at the main entrance to the court, sheltered
by the arch overhead, and it was the duty of the soldier sta-
tioned there to see that it was always filled with oil.
"Here is a man who wishes to speak with Stefan Kovalevski,
prisoner," said the sentry.
"Has he permission?"
"I have, your excellency," exclaimed Stanislaus, stepping
forward. "He was the son of my best friend, now dead, and
I made a promise to him that I would always keep the boy under
my protection."
"But what has that to do with me? He is a prisoner here
and is to be deported in the morning."
"I know. But I must give him his dead father's blessing.
I have been to the captain of the guard, your excellency, and
received his permission."
"That is a different matter. Did he give you a pass?"
[76]


STANISLAUS MAKES POETRY
Stanislaus held up the paper he had taken from Bek. The
officer took it from his hands and examined it under the light.
"It is regular," he said.
A soldier with gun and bayonet approached. "Go with this
man to the cell of Stefan Kovalevski in the farther building,"
the officer said. "He may stay for five minutes without lights.
Do not leave him."
They started, the soldier leading the way. "Hurry up," he
commanded the poet.
But Stanislaus dragged behind. "I am sick and old," he
said. "I can go but slowly. Surely you would not hurry a sick
man." The soldier made an exclamation to the effect that he
would hurry the devil himself no matter how sick he was, but,
though going on ahead, he slowed his pace a little.
They fairly crawled across the court. In front of the church
the poet made a great point of removing his hat before the
shrine and bowing clear to the ground.
"Come on, old hulk of bones," said the soldier angrily,
prodding him with the point of his bayonet.
"Hey, good fellow," replied Stanislaus pulling himself up,
"be not so rough. Think of your father and how you would
grieve if some soldier prodded him. For the love of the good
Christ leave a man alone at his prayers. Now I will come,"
and he followed the soldier into the building where the pris-
oners were.
They went up one flight of stairs and the soldier stopped at
the door of a cell.
"Just five minutes," he said, "and no lights."
"Comrade," said the poet, turning to him, "I thank you for
your kindness. Think of me in your prayers, and drink this for
luck." He held up a bottle which the soldier was at first loath
to receive.
"It is against the rules."

[77]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
"Well, take it. Take it. A drop or two won't hurt you,
and you can share some with that other soldier at the door."
The other soldier came forward, and the two conversed in an
undertone. Then the first soldier took the bottle and drew from
his belt the key to the cell which the officer had given him.
"Now in with you, and hurry up."
The next moment the door had closed behind him.
[78]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
Zygmunt waked up suddenly and began to cry. He started
in alarm as he felt the huge hand of the poet running over him,
but Stefan clapped his hand across his mouth. "Be still. He
would save us."
Zygmunt quieted instantly. He had reached the end of his
hopes, his spirit was broken with days of imprisonment and he
was willing—nay, eager—to lean upon others.
"Your time is half up," called the guard through a crack in
the door.
"I know, I know," said Stanislaus aloud. And then for the
guard's benefit: "My blessing be upon you, Stefan. I give you
as well the blessing of your dead father, and be obedient and
grateful in all things."
Then, whispering: "Stand up, you two, and do not rattle
the chain."
With deft fingers he measured the chain, felt its weight and
thickness. "It can be done," he said to himself. "A little pain,
perhaps, but then I have only to travel to the street. The night
is dark and none can see there. At the gate the boys can carry
the chain between them and the house is but across the way."
"Now say not a word," he urged them. "Keep within my
cloak and cling close to my neck. If you feel your feet coming
out from beneath the robe pull them in tighter. The hard
moment will be when the soldier looks at us at the gate. If he
is sleepy or busy our work will be easy. For we shall not bear
much inspection."
He threw open his mantle, stepped between the two and
caught up the chain and held it at his waist. "Now walk once
about me, each of you," he said, "until the slack is out of the
chain. Be sure that it is tight, and then cling to my neck
beneath the folds of my coat."
They did this quickly, hope springing into each heart. "A
[80]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
prayer," he mumbled, and falling on his knees whispered, "Stand
upright for the moment. I must rest." The boys stooped down
beside him under the cloak, their weight resting on the ground;
this gave him a chance to ease his strained muscles and release
the pressure of the sharp link which was cutting in deeper and
deeper. He did not dare to pause long, for the soldier might
come back to prod him, and if he in any way brushed the coat
aside, then gone were all hopes of escape.
Up again and struggling. Slowly he crawled across the
court. "Come. Come. Come," the soldier was shouting. He
was a dangerously long distance ahead, and he might come back
at any moment. "Coming," shouted Stanislaus, though now the
very word came through his throat like a knife. The chain was
binding his chest—it was hard to breathe and the weight and
agony were increasing with every second. Every inch of
progress seemed a mile, every foot a league; and once when he
looked up thinking that the gate was just ahead he was startled
at the immense distance away that the light seemed to be.
"I must keep to the farther side of the court opposite the
lamp," he thought. "I have a chance in the darkness, but this
bulk will not bear close inspection."
A little stream of blood began to trickle down his back. The
iron link had cut into the flesh at last. "That is bad, if it strikes
the ground," he thought. "They will be sure to notice it."
But he was drawing nearer to the light. The soldier had
already reached it and had turned around. "Come on, you
mountain," he was shouting. "I can't wait here all night."
Another sentry came running up and joined with the soldier in
conversation. "That saved me," thought the poet. "He will
not come here to prod me."
He never knew how he made those last steps, crawling, drag-
ging himself. But just before he reached the light he made a
[8a]


"BENEATH THY PROTECTION"
supreme effort and stood erect. His mantle, full for once, swept
back a little at this moment, and he clutched it desperately in
his right hand.
"Now by the blood of those who died for Poland I will do
this thing," he muttered.
Step by step he came nearer to the two men. They were
watching him curiously, but the light from the lamp was none
too good, and at that moment a draught of air made the flame
flicker and bend low.
"What a monster," said the first soldier. In the yellow
smoky light cast by the flaring wick he seemed just that, a
deformity of a man, grotesque, ill-shaped, ponderous.
"I know it," answered the other. "He can hardly drag
himself along. When I took him to the prison I had to use my
bayonet to make him move."
Stanislaus reached the corner of the archway. Passed it and
passed into the shadow. "That's done," said the soldier with a
yawn, taking the key from his blouse to return to the officer.
"And go straight to your home. None are allowed on the street
this night," he shouted after the poet.
Stanislaus muttered, "Thank you," but in his heart he said,
"Thank God!"
There were but a few more paces to the place where the
archway opened into the street. Whispering to the boys he
said: "When I give you the word slip down to earth, and walk
about me to unloosen your chain. Then take it in your hands
and dart directly after me across the street through the arched
gateway opposite. We are almost in safety."
Zygmunt's body began to tremble. He was suffering from
terrific fright, but manfully held it in. "Now take it easy,"
Stanislaus consoled him. "We shall be there in a moment."
The words brought a sense of exultation. What a feat this had
[83]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
burst of feeling as if the world stood absolutely still, as if the
rushing which we call life had suddenly calmed. He seemed to
be face to face for an instant with something that he could not
explain.
"Then have your way," he said after a moment. "I would
not disturb a man at his prayers. But if I find you here when
I return I shall certainly take you to the barracks."
They passed on under the arch, but the sergeant, lingering
for a moment behind, took off his hat and crossed himself after
the fashion of his own church before he too disappeared in the
dark.
"God be praised!" Stanislaus arose and opened his coat.
The boys leaped down and seized up their chain. "Run like the
wind after me and reach that house on the farther side of the
street." They reached it breathless; the door was opened by
an unseen hand and then quickly closed again. Stanislaus sank
into a motionless heap just inside the door, but in a few minutes
had regained his senses and composure and was ready for the
next piece of work.



Interlude
IN the Russian capital of Petersburg on the Neva, Nicholas
the Tsar—who wore the crown of Ivan the Terrible, of
Peter the Great, and of Catherine—called a council of his
diplomats and generals. When they were assembled in his pal-
ace his face paled with anger before them and he spoke in harsh,
biting tones. "So this one thing that I have desired, this royal
crown of Poland, no one of you may find. For a year I have
sent emissaries and agents, I have paid spies, and I have dis-
patched even armies to locate this jewel for me. Is there no
general with power enough to perform this thing? Is there no
diplomat with skill enough to wring from men's lips the secret
of this powerless crown? Reports come to me from here, and
reports come to me from there, and all say that they are upon
the track of the crown but cannot lay hands upon it."
A general bowed before him: "Your Greatness, we have
searched high and low for this crown, indeed we have been
through every city and town as with a comb. But we can find
none who know for a certainty where the crown has been, nor
[87]


INTERLUDE
it was sent north to the city of Vilno. Indeed reports given
to me indicate that it has been there already, but carelessness,
and blindness, and stupidity have let it slip out of our hands
again."
"Your Greatness, we will go to Vilno and turn all our atten-
tion upon this search."
"Then go. Use all force, and every bit of wealth I have
in the treasury, if need be, to find this crown. Take armies,
spies, informers—take whatever you wish. For I must have this
crown before it is lost forever."
The meeting was at an end, but another great drama had
begun.
[89]


