The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales

The Cossack

Chapter I

         I’d give
The Ukraine back again to live
It o’er once more, and be a page,
The happy page, who was the lord
Of one soft heart and his own sword.

Mazeppa.

Count Willnitz was striding to and fro in the old hall of his ancestral castle, in the heart of Lithuania. Through the high and narrow Gothic windows the light fell dimly into the cold apartment, just glancing on the massive pillars, and bringing into faint relief the dusty banners and old trophies of arms that hung along the walls, for the wintry day was near its close. The count was a dark-browed, stern-featured man. His cold, gray eyes were sunken in their orbits; and deep lines were drawn about his mouth, as if some secret grief were gnawing at his vitals. And, indeed, good cause existed for his sorrow; for, but a few days previously, he had lost his wife. They had buried the countess at midnight, as was the custom of the family, in the old, ancestral vault of the castle. Vassal and serf had waved their torches over the black throat of the grave, and the wail of women had gone up through the rocky arches. Still the count had been seen to shed no tear. An old warrior, schooled in the stern academy of military life, he had early learned to conquer his emotions; indeed, there were those who said that nature, in moulding his aristocratic form, had forgotten to provide it with a heart; and this legend found facile credence with the cowering serfs who owned his sway, and the ill-paid soldiers who followed his banner. The last male descendant of a long and noble line, he was ill able to maintain the splendor of his family name; for his dominions had been “curtailed of their fair proportion,” and his finances were in a disordered state.

As, like Hardicanute in the old ballad,

“Stately strode he east the wa’,
And stately strode he west,”

there entered a figure almost as grim and stern as himself. This was an old woman who now filled the office of housekeeper, having succeeded to full sway on the death of the countess, the young daughter of the count being unable or unwilling to assume any care in the household.

“Well, dame,” said the count, pausing in his walk, and confronting the old woman, “how goes it with you, and how with Alvina? Still sorrowing over her mother’s death?”

“The tears of a maiden are like the dews in the morning, count,” replied the old woman. “The first sunbeam dries them up.”

“And what ray of joy can penetrate the dismal hole?” asked the count.

“Do you remember the golden bracelet you gave your lady daughter on her wedding day?” inquired the old woman, fixing her keen, gray eye on her master’s face as she spoke.

“Ay, well,” replied the count; “golden gifts are not so easily obtained, of late, that I should forget their bestowal But what of the bawble?”

“I saw it in the hands of the page Alexis, when he thought himself unobserved.”

“How!” cried the count, his cheek first reddening, and then becoming deadly pale with anger; “is the blood of the gitano asserting its claim? Has he begun to pilfer? The dog shall hang from the highest battlement of the castle!”

“May it not have been a free gift, sir count?” suggested the hideous hag.

“A free gift! What mean you? A love token? Ha! dare you insinuate? And yet her blood is——”

“Hush! walls have sometimes ears,” said the old woman, looking cautiously around. “The gypsy child you picked up in the forest is now almost a man; your daughter is a woman. The page is beautiful; they have been thrown much together. Alvina is lonely, romantic——”

“Enough, enough!” said the count, stamping his foot. “I will watch him. If your suspicions be correct——” He paused, and added between his clinched teeth, “I shall know how to punish the daring of the dog. Away!”

The old woman hobbled away, rubbing her skinny hands together, and chuckling at the prospect of having her hatred of the young countess and the page, both of whom had excited her malevolence, speedily gratified.

Count Willnitz was on the eve of a journey to Paris with his daughter. They were to start in a day or two. This circumstance brought on the adventure we shall speedily relate.

