The Shadow of the Czar Part 70

A triumphant laugh arose from the Muscovites. Where was the champion who would face the duke's deadly blade? Not even Zabern durst pick up that glove. Willingly would he have sacrificed his life in the cause of the princess, but death in this case would mean her deposition.

"The stars in their courses fight against Czernova," muttered Zabern, clenching his one and only hand. "Long ago, foreseeing this challenge would be given, I provided, as I thought, for the event. And now we must decline the combat, for our swordsman," he added in despair, "our swordsman is absent."

"It is now eleven," remarked Polonaski. The cathedral clock was chiming as he spoke. "The princess must appoint her champion within an hour from the giving of the challenge, the duel itself to take place upon the same day as the challenge. So runs the statute."

The mild and pacific Radzivil had beheld with indignation the casting down of the duke's glove.

"What a return to barbarism is this," he cried, addressing the Justiciary, "to make the crown of Czernova dependent upon the result of a duel! The statute which you cite is five hundred years old. It is obsolete, quite obsolete."

"By your favor," replied Polonaski, cool and judicial as ever, "permit me, as the highest legal authority in Czernova, to affirm that as that law is still on the statute-book it is therefore valid and of good effect."

"Your contention is null and void," said Zabern, "inasmuch as the Diet has pa.s.sed a law against duelling."

"Against ordinary duelling--true; but the recent statute contains no clause against the coronation-combat, which, therefore, stands as part of the law of the land."

"The ex-Justiciary," said Barbara, deposing him from his office by a word, even as he had deposed her by a word, "the ex-Justiciary, as the interpreter of the law, should know that a traitor has no legal standing. The duke has shown himself a traitor to the state, and is therefore not in a position to impugn his sovereign."

"No court of justice has yet proved him to be a traitor," replied the inflexible Polonaski. "We cannot accept the word of even the lawful sovereign as the voice of the law, still less the word of an usurper."

"An usurper and a harlot's daughter," cried the voice of Orloff from amid the Muscovite ranks.

At this a deep murmur of indignation ran through the Polish part of the a.s.sembly.

"Men of Czernova," cried a woman's voice, "do you sit thus inactive, letting your princess be opposed and insulted by the Czar's hirelings?

Where is the ancient spirit of the Poles fled? Would our forefathers have won this banner if they had shown the timidity that you now show?"

All eyes turned towards the speaker, who was none other than Katina Ludovska. Standing high upon a seat in the centre of the nave, she was plainly visible to all in the cathedral. While speaking she shook out the silken folds of the standard she had carried in the procession, and with her drawn sword pointed to the stamp of the b.l.o.o.d.y hand.

Her action was well understood by the Poles. What their fathers had done they could do. Her gesture was a tacit incentive to rise, to give battle to the Muscovites, and to sweep them from the cathedral. In silver helm and corselet Katina stood aloft, looking like some fair Amazon of ancient days. With eyes starry with patriotic fire, she waved the standard, and began to sing in a firm, sweet voice that penetrated to the most distant part of the cathedral,--

"Boja ro-dzica dziewica Bojiem wslavisna Marya--"

A wave of emotion thrilled the a.s.sembly as these words fell upon their ears.

"The old Polish battle-hymn!" muttered Zabern. "By G.o.d, there'll be slaughter now."

It was indeed the famous hymn of Saint Adalbert, the anthem accustomed to be sung in old time by the Poles when moving forward to battle, the paean that has struck terror to the heart of Muscovite, Tartar, and Turk in those brave days when Poland was the bulwark of Christendom against the barbarism of the East.

The memory of their past glories fired the blood of every patriot in the cathedral to an enthusiasm bordering on frenzy. Moved by a simultaneous impulse, the whole body of Poles sprang to their feet, drew their swords, and began to join in the refrain; and Katina's voice was immediately drowned in one grand outpouring.

The sparkle of a thousand sword-blades waving in the iridescent light cast by richly stained gla.s.s, the coloring and splendor of dresses and jewels, the magnificent roll of voices beneath the lofty Gothic arches, the notes of the organ pealing high above the chant--for the organist, catching the fire of patriotism, was pressing the keys of his instrument as he had never pressed them before--were sights and sounds that baffle description. Strong men sang with tears in their eyes, and women fainted with emotion.