CHAPTER VIII
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
AS soon as Stanislaus was on his feet again, voices began
to murmur about him in the corridor. Among them was
'the voice of a woman, who came to him and touched him
and kissed his hands in the darkness. "Your coat is wet," she
said. "You must change."
Before he had time to reply all three were conducted into
a little room at the end of the passage, the boys holding up their
chain lest it clink against the floor or wall. A light was brought,
and stools were pointed out for them to sit on, and in a moment
a woman with a sad, white face came bringing bread and meat
and a hot drink. They fell to zealously, Stanislaus most of all,
for he had the most stomach, though Zygmunt had ten lean days
in jail to make up for.
The woman suddenly exclaimed, "Your coat. It is wet—
with blood."
Stanislaus tore off a huge piece of meat and put it in his
mouth. "That is nothing. A bee bit me on the back when I
was leaving the prison." But they stripped off his coat never-
theless and washed the wound and the woman put a fresh cloth
upon it. "There," he said, "I am done up like an infant."
"When will you be ready?" The man who spoke was the
same who had admitted him to the court earlier in the evening.
"You cannot start too early for there will be a hue and cry
when it is found that the boy is gone. You had hardly left us
[90]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
everywhere it may be impossible for him to get through the
lines."
"In that case?"
"The package must rest at the center of the forest."
Stanislaus thought a moment. "If this horseman fails to
come, why can I not take the package to the south? I need not
return here."
The man beat with his knuckles upon the right side of his
head. "You might—the idea is good. Do you know the
country?"
"I was brought up as a child in the district of Novogrodek.
I know the country clear through the Lvov."
"Excellent." He drew a paper from his pocket and sketched
a little map upon it. "From the blacksmith shop you go by the
road to the right into the wooded hills. Continue along them
until you come to the forest. Then strike around the edge of
the forest until you come here." He marked an X on the paper.
"You will find the entrance to a path through the woods at this
point. This other paper will give you the details." He handed
him a slip of paper, which Stanislaus folded and put inside his
great coat. "The destination of the package you know."
"We all know that," said Stanislaus, rising.
"If ever you are in danger of being caught, bury the package
as well as you can, and keep the spot in mind."
"I shall not be caught," said the poet.
Stefan's eyes were closing with exhaustion when they told
him that he must make ready for another trip.
"There is no chance here to remove the chain," the man
said to him. "You must go back to the blacksmith shop and
have it taken off there. From the smithy you must go to the
charcoal burner's and hide until there is a cart to take you across
the frontier. It would be much easier to go to Prussia, but the
[92]


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
escapes have been so frequent that the guards are as thick there
as flies in summer. Besides, there is not so much suspicion
attached to a cart going south as one going north or west."
"And Zygmunt?"
The man looked at the other boy thoughtfully. "He must
go by a different route. I will supply him with money and he
can wear the clothes of a peasant boy. In fact I know a man
who is crossing the border in a day or two. If you will leave
him in the farmhouse just this side of the blacksmith shop I will
see that he is taken care of."
Zygmunt smiled up at him. The warmth and friendship
had revived his spirits, and now after eating he was ready for
anything.
Stanislaus sprang up from his seat. "And now we will go.
The sooner we are on the way the better. For Bek may get
free of his cords somehow, or again they may miss you at the
prison. Come," he led the way out of the room as if he were
already well acquainted with the house and its rooms and pas-
sages. The man embraced him for the last time.
"For the Brotherhood," he said.
"For the Brotherhood," echoed Stanislaus.
The woman had placed rags about the boys' legs where the
fetters had already begun to be painful, and each boy, to keep
the chain from rattling, carried the folded links in his hands.
Leaving the man and woman behind, they followed Stanislaus
out of the room and down a flight of stairs into a small court.
On the farther side of the court another passageway opened.
All lights were carefully extinguished here, and they moved for-
ward slowly in the darkness.
"Not a word," whispered the poet. "And keep your heads
low."
The passageway was low, indeed they almost crawled
[93]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
through it. In its narrowest place Stanislaus was actually
obliged to crawl, and once he had to squeeze tightly in order
to get through. The flat stones in the floor were very smooth,
as if there had been much travel over them, and they were
very old.
"We are beneath the street." Stanislaus went ahead cau-
tiously, feeling every foot of the way. "Here it is said the
Bashylychek once lived," he muttered as the passageway opened
into a kind of cavern. Both boys knew the story of the mythi-
cal monster who was said to have inhabited this hill in old times;
the monster who was so terrible that he killed people simply
by looking at them, and met his downfall when a bright youth
conceived the idea of holding up a mirror in front of him so
that he might see himself and perish by his own look.
All at once the air became fresher. Stefan gulped it in and
felt the exhilaration which a cool draught brings. Then stars
were visible and they were on the hillside above the Vileyka
River, the little river from which the city took its name. Between
them and Subotch street was a high wall, along which Stanislaus
crept, through a garden rich in flowers and vegetables. At the
lower extremity of the wall, for they were descending the hill,
they could see the towers of a church rising in the air. They
skirted the church and came upon the road. Here a cart was
waiting, an ordinary farmer's cart built upon one pole, and
drawn by a single horse with a high wooden yoke-collar. Stan-
islaus boosted them inside, and then pushed straw and matting
over them.
"Lie comfortably," he said, "and the journey will soon be
over." The cart rattled on the stones and then jolted along
the softer road at the city's edge. The driver had said nothing
to them at all but merely swung his whip now and then or mut-
tered something to his horse in an undertone. Stanislaus
[94]


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
crouched in the space beneath the driver's seat, his huge feet
prodding Stefan with every jolt of the cart.
They traveled along for what seemed hours. The night
was cool, but the straw and matting made a warm covering.
Zygmunt fell asleep quickly, his hand in Stefan's, but Stefan,
tired though he was, did not sleep at all, his thoughts running
over the events of the day and the escape from the prison.
"My mother—how glad she will be!" he thought, "and the
blacksmith too. They never expected to see me again." The
rolling motion of a Polish peasant's cart is not disagreeable to
those accustomed to it. It has a vibration that does not make
one dizzy but instead seems to cause a kind of exhilaration.
And how hungry one gets after miles of such travel! Stefan
fell into the motion of the cart easily, as he had driven one
himself many times, and would have been asleep long before
the journey was half over, had not his mind been so full.
All at once the cart stopped. "Can we be here?" he thought.
His eyes now used to the darkness scanned the hills about.
"Yes, there is the hill above the blacksmith shop. There is the
pine wood where the brook trickles through." And peering into
the dark he could distinguish the dim outlines of Peter's house
and shop.
They descended from the cart, Zygmunt clinging to him.
Stanislaus ran ahead to tap upon the high shutters to arouse the
blacksmith and his wife. No one answered, and he searched
in the dirt until he found a stone and pounded again. Stefan
with Zygmunt came along slowly and waited.
"There is no one there," said Stanislaus, "or else they are
sleeping more soundly than smith ever slept in these turbulent
days." He pounded again.
But again there was no reply.
"We must get in," said the poet. "The time is slipping
[95]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
away." He turned an anxious glance on the road they had just
come over as if expecting to hear the beat of horses' hoofs.
There was no sound there—only blackness lay over everything,
and even the night birds were silent.
"What to do?'1 Stanislaus came back to Stefan. "Do you
know any way to get into the shop? There must be a back
door—"
"There is," exclaimed the boy, "if you can manage it. Go
round the house to the farther corner, opposite the well. Feel
along the wall next to the corner—the rear wall, just above the
ground. You will find there an opening. Put your hand in the
opening and you will catch hold of a cord. Pull this cord; the
cord lifts a latch, and a small section will swing out. You must
crawl through the opening."
Stanislaus felt his way around the shop, while the boy stood
pondering on the unexplained absence of the smith. Could any-
thing have happened? Could the Russians have taken him pris-
oner again, and had they taken his wife prisoner too? But his
thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the opening of the
small door in the rear. Stanislaus had found the place. Stefan
and Zygmunt heard him enter the smithy and tug loose the door
bars. The front door creaked and opened. In a moment the
two boys had crossed the threshold.
Stanislaus ran out to the road where the driver still sat in
the wagon. "Drive out on that little road which leads to the
woods," he directed him, "round to the right. Then lead the
horse in among the trees and wait for me." Returning to the
smithy he shut the door again and bolted it. "Now for work!"
he exclaimed.
Stefan interposed. "I know the quickest way to release this
chain. Heat it in the middle and cut it in two with chisel and
hammer while it is still soft and glowing. Then take a file and
[96]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
The boy rubbed his ankle and danced for joy. In a moment
Stefan had freed himself and joined in the dance.
Stanislaus let them enjoy themselves for a moment, until
they turned on him and covered him with their caresses. "Out!"
he shouted, throwing them off suddenly. "We are not yet out
of the woods. Nor in them either," he ejaculated. "We have
many miles to go."
In very joy at being free the boys wanted to run outside the
smithy, but this he forbade. "Your feet will have enough to
do before long," he told them. Then returning to the mystery
of the moment he exclaimed, "I don't understand this about the
smith. Had there been any one in the house we would have
known it long before this. But I am sure that neither he nor
his wife is in any trouble or I should have heard."
Stefan stopped short in his glee. For the moment, in the
very ecstasy of freedom, he had forgotten that the smith was
not in his house. And where could the smith's wife be? In a
last desperate attempt to rouse them—and they would certainly
have been roused had they been there—he pounded upon the
partition wall between the shop and house with a great piece of
iron. The ensuing noise would have awakened the dead. "No,"
he exclaimed, throwing down the iron. "They are certainly not
in the house."
"No," Stanislaus sank upon the bench. "I am trying to
figure it out. By all rights the blacksmith should be here. You
said that he was here yesterday with his wife when the Russians
took you away. But where can he be now?"
After a while he stood up. "Now, Zygmunt, I must take
you to a neighbor's house, and in a day or two you will be across
the border. This is to provide for you," and he handed him
the pouch of gold pieces which the man in the city had given
him. "When you are across the border make for Leipzig in
[98]


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
the German country. You will find many exiles there, and we
shall join you before long."
Zygmunt seized Stefan's hands and kissed them, then burst
into a flood of tears. "I cannot leave you. I cannot. Can I
not go with you?"
"No," said Stanislaus, separating them. "It is not safe.
Have no uneasiness, however. The man you saw in the house
by the gate will take care of you as he promised, and we shall
all be together again before long. . . . Meanwhile—be a
man. Poland needs such." And with these words he turned
toward the fire. "Put out the fire while we are gone, Stefan,"
he said, "and hide the chains. I will return quickly."
There was a long embrace between the boys and they sepa-
rated. Stefan wet down the coals with water from the bucket,
and covered the whole pile with ashes. The chains he threw
into a basket half full of scraps of metal and odd lengths of
chain.
In a few minutes the poet was back. "Whew—there is much
afoot," he whispered. "We must leave this place at once. Our
next-door neighbor, who as you know is one of the Brotherhood,
says that Peter and Father Jan left here some hours ago,
together with Vitold and the horseman. That the fire was
extinguished shows that the smith did not intend to return in a
hurry. His wife is safe in a neighboring house, but I did not
dare to take the time to see her. The boy is tucked away in the
haymow next door, where he will remain until to-morrow or
the next day and then start for the border. And now you and
I must separate."
He closed the huge door tightly, shot the bolt into place
and then turned to Stefan.
"Make your way on foot to Vitold's in the forest with
what provisions you can find in the smith's larder. I must
[99]