Between Alexis, the beautiful page whom the late countess had found and fancied among a wandering Bohemian horde, and the high-born daughter of the feudal house, an attachment had sprung up, nurtured by the isolation in which they lived, and the romantic character and youth of the parties. About to be separated from his mistress for a long time, the page had implored her to grant him an interview, and the lovers met in an apartment joining the suite of rooms appropriated to the countess, and where they were little likely to be intruded upon. In the innocence of their hearts, they had not dreamed that their looks and movements had been watched, and they gave themselves up to the happiness of unrestrained converse. But at the moment when the joy of Alexis seemed purest and brightest, the gathering thunder cloud was overhanging him. At the moment when, sealing his pledge of eternal fidelity and memory in absence, he tremblingly printed a first and holy kiss upon the blushing cheek of Alvina, an iron hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, torn ruthlessly from the spot, he was dashed against the wall, while a terrible voice exclaimed,—

“Dog, you shall reckon with me for this!”

Alvina threw herself at her father’s feet.

“Pardon—pardon for Alexis, father! I alone am to blame.”

“Rise! rise!” thundered the count. “Art thou not sufficiently humiliated? Dare to breathe a word in his favor, and it shall go hard with thy minion. Punishment thou canst not avert; say but a word, and that punishment becomes death; for he is mine, soul and body, to have and to hold, to head or to hang—my vassal, my slave! What ho, there!”

As he stamped his foot, a throng of attendants poured into the room.

“Search me that fellow!” cried the count, pointing with his finger to Alexis.

A dozen officers’ hands examined the person of Alexis, one of them, more eager than the rest, discovered a golden bracelet, and brought it to the count.

“Ha!” cried the count, as he gazed upon the trinket; “truly do I recognize this bawble. Speak, dog! when got’st thou this?”

Alvina was about to speak, and acknowledge that she had bestowed it; but before she could utter a syllable, the page exclaimed,—

“I confess all—I stole it.”

“Enough!” cried the count. “Daughter, retire to your apartment.”

“Father!” cried the wretched girl, wringing her hands.

“Silence, countess!” cried the count, with terrific emphasis. “Remember that I wield the power of life and death!”

Casting one look of mute agony at the undaunted page, the hapless lady retired from the room.

“Zabitzki,” said the count, addressing the foremost of his attendants, “take me this thieving dog into the court yard, and lay fifty stripes upon his back. Then bear him to the dungeon in the eastern turret that overlooks the moat; there keep him till you learn my further pleasure.”

The page was brave as steel. His cheek did not blanch, nor did his heart quail, as he heard the dreadful sentence. His lips uttered no unmanly entreaty for forgiveness; but, folding his arms, and drawing up his elegant figure to its full height, he fixed his eagle eye upon the count, with a glance full of bitter hatred and mortal defiance. And afterwards, when submitting to the ignominious punishment, with his flesh lacerated by the scourge, no groan escaped his lips that might reach the listening ear of Alvina. He bore it all with Spartan firmness.

Midnight had struck when the young countess, shrouded in a cloak, and bearing a key which she had purchased by its weight in gold, ascended to the eastern turret, resolved to liberate the prisoner. The door swung heavily back on its rusted hinges as she cautiously entered the dungeon. Drawing back the slide from a lantern she carried in her left hand, she threw its blaze before her, calling out at the same time, “Alexis!”

No voice responded.

“They have murdered him!” she murmured, as she rushed forward and glanced wildly around her.

The cell was empty. She sprang to the grated window. The bars had been sawn through and wrenched apart, with the exception of one, from which dangled a rope made of fragments of linen and blanket twisted and knotted together. Had Alexis escaped, or perished in the attempt? The moat was deep and broad; but the page was a good swimmer and a good climber, and his heart was above all proof. There was little doubt in the mind of his mistress that fortune had favored him. Sinking on her knees, she gave utterance to a fervent thanksgiving to the almighty Power which had protected the hapless boy, and then retired to her couch to weep in secret. The next day the castle rang with the escape of Alexis. Messengers were sent out in pursuit of him in every direction; but a fall of snow in the latter part of the night prevented the possibility of tracking him, and even the dogs that the count put upon the scent were completely baffled. The next day the count and his daughter started on their journey.