Now, as previously stated, the Muscovites occupied the northern aisle and its adjacent transept, a narrow s.p.a.ce only separating them from the Poles in the nave. Across this division the two factions glared fiercely at each other; threats were uttered; challenges interchanged; and when the Muscovites in turn began to raise the Russian National Anthem the berserker spirit of the Poles broke forth.

"Down with the Muscovites!"

"Sweep them from the cathedral!"

"The princess forever!"

"No. Duke of Bora!"

Katina herself, skilled in the use of the sword, was the first in the fray, the standard still held in her hand.

"Take to your guard, knouter of women!" she cried, singling out her old enemy, the ex-governor of Orenburg.

Her example found ready imitators, and in a moment more the clash of steel went ringing down the northern aisle.

Half-a-dozen Muscovites, sword in hand, sprang forward, and facing outwards, formed a protecting circle around the person of the duke, who, for his part, stood with folded arms, a pa.s.sive and silent spectator of the wild work that was taking place.

Zabern, desirous of defending Katina, drew his sabre and endeavored to force his way through the two opposing lines to the place where the red-handed banner waved like a rallying beacon above the flashing points of steel.

Barbara rose to her feet and gazed with grief upon a scene, the like of which, though rarely witnessed in modern times within the hallowed interior of a cathedral, was familiar enough in the old Byzantine days when the election of a bishop had often to be decided by an appeal to arms.

She was in the act of bidding Radzivil summon the military to part the combatants, when a sudden and striking apparition rendered the command unnecessary.

"Down with your arms!"

The voice in which these words were uttered rose like thunder above the _melee_, compelling even the two long lines of combatants to pause and turn their eyes towards the speaker. On the edge of the choir, and with hand uplifted, stood a stately figure clothed in a brilliant and imposing uniform, a figure half a head taller at least than the usual height of men, and standing as he did upon the elevated pavement of the choir, his stature seemed more than human.

Though few in the cathedral had ever before seen this personage, yet all recognized in a moment the superb brow, the severe, haughty features, the dark eyes always melancholy, even when the mouth smiled.

"The devil himself at last!" murmured Zabern, a grim joy stealing over his face. "Now have the saints delivered him as a hostage into our hands!"

The stranger's form seemed really to dilate, as, with the voice of one born to command, he again cried,--

"Down with your arms!"

Furious conspirators, advancing to slay, had once been awed and checked by that lofty voice, that majestic presence, which did not fail now to produce a remarkable effect.

"The Czar! the Czar!" cried the Poles.

"The little father! the little father!" cried the Muscovites.

The fighting ceased. The a.s.sailants on each side fell back. Slowly the tumult died away in utter silence. The wounded repressed their groans; for wounded there were; many, too, brief as had been the combat; and one man lay dead upon the pavement, slain by the hand of a woman.

The Czar, for it was in truth the mighty Nicholas, turned his face slowly round upon all sides. The fiercest of the Poles felt compelled to sheathe his blade and to resume his seat as that terrible eye fell upon him. Who durst continue to a.s.sail a Muscovite with the lord of the Muscovites looking on, even though that lord were without a single guard?

It was somewhat mortifying to Barbara's pride that the cessation of the strife should have been caused by the authority of the Czar rather than by her own, since it seemed to place him upon a higher plane than herself. Clearly he had prevented a ma.s.sacre of her Muscovite subjects, and thus far thanks were due to him. But Barbara was in no mood to offer courtesies to one who had always shown himself a bitter enemy. The very authority now a.s.sumed by him was an infringement of her own, and put her instantly upon her mettle.

Among the combatants there was one at least who retained an undaunted mien, namely, Katina. She advanced towards the choir, wiping her reddened blade upon the silken standard, which during the fray had become detached from the staff.

At the edge of the choir Katina knelt.

"Seek not pardon of me," exclaimed the Czar loftily, mistaking her purpose. "You who commenced the fray, you who have slain one of my own subjects!"

"The stars shall fall from heaven ere Katina Ludovska craves pardon of Nicholas Paulovitch," scornfully replied the Polish maiden, ever mindful of the fact that the warrant condemning her to receive the knout was signed with this same name, Nicholas Paulovitch. "Your Highness," she continued, still on her knees, and addressing Barbara, "if through zeal I have wrought amiss in slaying one who traduced the fair name of my princess, of you alone I crave pardon."

"If the name of him whom you have slain be Feodor Orloff," said Barbara, "then have you done a good deed, and you need ask pardon of none."