It was not an easy thing to travel in Poland in the time of the revolution. The country was scoured by bands of Cossacks, and battalions of regular troops inundated the cities and villages, took possession of any place they fancied with impunity, and committed all kinds of excesses. In the ravaged fields the unfortunate farmers beheld both their friends and enemies tear from them the nourishment of their wives and children.

Mordko brought Jacob safely by a circuitous route to the post station, whence a carriage took him to the village where Jankiel dwelt.

Here he learned that the two Davids were absent. The elder lived in Warsaw, under the protection of the Russian governor, and the younger took some part in the insurrection, and had acquired the name of an ardent patriot.

Jacob surprised Jankiel, all alone, bent over a large book. He saw how suffering had emaciated the old man, who, not divining who his visitor was, did not raise his head, but signed with his hand that he wished to finish his pious meditation. At the end of a few moments he closed his book, and recognizing Jacob, received him with great cordiality.

"Do you bring me bad news?" he asked.

"No, I will tell you all frankly. I have been threatened with arrest; for what, I know not. I have been advised to absent myself, and I come to you to shelter me a little while from the storm."

"The storm is still far from its end. The clouds thicken; but come what will I receive you with all my heart, and my house is at your service."

"I am at present at the hotel."

Jankiel rose, went to the door, and called by name a Jew who was passing, and who came running to him.

"Go and get this gentleman's luggage at the hotel, and bring it to the chamber opposite mine.

"I will not permit you to dwell away from me," said he. "There is in this village a regiment of soldiers, who search every traveller. You will be safe here. But much as I desire your company, and you know how welcome you are, yet believe me it will be better for you to leave this place. There will soon be trouble here. The Russians are letting the revolution grow, so as to have a greater chance for pillage. I have been through all this before, in 1809, 1812, and 1831. What the result will be now, God only knows; but I fear the worst."

After a moment of silence and visible embarrassment, he added:--

"My wife is ill, my daughter is ill, and our house is in mourning. Only the holy books help me to bear my sorrow. Those people," he pointed to the house of the Davids, "are gone. One to the city, the other, it is said, to the insurgents. I do not congratulate them on the acquisition. Unhappy is the cause which is upheld by impure men!"

Jankiel and Jacob were reading, when suddenly there was heard in the silent street the sound of horses galloping over the uneven pavement. From the window they saw in the square below a group of Cossacks and several carts. There were savage cries, and then, in a vibrating voice, came an order for silence from the commander.

Jankiel sent out for information. A detachment of Russian soldiers, the advance guard of several regiments, escorted a chief of the rebels taken in a bloody combat, wounded and dying. The straw bed on the cart where the man lay was soaked with blood, and yet, if alive, he would be hung on the morrow! Such was the story told by the soldiers, who soon spread themselves through the dwellings of the village.

Jankiel foresaw that some of the officers would be quartered upon him, and, fearing what might follow, went to hide his daughter in her mother's room. He disposed of his money in secret places, known only to himself, keeping in his pocket a sufficient sum for urgent necessities. The precious vessels had already been carefully put in a place of safety. With perfect presence of mind he warned the servants to say that Jacob was his son-in-law, and then seated himself quietly to await events. The village was full of soldiers, who received orders to form a camp in the market square. The officers alone installed themselves in the private houses, and the night was advanced when the colonel of the regiment arrived at Jankiel's dwelling.

He was not a barbarous-looking man; his manner and bearing were those of a cultured person. Notwithstanding, the man was not necessarily a gentleman. For in the Russian army, as in Russian society, superficial culture often covers the most base corruption. Men who are charming in the drawing-room are often cruel and brutal in the exercise of authority, as if they wished to make up to themselves for the restraint placed on them by the requirements of society. The colonel bore a German name, Tendemann; his extraction was a mystery to every one, and perhaps to himself.

He was pale, excited, and angry; the reason for which was the responsibility which rested on his shoulders. He was no longer a man; he was a Russian in the full sense of the word. He entered without saluting any one, and without informing the proprietor. All he thought of was to lodge comfortably. At the door of his sick wife's room Jankiel barred the way respectfully, and said:--

"This is my wife's room, who is sick in bed."