Chapter II

For time at last sets all things even;
 And if we do but watch the hour,
 There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
 The patient search and vigil long
 Of him who treasures up a wrong.

Byron.

Years had passed away. The storm of war had rolled over the country, and the white eagle of Poland had ceased to wave over an independent land. Count Willnitz and his daughter had returned to the old castle; the former stern and harsh as ever, the latter completely in the power of an inexorable master. She had received no tidings of Alexis, and had given him up as lost to her forever. Her father, straightened in his circumstances and menaced with ruin, had secured relief and safety by pledging his daughter’s hand to a wealthy nobleman, Count Radetsky, who was now in the castle awaiting the fulfilment of the bargain.

“Go, my child,” said the count, with more gentleness than he usually manifested in his manner. “You must prepare yourself for the altar.”

“Father,” said the young girl, earnestly, “does he know that I love him not?”

“I have told him all, Alvina.”

“And yet he is willing to wed me!” She raised her eyes to heaven, rose, and slowly retired to her room.

Louisa, the old woman presented in the first scene of our tale, decked the unfortunate girl in her bridal robes, and went with her to the chapel, where her father and Radetsky awaited her. An old priest mumbled over the ceremony, and joined the hands of the bride and bridegroom. The witnesses were few—only the vassals of the count; and no attempt at festivity preceded or followed the dismal ceremony.

Alvina retired to her chamber when it was over, promising to join her bridegroom at the table in a few moments. The housekeeper accompanied her.

“I give you joy, Countess Radetsky,” said the old woman.

“I sorely need it,” was the bitter answer. “I have sacrificed myself to the duty I owe my sole surviving parent.”

The old woman rubbed her hands and chuckled as she noted the tone of anguish in which these words were uttered.

“I can now speak out,” she said. “After long years of silence, the seal is removed from my lips. I can now repay your childish scorn, and bitter jests, by a bitterer jest than any you have yet dreamed of. Countess Radetsky——”

“Spare me that name,” said the countess.

“Nay, sweet, it is one you will bear through life,” said the hag, “and you had better accustom yourself early to its sound. Know, then, my sweet lady, that the count, my master, had no claims on your obedience.”

“How?”

“He is a childless man. He found you an abandoned orphan. Struck with your beauty, he brought you to his lady, and, though they loved you not, they adopted you, with a view to making your charms useful to them when you should have grown up. The count has amply paid himself to-day for all the expense and trouble you have put him to. He has sold you to an eager suitor for a good round price. Ha, ha!”

“And you knew this, and never told me!” cried the hapless girl.

“I was bound by an oath not to reveal the secret till you were married. And I did not love you enough to perjure myself.”

“Wretch—miserable wretch!” cried Alvina. “Alas! to what a fate have I been doomed! Ah! why did they not let me rather perish than rear me to this doom? My heart is given to Alexis—my hand to Radetsky!”

“Go down, sweet, to your bridegroom,” said the old woman, who was totally deaf to her complaints, “or he will seek you here.”

Alvina descended to the banquet hall, uncertain what course to pursue. Escape appeared impossible, and what little she knew of Radetsky convinced her that he was as pitiless and base as her reputed father. She sank into a seat, pale, inanimate, and despairing.

At that moment, ere any one present could say a word, a man, white with terror, rushed into the hall, and stammered out,—

“My lord count!”

“What is it, fellow? Speak!”

“The Cossacks!” cried the man. And his information was confirmed by a loud hurrah, or rather yell, that rose without.

“Raise the drawbridge!” cried the count. “Curses on it!” he added, “I had forgotten that drawbridge and portcullis, every means of defence, were gone long ago.”

“The Cossacks are in the court yard!” cried a second servant, rushing in.

“A thousand curses on the dogs!” cried Radetsky, drawing his sword. “Count, look to your child; I will to the court yard with your fellows, to do what we may.”