CHAPTER IX
THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
THE sun came over the edge of the earth as Stefan trudged
along, driving away from his sleepy eyes the drowsiness
that came upon him. He avoided the middle of the
road at first, but later, seeing that no one was about, chose the
smoothest part where the horses had trodden down the dirt.
In his mind the thoughts came whirling from one thing to
another—the stranger, Bek, the jail, Stanislaus, the bog in the
forest. More, he thought, had been packed into two days than
he had ever known in his life before. And now there was the
new mystery, the disappearance of his foster father. What
could this mean? That Peter had gone for good? No—that
could not be it. His wife was still in the village and he cer-
tainly would not leave her behind.
The creaking of wheels sounded behind him. He darted
into the trees at the edge of the wood, only to assure himself
that the wheels belonged to a peasant cart, and then came out
to ask the driver for a ride. The peasant was a cheerful sort,
greeted him with the old greeting, "May Jesus Christ be
praised," and at the response, "To the Ages of Ages," invited
Stefan to ride along with him. He was away to a neighboring
village, and Stefan accompanied him for several hours. Later
in the morning another cart carried him to the edge of the forest,
and there he had the great fortune to meet Kuba, the charcoal
[101]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
burner's boy, returning from an errand In the opposite direction,
and as he turned into the forest road, Stefan leaped in behind
him.
The charcoal burner had gone away somewhere with the
horseman—that Kuba told him. Of other matters he knew
nothing. He was not loquacious, and for that quality Stefan
was grateful, for it enabled him to sleep on the bottom of the
cart. When he awoke it was late evening; an owl was hooting
somewhere; the pine needles gave out a strong fragrance, and
he knew that they were well into the forest. A few minutes
later, Lilia came shouting to Kuba.
Stefan stood up and waved to her. At first she could not
quite make out who he was, and stood perfectly still, like a little
statue. Then he called and the spell was broken. She came
forward rapidly and jumped up into the cart beside him.
"I am so glad that you have come. But you do not bring
news of Father?"
"They have all gone somewhere together—he and the horse-
man, the blacksmith and Father Jan. Stanislaus learned that
they left the smithy late last evening. They must be going far,
because the smith had put out the fire in the forge."
Lilia was listening intently. "He told me that he might be
gone for several days. But have you come for charcoal? No,
I might have known—you have no cart. But why—"
"Lilia, I have come to hide. On my return home yesterday
I was arrested and taken to Vilno." . . . He told her the
whole story.
"And you came to us? . . . Stefan, if the matter is as
important as you think, the soldiers may come here after you."
Her eyes were wide in her concern for his safety.
"Yes, perhaps—but no one knows that I am here."
"Did no one see you upon the road?"
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THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
"A few peasants. But none of them knew where I was
going."
She thought deeply. "I have an idea." The cart stopped
in front of the house and they jumped out. "The soldiers will
come here. I somehow fear it. And they may come in the
night when we are asleep. Now, over there near the edge of
the forest is a little house where the men stay sometimes when
they come to help with wood. I can fix up a bed there and
fill the place with something to eat. . . . You will be com-
fortable and safe. I must tell Kuba and Janek to say nothing
about you to anyone. I will have them put the bed there
now."
They ate together in the house, and then a bed was dragged
into the shed, and she brought in bread and meat. "That will
keep for a day or two," she said. "I will bring other food
to-morrow. You must always have something near you in case
you are obliged to hide in the woods. For see," she threw open
a rear door in the shed, "this opens directly into the forest.
I will try to warn you in time if the soldiers come." Later she
came to the shed bringing a little oil lamp and a musket of her
father's with a belt containing powder and bullets. "You may
need all these, and again you may not. But it is better to be
prepared."
The next day was one of the happiest of his life. Lilia came
to him early and they talked together for hours, throwing them-
selves on the fragrant carpet of grass and moss in front of the
little house. Later in the morning they took some books of the
charcoal burner's to a place where the trees made a little arbor
overhead, and read during the heat of the day.
"What will you be when you are older?" she asked once
when he had laid his book aside. "Will you go on to the uni-
versity and finish your studies?"
[ 103]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
"That I do not know. The university is closed. I would
be a doctor could I continue. As it is, I know not."
She clasped her hands about her knees. "Then I should
emigrate. You can return when the trouble is over and practice
among your own people. Besides, the day may come when
Poland will be free," and she fell to dreaming.
At length sleep overpowered him. As on that previous day
he threw himself back against a tree and shut his eyes. When
he opened them it was past noon. Kuba was calling. The
dinner was ready. Again there came a golden afternoon, full
of dreams and happiness and tales of olden time from the books
of Vitold.
That day sped so soon. As he looked back upon this time,
in later life, it seemed as if he had never been happier. At the
supper hour Kuba blew a horn.
There were clouds in the sky when he went back to the shed.
A wind was springing up and dusk was coming earlier than was
its wont. The air grew cooler, and in the distance lightning
began to play across the surface of the clouds.
"A storm," he thought and threw the door to.
But almost instantly there came a rapping upon it. He
thought at first that it was the wind but it was repeated quickly.
He threw the door open, and there stood Lilia. The wind had
already risen a little and her hair was tossing. He could see
even in the dim light that she was pale.
"Stefan, there are people in the wood."
"What?" he exclaimed. "At this hour? And a storm
coming?"
"Yes. The dogs are growling, and the birds are making a
great noise below near the road. Kuba has gone out to see.
He will be here directly."
As she spoke Kuba came running. "Soldiers!" he shouted.
[ 104]


THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
"Soldiers!" and almost instantly turned about and ran into the
woods near the road.
"Stefan, I am frightened," she said. "I don't know what to
do. Shall I go back to the house?"
"No," he answered. "Stay with me here at the forest's
edge and we will wait."
They went out from the shed and stationed themselves
among the trees; between them and the house was a low hedge
of brush over which they could see plainly, and above their heads
was a small, crude roof built about three trees, an invention of
Janek for shelter from the rain when he was caught by a shower
while working near by. Thus they were inclosed by shadows,
and invisible from beyond, and the dark and lowering sky was
also a protection to them.
Then there came the sound of rolling wheels from below
and in a moment the first horse appeared at the farther edge
of the clearing. One could see but indistinctly, but the black
mass in the wagon indicated that it was full of men. A second
wagon rolled up the road, a third, and a fourth, all loaded with
soldiers. Suddenly they stopped.
The two dogs, who had been tugging at their chains and
growling viciously, very sensibly became quiet in the face of this
small army, and satisfied themselves thereafter with an occa-
sional repressed yip of rage.
"Surround the house," came a command in Russian. In a
trice a ring of soldiers with bayonets affixed to muskets encircled
it. An officer, with a sergeant and two privates, went up to the
front door and pounded. Janek stuck his head out of a window.
"What do you want?"
"We want to come in. Open the door."
Janek obeyed. Instantly he was seized by the soldiers, one
of whom placed himself on guard over him in the kitchen. The
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THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
"Orders, your excellency." The sergeant saluted.
But at this minute there came a loud cry from outside.
Janek had broken from the soldier's grasp and at full speed was
making for the woods at the farther corner of the clearing,
where stood a cluster of beehives. A number of soldiers who
had been guarding the house set out in pursuit to cut him off,
and reached him just as he slipped in among the hives. Now
the Polish beehive is a rather extensive affair; it consists of a
hollow log placed upright on a small box or platform, with
the entrance for the bees near the bottom of the log. Five or
six soldiers had almost laid their hands upon Janek when he
kicked out viciously and brought down two of the largest hives
upon their very heads. He was out of danger like a flash him-
self, and safe in the woods; but the soldiers, bewildered, lin-
gered a fatal second, and in the next second were screaming in
pain and distress, for the vengeance of the bee is quick and
effective.
Forgotten was the pursuit. In their distress the men ran
in forty different directions. Two soldiers, carrying a veritable
swarm each, plunged into the nearest cart where a reserve guard
was waiting, perhaps ten men, and in quicker time than one could
realize, the cartful of soldiers had also joined in the confusion.
A musket went off somewhere and the men in the other carts
leaped to the ground to join the guard at the house, thinking
that they had been attacked, and ran directly into another cloud
of bees; for a Polish hive contains as many bees as five ordinary
hives, and this was the time of year when they were most com-
bative since they had a new large store of honey to protect.
But the sergeant had already tossed the lighted lamp which
he held into the pile of Vitold's books on the study floor, and
the flame, running along the flowing oil, had seized upon the
paper and bindings. From them it leaped to the curtains and
[ 107]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
walls, and in a moment the room was blazing like a furnace.
"If there is any one here he must come out now or be scorched
alive," exclaimed the officer and rushed to the door to see what
was happening.
It was now quite dark. In the clearing soldiers were run-
ning about like mad, crying out in pain and falling into new-
made gardens and tripping over each other. Stefan and Lilia
could not imagine what was going on; they stood close together
in the little retreat, their hearts beating with apprehension, their
muscles tense. Then suddenly a flash of lightning from the
coming storm lit up the curious scene, and a tongue of flame
from the fire kindled by the sergeant in the house crept out into
the darkness.
"Janek has escaped," exclaimed Lilia. "He went there by
the hives. They will never catch him once he reaches the for-
est." Another blinding flash lit up the scene, followed by a
crash of thunder, and in that moment she sensed what had hap-
pened. "He has overturned the beehives," she said. "The sol-
diers are fighting the bees."
But now they had no more need to wait for lightning. The
window of Vitold's study burst open with a crash, and smoke
and flames belched forth. "Stefan! Stefan! They have set
fire to the house. . . . What shall we do? What shall
we do?"
"Wait," he said. "If they remain there we can escape to
the woods. But there is more to this, I think."
The officer was screaming at the top of his voice. "Stand
still, you crazy fools. What is the matter?" The sergeant
dashed out toward them but came back quickly, brushing madly
at his face. "Bees"—slap—"the air is full of them. Some
one has overturned a hive."
"Fools!" shouted the officer, keeping his distance from the
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THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
rival that powerful noise the roof and walls fell inward in a
piece, and sent up a cloud of brilliant sparks to heaven.
"They were fools," Stefan said to Lilia, "to burn the house
before the storm broke. If they had waited they would have
had shelter."
The officer realized it too. "Crawl under those carts," he
called to his men, "and keep dry if you can." Then with the
sergeant he made for an outhouse where the horses were kept.
The house continued to blaze despite the storm, so that Stefan
could see what was going on, and the sight of the officer making
for the outhouse gave him an idea.
"Wait here a moment," he whispered to Lilia. "You will
be dry here beneath this platform. I will return at once."
"Do not go," she exclaimed in alarm. The flames lit up
her face. She was as pale as death, but as yet the shock of
terror and the fear of being discovered had crowded grief for
the loss of her home from her mind. "I cannot stay alone."
"I shall be but a minute," he encouraged her.
On hands and knees he crept to the edge of the brush, and
at a favorable moment darted through to the little shed. In
an instant he gathered up the loaves of bread and the meat that
Lilia had brought there and tossed them into a hunting bag that
hung on the wall. Then he strapped about his waist the hunting
belt loaded with leaden bullets and powder, and slung the musket
over his shoulder. In a moment he was back at the girl's
side.
She was sobbing now as if her heart would break. The
realization of all that this destruction meant had begun to come
home to her. Gone was her home and shelter from the world;
her bedroom which housed her modest treasures was only a few
charred beams and ashes. The forest cottage about which
happiness and peace had lingered since her earliest days was
[11I]