The colonel, without noticing the old man, opened the door, examined the place indicated, looked into the next room, and then descended in silence to the lower floor. There he stopped, and said that he would stay for the night. His men soon spread themselves over the house, demanding loudly a samovar, a fire, candles, and hot water. In a spacious chamber several officers were engaged in boisterous conversation; from above it sounded like the noise of a storm accompanied by peals of thunder.

Jankiel and Jacob were seated alone, watchful and anxious. Information gathered from the servants verified the first reports. A Russian detachment, sent in the pursuit of a troop of insurgents, had surprised them in the middle of the night, surrounded and captured them. The Poles defended themselves with their usual heroism, but they lacked ammunition, and they were soon beaten. Their young chief fought valiantly until he fell grievously wounded. It was this hero whom they were taking to be hanged, a proof of his distinction, for the other officers who were captured had been simply shot on the spot. The colonel of the detachment watched this prisoner with great care, that he might not escape the scaffold, and ordered him placed in a neighbouring house under a strong guard,--an unnecessary precaution, for the unfortunate could not move and his case was a desperate one. His name the Russian soldiers mutilated after their fashion. Like most of the revolutionary chiefs, he went under one that was assumed.

The sufferings of the unknown, for whom a scaffold was being erected on the market-place, moved Jacob's sympathies strongly. If he could not serve him, he believed it his duty to at least console him. He communicated his desires to Jankiel.

"The thing seems very difficult to me," replied the old man; "but I will try and see him. After all, I do not risk much at my age."

Then Jankiel put on his long black coat, took his czapka, descended the staircase, and begged the guard at the door to announce him to the colonel.

The latter was lying on the sofa, his legs stretched out, with a cigar in his mouth, when Jankiel entered and stood respectfully at the door.

"What do you want?" asked the colonel brusquely.

"I wish to know if your lordship lacks anything."

"If I wanted anything in the house, I would take it without your permission. These are times of war."

"Certainly."

"What do they think here of the rebels?"

"Nothing, that I know of."

"Have they passed by here?"

"No."

"You all reply the same way, for you are at heart their friends. Jewish dogs!"

"We have always been loyal to our sovereign."

"And why, then, do you not chase the insurgents, and give them up to the authorities?"

"That would not be natural for Jews. We are peaceful men and have a horror of war."

The colonel rose and walked up and down the room. Jankiel bowed low, and said to him in a low voice:--

"Your lordship knows, perhaps, that, following a custom of our religion, when a man is sentenced to death, it is the duty of the Jews where the execution takes place to offer a repast to the condemned."

"What is that you are saying? The custom of which you speak no longer exists. You have invented it. Why do you wish to see the prisoner, and how dare you lie to me?"

The custom did not really exist; Jankiel had imagined it in pious thought, but how could Colonel Tendemann know about it? That is what the Jew asked himself, fixing a scrutinizing glance on the officer.

"Why do you look at me thus? What do you mean?" cried the colonel.

"It is admiration, for your lordship must be deeply learned to know what the Talmud does and does not contain. You have then, no doubt, read that which the rabbin Ichochuah said of prisoners."

The colonel, pale and trembling, listened to the old man. There seemed to be a struggle going on within him; his lips trembled, and a mist came over his eyes; the voice of Jankiel made a strange impression on him. He tried to force himself to be cruel, but in vain,--an invincible sentiment held him. The old man remarked this emotion, but did not know how to interpret it.

After a short silence the colonel wiped his forehead, and said in an angry tone:--

"Why do you remain here? What are you waiting for? Go away! Go away! Do not think of the condemned. His hours are numbered."

"May your lordship"--

"Go away before I do something to you!" cried he. At the same time he approached the Jew, and whispered in his ear in German:--

"Go away. I will come to you soon."