By this time the court yard of the castle was filled with uproar and turmoil. The clashing of swords was mingled with pistol shots and groans, the shouts of triumph and the shrieks of despair. Alvina, left alone by her father and Radetsky, trembled not at the prospect of approaching death; she felt only joy at her deliverance from the arms of a hated bridegroom. But when the crackling of flames was heard, when a lurid light streamed up against the window, when wreaths of smoke began to pour in from the corridors, the instinct of self-preservation awakened in her breast, and almost unconsciously she shrieked aloud for help.

Her appeal was answered unexpectedly. A tall, plumed figure dashed into the room; a vigorous arm was thrown around her waist, and she was lifted from her feet. Her unknown preserver, unimpeded by her light weight, passed into the corridor with a fleet step. The grand staircase was already on fire, but, drawing his furred cloak closely around her, the stranger dashed through the flames, and bore her out into the court yard. Almost before she knew it, she was sitting behind him on a fiery steed. The rider gave the animal the spur, and he dashed through the gate, followed by a hundred wild Cossacks, shouting and yelling in the frenzy of their triumph.

Gratitude for an escape from a dreadful death was now banished from Alvina’s mind by the fear of a worse fate at the hands of these wild men.

“You have saved my life,” she said to her unknown companion; “do not make that life a curse. Take pity on an unfortunate and sorely persecuted girl. I have no ransom to pay you; but free me, and you will earn my daily prayers and blessings.”

“Fear nothing,” answered a deep and manly voice. “No harm is intended thee; no harm shall befall thee. I swear it on the word of a Cossack chieftain.”

Alvina was tranquillized at once by the evident sincerity of the assurance.

“You are alone now in the world,” pursued the stranger “I strove to save your bridegroom, but he fell before I reached him.”

“I loved him not,” answered Alvina, coldly; “I mourn him not.”

“You may hate me for the deed,” said the stranger, “and I would fain escape that woe; but here I vouch it in the face of heaven, Count Willnitz fell by my hand. My sabre clove him to the teeth. Years had passed, but I could not forget that he once laid the bloody scourge upon my back.”

“Alexis!” cried Alvina, now recognizing her preserver.

“Yes, dear but unfortunate girl,” cried the Cossack leader, turning and gazing on the young girl, “I feel that thou art lost to me forever. I have slain thy father. Love for thee should have stayed my hand; but I had sworn an oath of vengeance, and I kept my vow.”

“Alexis,” whispered Alvina, “he was not my father. He was my bitterest enemy. Nor am I nobly born. Like you, I am an orphan.”

“Say you so?” shouted the Cossack. “Then thou art mine—mine and forever—joy of my youth—blessing of my manhood!”

“Yes, thine—thine only.”

“But bethink thee, sweetest,” said the Cossack; “I lead a strange wild life.”

“I will share it with thee,” said Alvina, firmly.

“My companions are rude men.”

“I shall see only thee.”

“My home is the saddle, my palace the wide steppe.”

“With thee, Alexis, I could be happy any where.”

“Then be it so,” said the Cossack, joyously. “What ho!” he shouted, at the top of his ringing, trumpet-like voice. “Comrades, behold your hetman’s bride!”

From mouth to mouth the words of the Cossack chieftain were repeated, and oft as they were uttered wild shouts of joy rose from the bearded warriors; for they had loved the gallant Alexis from the moment when, a wayworn, famished, and bleeding fugitive, he came among them. They galloped round and round the hetman and his fair companion in dizzying circles, like the whirling leaves of autumn, firing their pistols, brandishing their lances and sabres, and making the welkin ring with their terrific shouts. Alvina clung, terrified, to the waist of her lover, and he finally silenced the noisy demonstrations by a wave of his hand. Then, under his leadership, and in more regular order, the formidable band of horsemen pursued their march to those distant solitudes where happiness awaited their chieftain and his bride.