THE ATTACK ON THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS
now among the things which had been, and she with her father
were homeless outcasts in a great unfriendly world.
"Come," said Stefan, putting his arm about her shoulders.
"We will see this righted yet."
And now the storm broke about them in all its fury. The
wind howled, the trees swayed and groaned, and the lightning
with almost constant play lit up the whole sky with its flashes
of green and blue. The rain driven before the wind fell in a
slanting cataract, and where it struck the dry earth it was greed-
ily sucked beneath the surface. Through the forest the thunder
roared like a great animal—it was the voice of the great God
Perkun crying out in wrath at the cruelty and brutality of men.
Then branches began to break and crash off to the ground in
the wind, and now and then in the distance came the thunder
of a fallen tree.
All at once the clearing was lighted with a flash that was
more brilliant than day. Little flames that seemed alive played
about in the air and ran into the trees. A huge ball of fire,
choosing the loftiest oak near the edge of the forest, fell upon
it with the roar of a million battles and, reinforced by the mighti-
est gale of the driving storm, hurled it across the earth as a
child might hurl a stick. It clung desperately to its roots, felt
them loosening, felt the bolts of fire that ran deep into the
ground, struck out desperately with its branches to gain sup-
port from above, but in vain, and then like a Titan struck
with the fury of the gods plunged headlong carrying with it
a hundred lesser trees. Its fall shook the ground—it seemed
to wail in anguish—and the cries of birds nested in its
branches continued its uproar when the earth-shaking crash
had ended.
Stefan and Lilia stood like statues. The fire of the lightning
had been in their eyes, the shock of its force had torn them
["Si


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
apart. Forgotten now were all things else, in the blast of the
bolt and the crash of the fallen tree.
And almost with its mightiest blast the storm came to an
end. The violence of the elements lessened, the wind sank, the
rain came more gently, and though the play of lightning still lit
the skies, the roll of the thunder was already distant.
"That tree came down not far away," exclaimed Stefan,
recovering his senses. "I must go to see." He did not, how-
ever, for he heard at that minute the sergeant shouting to the
soldiers to come out from beneath the carts.
"The storm is over," he was shouting. "Come out and
form lines."
With smarting eyes and bodies, where the bees had left each
man a souvenir, the soldiers lined up near the ruins of the char-
coal burner's house. In a moment, when the rain had ceased
entirely and a few stars began to show, the officer came from
his retreat and faced the men.
"Take lights and search the woods near by," he commanded.
"The boy cannot have gotten away far."
The sergeant arranged them in groups, and set about assign-
ing directions. He had it so planned that not an inch of the
woods near the house would escape scrutiny. And then lanterns
were lighted, a few took pine torches from their blouses where
they had protected them from the rain, and all spread quickly
to the woods, while the officer walked back and forth in front
of the burned house where now and then a little flame poked
its head out from the dampened ashes.
"I must accomplish something," he said to himself. "The
whole staff is awaiting my return and I can leave no stone
unturned. I am even threatened with loss of rank if anything
goes amiss here. And yet what ill luck I have had! The boy
not in the house, a servant escapes because of a swarm of bees,
[114]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
who caught it and followed. In another place a fallen tree lay
straight across the way, but Stefan scrambled over it, through
its tangled branches, and then held them apart that Lilia might
follow. Then came a wilderness of brush which made the going
harder, but the old oaks at the side were constant guides and
kept them in the path.
They moved along slowly for hours. "It must be near mid-
night," Stefan thought. "We have but a few hours to dawn."
Two tree trunks ahead had grown so fat with age that they
seemed to close the path. There were no low boughs and again
his foot struck soft mud when he attempted to go around.
"Here," exclaimed Lilia, who had been groping at his feet,
"there is an open place near the ground where the trunks have
not joined." She crept through, and he started to follow, but
the gun on his shoulder held him back. Unloosing it, he handed
it through the hole and Lilia took it, and then he crept through
and rejoined her on the other side. And with plenty of such
adventures as these they went on for many hours more.
All at once the stars above the narrow path dimmed, the
darkness began to lift and a grayness spread over the sky. They
could now avoid the low branches that struck at their faces from
the sides, and the prickly vines, and the brush underfoot; and
soon patches of sky above them seemed streaked with lines of
red and yellow. These gave way to red, and more red, and
then all at once day leaped into the sky. The trees to right
and left seemed suddenly shot with fire and gold, a chorus of a
thousand birds began to chirp and twitter. Little animals darted
across the path in front of them and behind, and pools of water
began to steam as if they were boiling.
And then Stefan saw that the bog had come to an end. On
either side of them, in the morning light sifting through the
trees, appeared patches of green turf and moss, and here and
[118]


IN THE LITHUANIAN FOREST
there open places that invited them to stop. He fought off the
temptation to throw himself down, for he knew that the moss
was wet and that the farther they could go the better, before
they should rest at the end. With redoubled pace they followed
the lines of oak trees, stepping aside with safety here and there
where newer trees blocked the way, or climbing through brush
where the path disappeared beneath.
It was perhaps nine o'clock in the morning that he decided
to halt. By the side of the path bubbled a little spring, and all
about, fallen trees offered a place of repose and rest. He took
off his pouch and laid it upon a trunk; unstrapped the gun and
placed it beside it. Then telling Lilia that she could rest safely
now, he threw himself into the arms of a huge fallen pine and
almost instantly his tortured eyelids closed themselves in sleep.
When he awoke the air was much warmer. Lilia was sleeping
soundly on some boughs near-by, and the sun was shining down
directly through the line of oak trees. "It must be near noon,"
he thought.
Without waking the girl he took a loaf of bread from the
pouch and broke it in two. Half of it he returned to the case,
the other he divided again. Then throwing himself down before
the spring he drank and drank, for his throat was parched.
Lilia awoke at this minute and called to him. He brought her
some water in his cap and gave her a piece of bread. They ate
in silence for some minutes.
Then she went to the spring and bathed her face. When
she turned about to him she was smiling. The sight did his
heart good, for he had been grieving about her feelings. It was
he who was directly the cause of all this misfortune—it was
because of the search for him that the house had been burned,
and on his account that all the relics of her childhood had been
destroyed. But she, with that sensitiveness which marks Polish
[119]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
and Lithuanian people, perceived this and had apparently
resolved in her heart to put the past behind her utterly.
"Stefan," she asked, "where do you suppose this path leads?"
The same question had been knocking at the door of his
brain ever since they had started on their flight. Many things
had already suggested themselves to him, but he had an answer
ready for her.
"I believe that this path goes straight through the forest.
If it does not run the length of the woods, as I think it does, then
at some point farther on it turns and goes out to the edge. It
was apparently built for some reason, and it must lead
somewhere."
"But does it not seem incredible to you that such a path
could exist?"
"It does. Yet here is the path. It must have taken hun-
dreds of men years to build such a thing; to line such a path
with oak trees must have taken centuries. But yet I have read
somewhere that in the early days before the Lithuanians came
out into the fields they had great dwelling places in these woods
—yes, and buildings and temples too. To reach these places
there must have been paths similar to this. Unless this path was
made to lead to such a place, it may have been a simple thorough-
fare through the forest, used by hunters and trappers in ancient
times to save them from the bogs and marshes. Perhaps that
bog at the end has always existed and served as a defense against
enemies, just as it served as a defense for us against the
Russians."
"And once we reach the edge of the forest what can we do?"
"Hide there until friends can take us to the border. I know
that we shall find friends somewhere near the edge of the forest
—Polish people making their way through to the border—who
will know that Peter, my foster father, is a member of the
[ 120]


IN THE LITHUANIAN FOREST
Brotherhood, just as your father is, and then there will be plenty
of people to give us help."
She needed only this encouragement, and never again on that
long trip did she doubt a successful outcome to their adventure.
Later in the afternoon, when they were on the march again,
Stefan suddenly loaded Vitold's rifle with powder and ball and
primed it for a shot. "We will have hare for supper," he
exclaimed and the forest echoed with the report, as a fat hare
fell kicking just to the left of the path a short distance ahead.
Before darkness fell he selected a spot in which to spend
the night, and prepared the hare for cooking. With flint and
steel and powder he set fire to the small branches and cones
that they had gathered and piled up in a little clearing. Soon
the flames were snapping about the fagots, and pieces of
meat pierced with sticks were held in the coals. Cooked crisp
and brown it was delicious, with the hunger of the day upon
them, and the zest of the open air. There was meat in abun-
dance, and what if the bread was dry? The appetite of youth
is not particular.
Before they went to sleep he piled the fire with logs, and
heaped moss about it in a circle to keep it from spreading. At
this place the trees were not heavily branched and there was no
danger of sparks lighting on them. Then—he upon the ground
beside the fire, where the heat had dried the moss, and Lilia
upon the farther side with her back against a log—they talked
and talked until sleep came; there was nothing to fear in the
woods save a bear or wild boar, but these would always run
from a fire, and besides they never troubled man unless he first
troubled them. Of wolves they had no dread at that time of
year. It was in winter that wolves roamed about hungry. And
besides, they too feared a fire. Some animal called to his mate
in the distance, a few birds sang plaintive notes, and then it was
s
[121]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
quiet—quiet and peaceful here in the forest where the fire leaped
so merrily and words and conversation were happy. What more
could one wish?
They dozed, then fell into sleep, and the fire crackled and
laughed between them.
He awoke once, feeling a chill in the air, and saw that the
fire had burned low. He rose and gathered more fagots and
piled them upon the coals. His movements, though ever so
gentle, awoke Lilia. They were awake for a time, the magic
of the forest upon them. The flames from the fire lighted up
the branches of near-by trees, flooding them with strange shadows
and giving them strange colors. And through the network of
branches above, the darkness danced down toward them, retreat-
ing as each red flicker drove it back into the higher boughs where
it hung supreme. A star or two could be seen above, hanging
bright and lantern-like in the summer sky.
"Stefan, I love the forest." Lilia spoke in a low voice as
if unwilling to drive the charm away. "And yet there are some
people who call it lonely. I have known it as a child, and I
have come to love it as something human. All these great trees
are living things like us; they love us and protect us, and some-
how they seem to make me feel that out here in the woods is
my real home."
"I feel that way too," he mused. "It is just as if there were
some living part of me that belongs to the forest."
"So said the Lithuanians of old," replied Lilia. "They
believed that in the forests dwelt the parents of all things living.
That somewhere in the very center of this forest the animal
kingdom began; and there are those of Lithuanian descent who
believe that they live there to this day, on a beautiful sunny
plain, surrounded by a thicket of trees and honeysuckle. And
no man may stray into that sacred abode and come back alive.
[ 122]