In the German pronunciation of the colonel, as well as in his features, there was a barely perceptible trace of Jewish origin. But why suppose this Russian officer to be a child of Israel? Jankiel refused to admit the thought. Nevertheless, he could not forget it, and was thinking of it when he entered the room. He said nothing to Jacob, who went to his chamber, a prey to the deepest anxiety.

About a half-hour later a step was heard on the stairs. The Muscovite entered, his face as white as snow. He glanced eagerly around the room, the Jewish character of which seemed to fascinate him; books, inscriptions, portraits of rabbins, all attracted his attention. He held out his hand to Jankiel, and said to him:--

"Salem alekem."

"Alekem salem," replied the old man, amazed.

No more explanation was needed. Without doubt the colonel was a Jew. His father, or he himself, in order to enter the service of the government, had adopted the orthodox Greek faith. Nevertheless, the fire of the belief of his ancestors and of his repudiated race burned beneath the ashes.

The colonel seated himself. Jankiel observed him thoughtfully.

The Russian's figure trembled with the remorse of apostasy. He was one of those numerous Jews who have adopted the belief, the customs, and the prejudices of the country in which they live, but have, in spite of themselves, often after several generations, irresistible longings for the faith of their fathers.

By a sign he indicated to Jankiel the sacred word inscribed on the door, and, approaching with veneration an open volume of the Talmud, turned the leaves respectfully. For many years he had not come in contact with the Hebrew characters and the language of the commandments, but he remembered the days of his childhood, when his father taught him secretly to read that language which had come upon earth from the mouth of God. At first he could hardly read the letters, but little by little light dawned upon him, and with intense delight he read on, oblivious to all around him; the day's combat, the tragedy of the morrow, his military rank, Russia, his Czar, and the entire world were all forgotten.

His eyes, unused to weep, were full of tears, of regret or of consolation it would have been difficult to say which; probably the two sentiments were united.

By chance his eyes fell upon this prayer for the dead:--

"God of mercy, deign to remember the men who have been more swift than the eagles and stronger than the lions in the accomplishment of thy holy will, and do not forget to show thy vengeance on those who have shed the blood of thy servants."

Jankiel contemplated with emotion that which seemed to him a miracle. The colonel, after reading for some time, seemed overcome, and leaned back in his chair. His host said to him gently:--

"God will be merciful to those who repent."

"I do not know," answered the servant of the Czar, "which I ought to regret more,--what I have been, or what I am; but is it my own fault that I am a renegade? My father chose for himself and for me. I belong to-day to an alien race. I weep when I remember Israel, until a wild madness possesses my spirit; then I tremble lest they may recognize under his new skin the cursed Jew. I tremble for fear I may betray myself by pitying a brother Jew. My children do not know that the blood of Jewish rabbis flows in their veins. Ah, may they never know that they are the children of a traitor, of an apostate!"

"Brother," said Jankiel, hastening to take advantage of his softened mood, "what are you going to do with the prisoner?"

"Do not speak of him. He is condemned by superior orders. To-morrow will be his last day on earth. I am sorry, but I can do nothing."

"It is a pity. Perhaps he has a mother, a sister, or a wife. I wish I could be permitted to see him."

"What is he to you? What have we Jews in common with the Poles? Have you forgotten their conduct toward our people?"

"I do not forget that we are born on the same soil," said the old man. "And our immortal lawgiver orders us to raise the burden from the weary beast. Should we have less compassion for a man, even if he were a pagan?"

"I am under the surveillance of a thousand evil eyes. You can, however, buy my soldiers with brandy or money. For money these wretches would sell their own father and mother. And then you may do what you can for the unfortunate man."

"You will permit it? I will send my kinsman in my place. He will be safe, will he not?"

"I permit nothing. I will shut my eyes, and I wish to know nothing of it."