IN THE LITHUANIAN FOREST
Lilia had not yet noticed the loss of the gun. She followed
him trustfully, ate the cold meat which he gave her, and cheer-
fully made her way after him over the fallen trees and rotten
branches. Toward late afternoon the forest grew suddenly
alive. Animals so unused to man that they did not fear him
darted close to them in great numbers and then scurried away.
"I could almost kill them with a club," he thought. "They
seem so tame."
All at once he stumbled and fell, but as he rose quickly he
grasped at what he had fallen over. At first he thought it was
the branch of a tree, but as he glanced again he saw that it was
the missing gun. Joyfully he lifted it up and looked it over.
All the parts were intact.
"Now come what may!" he shouted, turning about to Lilia,
who looked at him in astonishment. "I lost my gun this morn-
ing when we slept by the fire," he explained. "And here it is,
lying across the path in as good condition as it was when I went
to sleep."
"Lost the gun?"
"Yes. When we were sleeping some one came to the camp
fire and took the musket. Some one who had apparently no
intention of hurting us but stole away as quickly as possible. I
can't understand it."
"Then there is some one else in the forest?"
"So it seems. I can't think who it may be. Certainly not
soldiers or I would be in chains already."
"Stefan," there was certainty in her eyes, "it was the Old
Man of the Woods."
"The Old Man of the Woods? Yes—perhaps—and he had
probably never seen a gun and took this only out of curiosity
and threw it down as soon as he found that it was of no interest
to him. Well, at any rate, I have the gun, and to-night we shall
[125]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
have some supper." A few minutes later he shot another hare,
and a place was selected for a camp. They feasted until the
shadows came about them and the cheerful flicker of the fire
sent the darkness dancing back. Then they began to talk about
the possibilities of the path's coming to an end the next day, and
the plans that there would be after that.
But their talk was interrupted. The forest was quite dark
above them; the branches were so thick here that they could not
see the stars. But all at once a glow not caused by their fire
spread all over the trees about. It seemed at first as if the
forest were on fire. Then the light increased and became yellow
and red, and in another minute it was almost as light as day.
They leaped up. Through the trees ahead they could sec
the glow of the fire that caused the light. It seemed far from
the point where they stood but the intensity of it lighted up the
forest for miles about.
"We must push ahead and see what it is," exclaimed Stefan.
"You wait here and I will creep up toward it." He started to
follow again along the path, his rifle unslung and a charge in
place, but Lilia ran after him quickly and caught hold of his
hand.
"Stefan, I am afraid to stay," she said. "That is the Fires
of Perkun."
[126]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
at a great distance, but the thin streak of fire was of such inten-
sity that it lit the heavens overhead, and whenever a cloud
drifted by, the reflection was caught upon its surface and spread
over the whole forest.
This was the Fires of Perkun!
There is something in fire that arouses the most elemental
passions in men. The sight of it stirs the eyes and the brain
and the heart, and seems to provoke a kind of madness in the
soul that has no definite expression. Here was a shrine where
fire had been for centuries the symbol of a living God. Here
in the depths of the forest, perhaps before the days when these
early people sought the fields and the shore of the sea, the fire-
worshipers had held their rites and made their sacrifices. And
what sacrifices did these people make? A white horse, perhaps;
perhaps fruits of the harvest. Perhaps it was the high priest
himself, Krive-Krivaitas, who had tended this flame and kept it
burning. Two young speechless hearts gazed upon this vision
in silence. Fear, wonder, awe—all ran their courses until at
length the sense of common things returned and they looked
at each other to speak. But the two—each reading in the face
of the other, lighted by those red flames, the same emotions,
the same questions—sought only companionship in the clasping
of hands. What was this fire, and why was it here, and who
lived at the forest's heart in order to keep the sacred flames
ablaze? For it was evident to both, born and reared in Lithu-
ania, that this was indeed a temple to the God of Fire; but had
not these flames been extinguished when Jagiello became a Chris-
tian, when the priests of Christianity poured holy water upon
the shrines of Perkun? For the moment, as the spell of the
forest and the brilliancy of the scene was upon them, it seemed
as if Perkun himself might be there tending the fires in his
neglected shrine.
[128]


THE TEMPLE OF PERKUN
"There must be some living person," exclaimed Stefan at
last. "I am going to try to find out." He strode out to the
surface of the rock bed that held the forest back, but with the
quickness of a lightning flash retreated to the protection of the
tree where Lilia stood.
"There is some one there." He could hardly contain the
beating of his heart. "There, on the farther side of the shrine.
One—two—three—four—they are coming directly toward the
fire."
Four men had come out of the wood. Their figures were
quite visible in the lighted area, and their words came distinctly
across the clearing. They seemed to be victims of the same
excitement that had laid hold of Stefan and Lilia.
"What can it be?" exclaimed one.
"It's the temple," answered another, "but there is some
one here ahead of us. Some man must have lighted those
flames."
All four darted forward toward the shrine; two had removed
pistols from their belts and a third had seized a heavy stick.
The fourth was apparently unarmed, though he wore a long,
somber, black robe which the flames from the tower covered
with fiery patterns.
But Lilia sprang forward to meet them. "Father, Father—
it is I, Lilia!" she shouted.
The leader of the party stood transfixed with astonishment
for a single second, but in the next had caught up the girl to
his heart. The three others were crowding around, their faces
a study in dumb wonder, when with a crash as he forced his
way through the shrubbery Stefan leaped upon the group with
a glad cry. For though Lilia's quicker eyes had distinguished
her father's face first, in a second he had recognized the other
three as the smith, Father Jan and the mysterious horseman—
■
[ 129 ]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
and it was to the arms of the smith he went as the amazed Peter
sobbed with the mingled emotions of joy and surprise.
"How in the world—" screamed Father Jan, forgetting that
in the fire above their heads lay perhaps a new peril, "how in
the world has there been such a miracle as this? Did we not
last hear of you led away in chains to a Russian prison, and now
find you in the heart of the forest, which we have reached only
after days of search?"
They gathered in quickly about the boy and girl. Peter at
length released Stefan and held him at arm's length in order to
gaze at the loved face that he had not hoped ever to see again.
His breath still came quickly and his breast shook with the force
of his emotion. Father Jan embraced him next, and the others
followed.
"How came you here?" demanded the priest.
Stefan began his story. Related in this quiet spot, the
strange temple behind them and the dancing light from its
flames playing over them, the story of Stanislaus' rescue seemed
a miracle, a feat beyond human accomplishment; and only when
the boy had paused to answer one wondering question after
another, would they let him go on with his adventures to the
burning of Vitold's house and the escape over the old path
through the forest.
Vitold was the first to speak when he had finished.
"So. Another blow. My house burned, my property
destroyed. But," he exclaimed as the tears poured down from
his eyes, "I have you safe, my child, and I have done what I
set out to do."
Father Jan spoke with decision, but this time in a lower
tone of voice: "This marks the end of our life here. Greater
forces than we dreamed of have been working against us. We
must finish what we have to do and seek our safety in emigra-
[ 130]


THE TEMPLE OF PERKUN
tion. The border near Krakow is by far the safest, since the
Prussian line is watched by thousands of Russian guards. Those
plans will come next—but now we have another task. Perhaps
you, Vitold, can read the problem of the fire that burns above
our heads."
"I know no more than you," the charcoal burner shook his
head. "We are directed to leave our package here in this temple
for another messenger to find. I only hope that we are not too
late."
"By my papers he should be here by to-morrow at the very
latest," whispered the fourth man, the horseman, who had not
spoken before. "If he does not come, we may believe that
something has happened to him. In that case we are to leave
the package in this temple to which no man save us knows
the way."
"No man save us?" asked the priest, looking upward sig-
nificantly. "Then what can those flames mean?"
"We must find out," answered the smith rushing toward the
shrine.
There was a small entrance to the pyramid upon this side,
leading as they found out a moment later to a flight of stone
stairs built around the edge of the temple and running clear up
to the top of the structure. Peter sprang through the door,
followed by Vitold and Father Jan. The horseman came last,
and Stefan and Lilia after hesitating a moment went in behind
them. Once within it was easy to climb for the red glare of
the fire above lit up the stairway.
They could not see the fire, however, since it was apparently
placed somewhere off to one side of the exit of the stairway at
the top; it seemed to them as they ascended that there must be
a small room built at the very top of the temple, in which space
the fire was burning—perhaps it housed the person who kept
[i3i]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
the flames alive. And they noticed, while they were climbing
the stairs, that the air about them was in motion, a sweeping
draught that made the loose folds of their clothing flutter,
increasing in power as they ascended and the walls of the pyra-
mid drew closer and closer together.
"I can see why the flames leap so high into the air," said
Stefan to himself. "This draught catches them and drives them
up. I have blown through a fire-pipe at school and sent flames
a long distance."
They climbed and climbed, singly, until it seemed as if they
must be on a level with the very tree-tops, but the walls of the
stone structure were unbroken by windows and they could only
estimate their height. The light kept increasing steadily in vol-
ume, and all at once the roar of the flames fell upon their ears.
Then Peter stopped, and the rest crowded up close behind him;
but the next instant he had stepped away from the stairs into
the little room that was at the summit of the temple.
The others followed him quickly. Stefan, gazing about
eagerly, saw that at the left of the room was a stone table built
of slabs, that ran from the wall of the pyramid nearly to the
center of the room where the stairway descended, and upon
this table was burning the fire that lighted the skies. It was
not a large fire, though it was very hot—red coals beneath, and
blazing chunks of wood on top—but the flames leapt madly in
the draught, which whistled here in its very intensity, up to a
cone-shaped aperture in the roof, which, narrowing gradually
to the size of a small pipe, threw them high in the air like
flames from a volcano.
They gazed at the strange spectacle like men in a dream.
"This is the hand of man and not the hand of God," exclaimed
Father Jan. "I doubt not that by now this fire here is showing
its reflection over our village, many miles away. I knew that
[ 132]


THE TEMPLE OF PERKUN
In the morning they were about early. A hare was shot by
Stefan, and bread was brought from the pouches of the black-
smith. Father Jan carried some food to the old man, who still
Jay upon the boughs in the temple, and talked gently with him
undisturbed all through the morning. And when he left him
the old man threw his arms about the priest's neck and kissed
him again and again.
But it was not time to divulge the secret yet, the priest told
the others. "Wait until the messenger arrives."
He did not come that day, nor in the night, and as the sun
was sinking toward the horizon of tree-tops on this second day
of waiting, without any indication of his presence, the conviction
grew stronger that something had gone amiss.
Impatience and anxiety made them restless. Stefan roamed
through the near-by forest, thinking that perhaps the man might
have been overcome by lack of food, or had been the victim of
a wild beast and might be lying there wounded. The blacksmith
paced back and forth over the flat surface of rock that held back
the trees; Vitold and Lilia walked arm in arm together. But
the horseman was the most impatient of all.
"We can leave the package here," he said to Father Jan.
"Those were my directions from the Brotherhood. I have a
feeling in my heart that, since we were late in getting here, the
messenger may have come and gone. Or perhaps the sight of
the flames or the old man might have driven him away never
to return."
"Impossible," answered the priest. "He would have
remained here until he died, had he orders to wait for us—
unless indeed he found the package here, and we did not appear.
It is true that we have fulfilled your own orders, and more, in
waiting until to-day. But on account of the difficulties that he
may have met in crossing the border, on account of the troubles
[137]


THE TEMPLE OF PERKUN
"Come to the fire and eat," said Father Jan, leading him to
the place where the food was ready. "We will tell you the
story then. But how do you come here? We were expecting
a messenger and thought at first that you were he. Did you
pass another man upon the road?"
"No. / am the messenger."
They stared at him as at a man from whose head the wits
have suddenly departed.
"Yes, I am the messenger." He tore out chunks of bread
with his teeth as if he were starved. "I have orders from the
head of the Brotherhood to take away what you have here."
They looked at each other in amazement. "But," began the
horseman, "there was to have been another man."
Stanislaus nodded.
"What has become of him?"
"I know not, though I can guess. The whole country is up
in arms. There are soldiers here, there, and everywhere, by
companies and regiments. Every road is watched; Vilno is like
an armed camp—informers and spies are out in dozens—the
Russian general staff is bringing its headquarters north and
hardly a flea could get through the lines. I only came through
because no man can match with me in wits." The priest smiled
despite himself. "And I am to go on as soon as I have eaten
with you here."
Hungry as they were, they could hardly swallow as he gave
his news.
"You are to go on to-night?"
1 am.
"Then God be with you!" The priest signed him with the
cross.
"Do you know where to go?" asked the horseman.
"I do. I am to give up my charge to no one. There is a
[ 139]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
hiding place far from here where it will rest, and no man will
ever find it until there is need for it again."
His story completed, they told him theirs. He went in
where the Old Man of the Woods lay sleeping and stared down
upon him. "So that is it," he answered when Father Jan had
whispered something in his ear. "Truly the world contains
marvels."
They stood about the fire again. The horseman fumbled
at the strings of the package and opened it. He did not take
from the case therein what it contained, but left it open at the
fireside so that all might see. They crowded about it eagerly.
There in that package which men had given their lives to
guard was a circlet of pure gold, which threw back from its
shining surface a reflection that turned the red flames yellow.
It was not large, it could easily rest upon a man's head, and
there were upon it no precious stones nor adornments which fit
gold well. The circlet was the Royal Crown of Poland.
How they feasted their eyes upon it! It was a sight which
they were never to see again. And in that circlet of gold rested
the hopes of a nation, and the hopes of a Brotherhood that had
pledged not to part with it while life was in them.
And so sacred was it, and such a symbol was it in men's
minds, that no king nor tsar might hope to rule their land with-
out it. It was the emblem of a people who had risen to great-
ness more than a thousand years before, whose lands at one
time extended from Brandenburg to Kiev, from the Baltic to
the Black Sea. But in those years of greatness and wealth and
culture there had risen about them three great enemies whose
lands bordered upon their own. These enemies were now tri-
umphant, so that all that remained of the glory of Poland's great-
ness was this crown of pure gold. Without it, hope were gone;
with it, all things were possible.
[ HO]








CHAPTER XII
THE LOST LEGIONNAIRE
THE shout came echoing back from the stone pyramid
like the clear call of a bugle; it spread through the ring
of oaks about the center of the forest and leaped into
the mass of pines that hemmed them in. It brought to the lis-
teners a quick rush of spirits to the heart and brain, and kindled
in their eyes a new fire of inspiration and devotion. But as they
stood like people in a trance gazing into the depths whence
Stanislaus had disappeared, there came from the temple door
another sound which brought their thoughts back to earth with
a rush.
It was a cry from the lips of the Old Man of the Woods.
Awakened by the shout he had scrambled to his feet and come
out through the entrance, and stood there an erect figure, vener-
able but full of spiritual force, with arms outstretched and eyes
agleam. He had recovered his strength of body; two days had
served to mend that slight blow upon the forehead, and though
his body swayed a little, they could see that he was indeed a
man again.
The spell was broken. "Sit down and eat," said Father Jan
in French, leading him to the fire where the others quickly
disposed themselves. "And then, if you will, we would hear the
story of your adventures."
They ate silently, the old man ravenously, tearing the flesh
with his great, strong teeth.
[144]


THE LOST LEGIONNAIRE
"And now the time has come," said the priest, when they
had satisfied their hunger, "to tell your tale." To the company
he said in Polish: "I will let him tell the story himself and
translate it as he goes along." He stirred up the fire so that
the light played upon the old man's face, then sat down on the
rock near the narrator and translated the tale, sentence by sen-
tence, as it fell from his lips, stopping only now and then to
brush aside the tears from his own eyes.
My name is Pierre Damar. I was born in St. Brieuc in
Brittany where the blue channel looks in upon the land. When
I was young days of turmoil came upon us. My father died on
the barricades of the Revolution, and my mother shortly after-
ward—from grief, I think, for she had not been ill before. As
I grew into boyhood and youth there came glorious days in
France; the towns were full of soldiers, the tricolor of red,
white, and blue flew from every roof and every peak, and the
streets were alive with drummers calling men to service in the
army of the great Napoleon. I cannot tell you what dreams
we had as young men—Napoleon was our God—he was to set
the whole world free, and our flag was to fly over all lands right-
ing old wrongs and making of men a great brotherhood.
And then on one great day I joined the legions and marched
away to war. We conquered the Austrians and the Prussians,
and made of them allies who later fought at our side against
other enemies. We were so sure that France was to rule the
world. I know not how it has been since. You tell me that
twenty years have passed away since our campaigns; of that I
know nothing. But everything was young then, and hope and
ambition stirred all our hearts, and we worshiped our leader,
Napoleon, believing that God had sent him to us.
When the wars were over I went back to St. Brieuc and was
[145]


THE BLACKSMITH Of VILNO
married. We had a little house in the fields outside St. Brieuc,
and soon there came a son and later a daughter. Oh days of
gold! There was plenty to eat, plenty to wear, and we had all
that men or women could want. The drums still played in the
street, but these were for men to garrison the posts we had
already conquered; our work was done.
But one year there came the summons of war again. It was
upon the lips of all in our country that Napoleon was to conquer
Russia. I knew nothing of Russia, except that it was far away,
and that there was a ruler there who did not believe in our God
—our Napoleon. My old sergeant came into the city one day
to recruit men. I had come in to sell vegetables from my garden
and he saw me and knew me. There in the midst of the crowd
we fell upon each other's necks and wept. He had lost an arm
in Spain but he would have given the other arm and even his
life if our leader had asked it.
It stirred my blood when I saw him, and again I enlisted
to follow the Emperor. ... It was when I went home to fetch
my old uniform and gun that I first felt that war was not the
glory it had always seemed. For my wife, with one child in
her arms and the other sleeping peacefully in its cradle, looked
at me with such eyes that I trembled and wondered if I had done
wrong to go with the army again. She spoke not one word of
reproach because I was going away, but in her eyes there was
something that spoke through her tears. She kissed me. I
stumbled out into the sunlight, again wondering for the first time
whether even so great a man as our Emperor had the right to
cause his people such pain. . . . Oh, my wife, my wife! (he
broke into a torrent of sobbing, but checked himself and
continued).
It was early in the year 1812. They sent us to Prussia where
there were fair hills and fields just planted, and there they began
[146]


THE LOST LEGIONNAIRE
to train us for the coming campaign. Something that I had
never felt in my other days in the army began to come upon me,
a revolt in my heart that often became a pain. Why should
men be brought away from their homes to bring war into another
land ?—I could easily understand armies for the defense of home
—but I answered this questioning always with one word: Napo-
leon! What he commanded us to do was always right.
The spring was glorious when we crossed into Poland; I have
never seen a brighter beginning of any summer. All along our
way the country folk came out to meet us, and called us "deliv-
erers," and now I came to see that all our sacrifices were for a
good end, since we were to give freedom to such people as these.
They gave us all that we could eat or drink; nothing was too
good for us; and beneath the balmy June skies, with as yet no
fighting and nothing but flowers and flags and music, it seemed
as if we were bringing in a new world of peace.
Never will I forget our entry into Vilnol The legions of
Poles that marched with us carried huge branches of pine trees
and sang their songs of old days. Little girls dressed in white
came before us and scattered flowers upon the road for us to
march over. The shops were all open to us and no man took
our money. We were the royal guests of a delivered land.
Horses and cannon thundered on before us through the city
streets, flags with the tricolor and the white eagle of Poland
floated on every hand.
And then we were quartered in the city. The days were
long and the twilight hung in the western skies until dawn.
There was music and song on every hand, and nightly the win-
dows of the palaces gleamed with thousands of candles hung
in chandeliers and the sound of merriment and dance and revelry
drifted out from the open windows.
But ere long we tired of this gay life, and the older men
[147]