Jankiel left the colonel for a moment to tell Jacob, and found him dressed ready for any emergency. He had already arranged a plan with an old Jew named Herszko, nicknamed the MadrÉ. He put on his old clothes, with two bottles of rum in his pockets, and they went out on the street. The hour was late, the soldiers snored, and the sentinel walked slowly on his beat. Before the house where the prisoner was shut up an under officer watched, seated on a bench. He cursed and swore between his teeth. Fortunately, he was a confirmed drunkard, by name FÉdor Michailovitch Chelmenko. As soon as he saw the two Jews in the distance he immediately thought that this might bring him a rouble, or at least a glass of brandy.

"Good-evening, officer," said the MadrÉ; he saw that this was only an underling, but gave him the full title, hoping thereby to tickle his vanity.

"Pass thy way, Jew!" cried Chelmenko.

"You must be weary, seated on this bench."

"Certainly it is not very pleasant."

"Then why do you remain here?"

"What is that to you?"

"Excuse me, mere curiosity."

Herszko mischievously showed the neck of the bottle as if it were about to leap out of his pocket; Chelmenko saw it; the very sight of it made his mouth water.

"Let me taste it, miscreant," cried he.

"You guess what it is? No? Well, it is the genuine Jamaica rum, worth a rouble and a half a bottle."

"Let me see, quick!"

MadrÉ handed him the bottle; the officer put it to his lips and swallowed some of the rum with great enjoyment, then said:--

"Now tell me what this means?"

"Officer," answered the old man, "my companion is a Jew, as well as myself. We have heard, but perhaps we are misinformed, that your prisoner is called BaÏkowski; if so, he owes a large sum of money to my companion, who wishes to see him, and get his money, if possible."

"Rebels, rascals, knaves, get out of here! Don't you know that no one can see the prisoner? It is strictly forbidden."

Without hesitation MadrÉ deposited on the bench the other bottle, and beside it three roubles.

"No one. I cannot let any one enter," murmured the Muscovite; then after a moment of reflection he added:--

"Follow me."

"Not I, but my companion," said the old man.

"Which you like. It is nothing to me."

Chelmenko, already tipsy, conducted Jacob to a door which he opened with a key. He pushed him into the room and shut the door after him.

The dark apartment was lighted by a single tallow candle, which hung in a lantern suspended from the ceiling. By this uncertain light Jacob saw stretched on a straw pallet in the corner a human form with one arm extended. From the breast of the man came deep and broken respiration like that of the dying.

The condemned made an effort to carry his hand to his wounded leg, but he fell back heavily with a sharp cry. His head was a little raised, and by the ray of light which fell on his face, Jacob, with a great cry of sorrow, recognized Ivas.

With disordered hair, foaming mouth, and wild eyes, the young man raved:--

"I am ready. March! A ball in my leg! No matter! Down with the Muscovites! Let us attack them!"

Then silence.

"Ivas! Ivas!" cried Jacob. "Don't you know me?" The sick man turned, his eyes toward him.

"You? Who are you?" said he. "Pole or Russian? A spy, perhaps. Yet that voice! Aqua Sola! Lucie Coloni! Paris--the boulevards! Who are you?"

"Jacob, your friend Jacob."

"Ah! Jacob the patriarch. Are you also a rebel? Oh, my leg, my leg! It is terrible!"

"Ivas, try to collect your thoughts," said Jacob. "Perhaps I can be useful to you."

"Certainly! More arms, more ammunition. Give them to me!"

"My brother, you are wounded; a prisoner condemned."

"Ah, yes! I remember. We were concealed in the forest. Beaten! Wounded! How dark it is here! Is it a hospital or a tomb? Can they not at least bury me decently?"

"Have you any wish to have carried out, anything to confide in me?" asked Jacob.

"The Cossack told me that I would be hanged to-morrow. No matter! I will return to the world in the form of a mad dog to murder them. Towianski teaches the transmigration of souls. He is right. If there is a God, where is he? Is he afraid of the Russians?"

"Ivas," repeated Jacob, "rouse yourself, and tell me if you have any last instructions to give me."

"Liberty or death! Have they all perished? The scaffold awaits me. A cord of hemp. After that, nothing! It will hurt my throat, like strong tobacco. Were you ever hanged, my Jacob? No? Who knows; perhaps you were, under another form, according to Towianski. It will, I think, be the first time for me. I haven't the least idea of the thing, but I will be calm; I am no coward."