THE LOST LEGIONNAIRE
order came to retreat. Retreat! Never before had such a
general order come from Napoleon's lips. Imagine my distress,
my sense of disaster! It was as if God had ordered the sun
not to climb up in the heavens. As we marched out, the roofs
of houses all about us were twisting and writhing in the flames
that had helped to rout us. The whole city was ablaze. And
as we made our way into the country Moscow was a seething
furnace behind us.
What more can I tell of that retreat? Days of disaster and
cold and hunger and death came upon us. We moved slowly,
still harassed by bands of Cossack cavalry that preyed upon us.
We had counted them lightly in the beginning. We realized now
how small drops of falling water may in time wear away the
huge surface of a boulder. Terror overtook us. The rains and
the snow descended. Food gave out, and we boiled our belts
in water, when we could stop to make a fire, in order to give
ourselves something to close our teeth upon. A madness comes
upon me when I think of that march! It was day after day of
struggle and toil and hunger. But still we crawled, and still
the bands of Cossacks charged in upon us in the night, harrying
and torturing until we prayed for death.
But at length after ages of crawling forward, a few of us
straggled into Vilno, the city that we had left in such high hopes.
But where was that glory now? The news of our defeat had
thrown everything into consternation. The houses were black
and deserted and barricaded; the streets were empty, and the
huge, black birds were fluttering about us, now unafraid of the
feeble resistance which we might give them. As we came across
the street in front of that pillared Cathedral we were a sight
that few men would care to look upon, hungry, wounded, totter-
ing, weak. Our shoes were worn out, our uniforms were in rags;
one man had stolen a cassock from a Russian church and was
[151]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
trailing the long train behind him in the snow. Another man
who had been a bugler in the army still wore his bugle strapped
across his back; it was twisted and crushed and without mouth-
piece, yet he was clinging to it as to the faint hope that he might
reach France. Other sights of misery and starvation there were,
but I dared not look upon them, nor do I dare recall them
now.
Napoleon had already left us. We gave no thought to that
since we believed ourselves in safety at last. He left us with
promises that he would return with a larger army and win back
that which he had lost. And on the night of that first day in
Vilno, those of us who were veterans met upon a hill just out-
side the city. It so chanced that in the last stages of our march
most of the horses had given out, and we had been carrying on
our backs, or by two and two, the most valuable properties of
the army. We had the colors and the medals of the legions,
decorations of the Grand Army, jewels, gold plate, crosses to
be awarded for valor. It was a bitter cold night—somewhere
about December 9, if I remember correctly, though the people
in the eastern lands have a different calendar from ours. A fire
was lighted and soon was snapping through the piles of brush
and branches that were laid upon it.
Then the oldest officer stepped forward to the pile of boxes
that we had placed there and began to open them one by one.
I shall never forget the sight as long as I live. For out of these
boxes he took gold chains, stars, medals, and distributed them
among us. There we stood with the red fire gleaming upon us,
upon the chains which we hung about our necks, upon the medals
which we hung for the moment upon our ragged coats—though
there was not one of us that would not have traded all the gold
of the world for one bowl of hot soup. Our spokesman told
us that this was our last duty in the army of Napoleon, that from
[152]


THE LOST LEGIONNAIRE
exploding powder from my pistol into them. Later I cut away
more meat from the bear and cooked it.
These recollections are more vivid than others, though there
come to me little pictures through the darkness that enveloped
my mind. I felt that all men were my enemies, that I must keep
away from all people if I wished to live. That in me which had
been the sense of myself was gone. I had become an animal,
possessed of the wits of an animal and some of the genius of
a man.
I kept the fire burning after that. It seemed to me in my
madness that there were other people than myself in that tower,
yet I had not the fear of them that I had of man. They were
not real, and yet they had thoughts and could speak. I felt
constrained by them to feed the fire constantly, to keep it burn-
ing; they seemed to make me feel that if I once let it go out I
would perish; sometimes when this madness was greatest upon
me I heaped great piles of boughs upon the flames and made my
living space so hot that I had to descend to the air. And yet it
was my salvation, for after a while my powder gave out and I
could not have lighted another fire; this one warmed me in the
winter, it served to cook my food. As I think of it now, the
forces that urged me to feed the fire continually seem quite real,
as if some strange spirits were haunting this place and depending
upon the fire for warmth. But perhaps it was only my own
sense of self-preservation that guided me.
Other pictures there are, though I have long since lost count
of days and nights. Once I remember wandering through the
forest over a path that somehow I knew well, and avoiding the
bogs on either side and at the end by climbing in the trees and
leaping from branch to branch. One night I stopped near the
door of a blacksmith shop, and the sound of the hammer upon
the anvil roused familiar thoughts in my head. But this tie with
[155]


THE LOST LEGIONNAIRE
are now many Polish refugees in France, all of them waiting for
the day when they may return."
"I will go to the village with you," said the blacksmith, "for
I must bring my wife. I must get the little wealth as well, that
I have saved in all these years. Would to God that it were more!
But it will see us to safety at any rate, and then as men we can
start the world again."
"My wealth has gone with my house," said Vitold sadly,
"but I have in my belt enough gold for the journey. I know
that our brothers in exile will help us."
They exchanged some necessary words, though the sorrow
hanging over them after the legionnaire's story filled them with
almost speechless grief. Then toward morning they embraced
and parted, Father Jan awakening the old man and guiding him
to the path. The blacksmith followed.
[157]


THE DEFENSE OF THE SMITHY
there an iron box. Into it he fitted a key that he wore on a
small chain, and took out, on opening it, a belt heavily laden
with gold. It took but a moment to adjust it about his waist.
When he had finished he whistled to Pierre, who had already
donned his new clothes, gave him a pair of scissors and led him
to a glass. He had not counted on the shock which the man
might feel on gazing at himself, but he cursed himself for his
own lack of forethought and feeling, when Pierre suddenly put
down the shears and covered his face with his hands.
He moaned something in French. "Can it be I? Can it
be I?" Peter did not understand the words, but the man's
meaning was obvious.
"Come," he said, as if the other understood him. "Hurry!"
He pressed the man's arm and raised his head. Then taking
the shears he exclaimed, "I'll help you," and began to snip off
the long locks of hair in back. He talked continuously, as a
hair trimmer will— "Off with this lock, off with that one.
Round about here—smooth so—turn your head—snip—snip-
snip," and while the old man did not understand the words,
their meaning seemed plain. It is always so in the speaking of
a language; one must be in full sympathy with the person one
addresses in order to make the words plain—and sometimes
indeed one can tell what a man is saying through the very cir-
cumstances which surround the saying of it. "You'll have a trim
in szlachta (gentry) fashion," continued the smith, "and you'll
pass for a duke at the very least." The white hair lay in a heap
on the floor.
"Now for the beard." The smith swung him around and
trimmed it. He stopped for a moment to survey the work, and
proudly too, for when a blacksmith becomes a successful hair-
cutter he feels the success much more keenly than he does any
triumph in his own trade.
[159]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
His heart almost stopped for very astonishment. The man
in front of him, in his own cast-off clothes, and with clipped
hair and beard, seemed at first sight forty years younger than
he had when he entered the smithy. "Have I clipped so many
years from him?" thought the smith. There was a look of youth
even in his eyes, an upright cast to his figure that betokened the
soldier, and that after twenty years. The clothes, too, made all
the difference in the world.
"You look like a man again!" He slapped Pierre on the
back, and while Pierre did not catch the exact meaning he got
the substance of it, for he looked into the glass bravely and
smiled. There was no such apparition there as he had seen
before. Peter wondered what he thought at that instant; was
it of himself, of the last time he looked into a mirror, of his
home, his children, of Napoleon? Of what? But he did not
let his wonderment interfere with action. There was too much
to do. He pulled out from somewhere a hat and a cloak for
Pierre, fitted a belt with powder and bullets for both himself
and the other, dragged out pouches to carry on the journey, a
can for water all that he might need.
While he was at work Father Jan returned. Behind him
came the blacksmith's wife, and when the greetings of affection
had ended and Pierre was introduced, she joined her husband
in preparations for the journey. In a short time they were
ready and back in the shop again, with the door barred behind
them. The night was now nearly gone. Peter threw open the
door in the smithy floor and signaled to them to descend. But
as he did so there came a pounding as if of thunder at the smithy
door, and a loud voice cried out: "Open! Open in the Tsar's
name!"
For an instant they stood there like statues. "Some one has
found us out," whispered Peter. "We must not let them in now."
[160]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
had been closely guarded ever since the night of the first search,
and it was only that Father Jan and the blacksmith took such
precautions that their presence had not been noted earlier. As
it was, their foresight had given them time in which to get
ready.
The three men followed the blacksmith's wife into the tunnel,
but left her when they reached the supply of firearms and
powd»r stored at some distance from the trap-door. She went
on to wait for them according to directions, while they heaped
their arms with muskets and ramrods, and then rolled up keg
after keg of powder into the smithy, knocking off the heads of
the kegs and standing them in a protected place. Then under
the smith's orders they loaded all the muskets—about a dozen—
and laid them on the floor. He quickly took a supply of pegs
from a large bin and fitted them into holes in the floor on two
sides of the room, and along the table at the west wall, to hold
the stocks of the guns in place. This done, with a hammer and
an iron bar he knocked loose little round plugs in the walls of
the smithy, and pushed the muzzles of the guns into the holes
where the plugs had been.
Father Jan watched him in amazement. "You were pre-
pared for this," he exclaimed. "I never saw such a harmless
place become a fortress so quickly."
"I was prepared," answered the smith. "During the revo-
lution, at one time I had enough powder and bullets and arms
to supply a small army. Much of that was used. I knew too
that some time my storehouse might be discovered, and I was
ready to put up a good defense. These guns are held in place
firmly. All that one has to do is to load them and go from one
gun to another, firing. Any who are besieging the smithy will
think that a dozen men are firing at them. With another man
to help—one to follow me loading each gun after I fire it—I
could hold off an army with muskets for several hours."
[162]