"Ivas, have you any relations, any friends? tell me."

"None! My mother died a long time ago. There is no cross over her grave. She was too poor; I was a little boy. With pebbles I designed a cross. My father? I have never seen him. Other relations? They turned the cold shoulder to me because I was poor. My will? Behold it. To arms!"

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing," replied Ivas, who had somewhat regained his mind. "Nothing. I have no one in the world. Ah, yes! there is some one. You remember that old house that I showed you one day in Warsaw? On the fourth floor lives Marion, sad and thoughtful. She is a laundress, but in her former life she was, I am sure, a queen. But she has forgotten it. I think she loves me. Tell her that I thought of her when dying. She made me two shirts for the journey. Her hands are large and red, but she has the heart of an angel. Or, rather, tell her nothing. That will be better. She will forget me, and console herself with a Russian officer. The poor girl!"

"Ivas," said Jacob, "my time here is short, we shall never meet again. Be calm, and think if there is anything you wish me to do."

"I ask you to avenge me. How hot I am! Ah! Ah! An immense cemetery. They dance. The earth is freshly broken up at the sound of a violin. Some bears are dancing. The good God is looking at them from heaven through a little skylight. He strokes his mustache, and marks the measure."

"Ivas," cried Jacob, "be calm, I beg of you."

"Yes, I remember there were millions. We were a handful, and they attacked us, but we fought them. We did our duty! All dead! Requiescant! Is this death? Provided my soul does not enter into the body of a Muscovite, I do not care."

Jacob tried, without success, to make Ivas realize his situation. As soon as the dying man became more conscious, the pain of his wound was so extreme that, to prevent himself from crying aloud, he buried his head in the straw; then the delirium returned. It was a heartrending spectacle.

"Do you wish a priest?" asked the Jew.

"A priest? There was one in our band. Brave frater! A ball in his head, he is dead. A priest for me? What good? I have not confessed since my mother was no longer here to make me kneel and pray. A priest! I want none. It would do no good, for God has gone on a visit to St. Petersburg, and no one knows when he will return. They do not confess the dead, and I am already dead, although I can still speak."

Then he continued his raving.

"Do you think they could have taken me alive? Never! Tell Marion that I had one of the shirts on, and the handkerchief around my neck, and also the medal of Notre Dame de Czestokowa, but the mother of God did not aid me! They have killed me!"

Jacob tried to revive him with some cologne that he had in a little flask. He bathed his forehead and temples, and poured several drops in his mouth; but it was useless.

"You perfume me," said the poor boy. "I smell it. I cannot go to the ball, I cannot dance."

He grew worse and his ravings continued. Snatches of songs, military commands, fragments of prayers and oaths, were all mingled together in an unintelligible manner.

Jacob was kneeling, holding the burning head of his friend, when suddenly some one struck his shoulder. It was the officer.

"Enough of this! Get up and come away!" said he.

"Dear Ivas," cried Jacob, without paying attention to the man; "one word more, dear Ivas, your last word!"

The condemned raised himself, threw his arms around his friend's neck, and with an expression full of love and enthusiasm, cried:--

"My country!"

Then he fell back weeping and laughing at the same time. The delirium had returned. The officer took Jacob by the shoulder and forced him out of the room.

MadrÉ awaited him, and before he let them depart the officer extorted a present.

Before retiring, Jacob knocked at Jankiel's door.

"Have you seen the poor man?" asked his host.

"Yes."

Then he detailed the interview with Ivas which terminated with the thrilling words, "My country!"

During this sad recital, in the silence of the night they could hear, on the square below, the blows of a hammer. It was the gibbet of the young patriot which they were finishing in the centre of the marketplace. They passed the rest of the night in prayer.

Ivas died before daybreak, and as they were unable to execute him living, they hanged his dead body. The Russians having thus proclaimed their victory quitted the village, leaving their souvenir of terrorism.