THE DEFENSE OF THE SMITHY
From a port-hole Peter could see that at least two hundred
men were in action outside. Cavalrymen who had ridden up
had all dismounted from their horses and were preparing to fight
on foot. The hail of bullets that was poured in upon the smithy
by all these men was only just beginning to take effect in the
splintering and cracking of boards, but the building would easily
hold out for some time yet. Could Pierre but keep them occu-
pied for a while, they could put enough distance between them-
selves and the soldiers to be safely in the woods leading to the
forest. None would think of searching so far. But could Pierre
escape? Or could he even now persuade him to go first? Catch-
ing at his arm, he made signs for him to join the others through
the passageway. But Pierre only thrust him to one side impa-
tiently as he loaded another gun. Peter shook his head. Well,
at least he had a chance of escape—a good chance if only he
would follow directions.
A grizzled Russian sergeant who had been through many
campaigns dashed another company at the door. Pierre met
them with a volley, and shouted through an aperture, "Vive
I'Empereur!" The sergeant fell back in astonishment. "In the
days of my youth I heard that call," he cried. "That was the
battle cry of Napoleon's army. Have ghosts come to life to
war against us?" But the others did not know what he meant
and fought on.
Pierre's shots were taking effect too. Here and there across
the meadow in front of the shop, wounded men were being
dragged to carts on the main road. On the farther side the
muskets were pointed a little too low to do any real execution,
but the bullets dug up the ground in front of the fence where
the soldiers were lying and covered them with little spurts of
earth. It kept them in place and hurt their aim.
"Good-by," said Peter suddenly, taking up his gun and pack
[165]


THE DEFENSE OF THE SMITHY
Vilno for cannon. With two regiments of infantry and this
detachment of cavalry I should have taken this place long ago."
He became suddenly very angry. He was an able officer and
his men were veterans who had been through a number of cam-
paigns, and only recently had fought savagely through the Polish
uprising. There was fuel for his anger, too, in the thought of
the smithy's holding out so long. He had expected that at the
first volley the defenders would rush out and throw themselves
on his mercy.
"We must take the place by storm I" he exclaimed, and sent
his aide to order the drummer to sound a charge. Pierre, listen-
ing intently, chuckled when he heard the beating. The sound of
the drum was food and drink to him.
First of all, the firing on the rear of the smithy was intensi-
fied, and in a few minutes began to take effect. Pierre swung
around to keep the muskets going on that side, working with
terrible quickness and loading and firing without cessation. The
smithy was full of smoke and flying splinters. The bullets were
spattering on the ceiling and walls like hail, and now and then
one or two pushed through an ever-widening crevice and sang
by his head. He had long ago stripped himself to the waist,
and minded the smoke and roar and bullets no more than he did
the open air and a light rain.
But he suspected that the doubling of fire in the rear meant
an attack in the front. It was one of the most elementary feints
in battle, and the old soldier saw through it quickly. Therefore
he carefully loaded the guns commanding the door and let them
stand, while at the same time answering the fire in the rear to
keep up a little deceit on his own part.
There was a thunder upon the drum.
"They are coming," he thought, and at the next instant the
whole line in front of the smithy dashed forward at the door.
[167]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
He met them with a salvo from the guns on that side, and
reloaded again just as they swept against the beams with irons
and rocks and musket butts. For a minute or two the old door
stood the assault boldly. It was made of Lithuanian oak from
the very heart of the forest, and its hinges were of the heaviest
iron, forged by the smith himself and weak in no part.
Two men in front of the door went down with his volley.
"I can give them another," he thought. Then taking his stand
in the corner at the extreme left of the front of the smithy, he
brought the guns to bear at the proper angle and fired directly
into the heart of the attacking party. They hesitated and fell
back. Two more men went down, and, fearing lest another
volley would play upon them, the others retreated a few steps
backward. It gave him time to load again—this time, however,
but two muskets; and then they were at it again. An officer who
had been directing them from the rear now rushed ahead with
the gun he had taken from a soldier.
"Down with it! Down with the door!" he shouted.
They battered and battered until the heavy oak showed signs
of weakening. One hinge at the top dropped loose and a
"hurrah" came from the outside as the whole door swung a
little. "Now," cried the officer. "Now—" and at least twenty
heavy muskets beat upon it. It swung down farther. A beam
loosened at the top—it sagged—it moved as moves a great
bough in a heavy wind. Crash—the splinters flew in a cloud.
Crash—like a living thing it suddenly turned toward them and
settled. One more tempest of blows and it was down.
"Now inside!" screamed the officer, and some men rushed
forward, striving to clamber up over the huge beams and stout
boards of the broken door that now formed a barricade at the
threshold. But at the very summit of these boards they hesi-
tated, for instead of the dozen men they expected to meet—
[168]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
And then—amidst the tumult raised by man upon this fair
morning when the sun shone brightly over the woods and all in
nature seemed at peace—in the midst of this world of battle
and death and carnage—there arose from the very depths of
the earth a greater tumult than ever Nature had devised. It
broke with fire and smoke, with thunder and with lightning, it
echoed across the distant hills and it thundered back from the
forest. It swept back the regiments of men before it, it scat-
tered the little blacksmith shop so ably defended by Pierre to
the four winds of heaven, it disorganized the whole attacking
force and left them helpless and without leaders until reinforce-
ments were sent to them from Vilno. And he who had been
the nearest to that terrible explosion in the shop, he who had
caught the full brunt of it and faced it squarely, he who had
paid for the worst form of treachery that man can inflict upon
man—that man was Vassily Bek.
And now above the torn earth where once there had been
a blacksmith shop floated a huge gray cloud of smoke.
But from the distant woods, where now no man was willing
to pursue, there came the sound of a triumphant voice. Some
said that the voice was no voice at all but a mere echo of the
blast; others said it was a rebuke from God Himself for the
crimes which men do. But after the explosion had worked its
force, there certainly was a cry that rent the air, and the cry was:
Vive la France!
[ 172]


CHAPTER XIV
PIERRE COMES HOME
OME months later on a day of golden harvest, four men,
a youth, a girl in her teens, and a kindly faced woman
descended from the stagecoach in the little city of St.
Brieuc in Brittany, France. They had been objects of much curi-
osity on the road down from Rennes, for of that company only
two people spoke the language of the land: a straight, dignified-
looking Frenchman and a priest in his robes. The others were
silent much of the time, but when they did speak used words
and accents utterly strange to those who heard them.
"Emigres. Polonais," was whispered about them, and every
face took on a sympathetic expression. For France was now
full of homeless Poles. Some were in the university learning
their future professions in a new but kindly tongue. Others
were working in shops. Some had already settled on the land.
These, it seemed, were coming to Brittany to visit the tall
Frenchman who wore upon his breast the medal of the Legion
of Honor—newly awarded, but anciently won.
"Welcome home!" exclaimed Pierre, for it was he. "I do
not know what we may find here, but such as there is shall be
yours." There was a gleam in his eyes, a suppressed excitement
in his words, for now he was to learn whether or not his wife
and children were alive, and if alive whether they would know
him or not.
They had traveled many miles since that day in the black-
smith shop. At the edge of the woods they had found friends

[ 173 ]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
of the Brotherhood, and, hidden in peasant carts, they had been
transported safely far to the south and across the border near
Krakow, where the Brotherhood had its agents. In Leipzig
they had been cared for sympathetically by the German people
and by friends, for there were many refugees in Leipzig. But
after a time they started again for France, and now were reach-
ing the end of the journey. The horseman, he who had brought
the crown to the forest, left them in Paris to join friends in the
university. Except for him the company was the same as at
the beginning: Vitold with his daughter Lilia, Peter the black-
smith with his wife and adopted son Stefan, Father Jan the
priest, and the French soldier Pierre, who had praised his native
province of Brittany so highly that the men resolved to push
on there, and with their earnings to establish themselves again.
"It is the samel" cried Pierre suddenly. "There is the
church, and there the blacksmith shop, there the barracks for the
soldiers, and there the old houses on the Place. . . . But my
home is farther. Come—" he urged, tugging at the priest.
"I am dying with anxiety. Come."
And he ran ahead of them along the road until he came to
the place where the city ends and where there is the long thor-
oughfare to Quintin. To right and to left of it sit little cottages
in the midst of tiny homesteads where the men and women work
together in the fields. As the company came along, Pierre lead-
ing, followed by Father Jan, and the others stringing out behind,
these workers in the brown fields came running to their hedges
to watch the curious cavalcade pass by. To them Pierre shouted
words of greeting. A strange ecstasy came over him. To find
the country so little changed after twenty years was the happiest
omen that his simple heart could wish; his spirits soared to the
skies.
At the entrance to a pretty cottage he stopped. Apprehen-
[174]


PIERRE COMES HOME
at his work. He was famous in the French country and they
called him "the Pole who speaks French," for he never quite
conquered the accent and spoke in a quaint, odd strain. But
men and women and children never ceased to haunt his little shop
to listen to the tales in broken French of the days of old in
Poland. And his wife was as happy as he.
Vitold went into business, and did well at it, and grew to
love the people and the country of his adoption. But he always
went on a Sunday out to the blacksmith's house or to Pierre's
farm, where the old memories were all lived over. Lilia grew
into a handsome young woman, and the banns of her marriage
to young Stefan were published upon the very day of his coming
home from Paris, a full-fledged doctor.
And on summer evenings they would all go up to the hill,
where the old Roman road runs, and look off to the east. For
in that direction lay the country that they loved better than any-
thing else on earth. And as the sun went down and the world
turned into gold with its dying rays, they would wonder in their
hearts: "How long, O Lord—how long?"
[177]


THE BLACKSMITH OF VILNO
of the crowns now in Polish museums, however, but is kept in
a very secret place known to only a few people. Perhaps the
secret has already died with the last guardian of the treasure,
since crowns are not held at a premium in this modern world.
The poem mentioned in the epilogue is of course Pan
Tadeusz by Adam Mickiewicz, the English translation of
which has been made by Professor George R. Noyes of the
University of California, and published by E. P. Dutton & Co.,
New York. The famous Danish critic Georg Brandes calls it
"the only epic of the nineteenth century."
[184]