King Stakh's Wild Hunt

Chapter The Third

The first thing that I did the following day was to break down the board from the door that was fastened with nails and in which the Little Man, if he were a being of flesh and blood, could have hidden himself. The nails were rusty, panels on the door were whole and a layer of dust three fingers deep covered the room. No one could have hidden himself there and I nailed the door up again. Then I examined all rooms in the other wing and was convinced that no one could have hidden himself there either. Above the corridor where I had heard steps, there was an attic in which there were no traces of any footsteps either. To the right there was a door into my room and the room of the mistress of the house, behind which there was a blank wall and behind that the park.

My head was in a whirl from all this. Could it possibly be that something supernatural really existed in the world? I, a confirmed atheist, could never accept that.

I decided to go to the library and find out finally whatever this Wild Hunt was, about which it was inconvenient for me to question the mistress of the house. Incidentally, I had hopes of finding some old plan of the house there, and to be able afterwards to begin making a methodical search. I knew sometimes special mechanisms were built into the walls of old castles, so-called “listeners-in”, that is, secret gaps. In them “voices” — specially-shaped pitchers — were usually bricked up to amplify sounds. Thanks to them, the master of the house being at one end of the house, could distinctly hear what his guests or servants were saying at the other end.

Perhaps something of the kind was to be found here, too. Some servant or other walked about at night on the ground floor, and his steps resounded up above. It was a faint hope, but truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.

And I made my way to the library which was between the ground and first floors in a separate wing.

Seldom had I seen such neglected rooms. The parquet was broken here and there, the enormous windows were covered with dust, the chandeliers hanging from the ceilings were in dusty covers. This was, perhaps, the most ancient part of the house, around which the castle later arose. This thought struck me when I saw a strange room just in front of the library. And here, too, there was a fireplace, but such an enormous one, that an aurochs could have been roasted in it, and nests for the spits even remained in its walls. The windows were small, made of stained glass, the walls were crudely plastered, the ceiling was crossed by heavy, square, carved beams covered with smoke. And on the walls hung crude old weapons.

In a word, this was a room of “the good old times” when the masters of the house (the Polish landowners) together with their serfs gathered together in one room and sat beside the fire. The women of the household and the servants spun, the master played dice or the game “Twelve Fingers” with the boys. Oh! Those idyllic old times!

Forgive me, my dear readers, that I cannot omit describing even a single room. It can't be helped, in his old age a man becomes garrulous. And in addition, you have never seen and never will see anything the like of this, and perhaps it will be interesting to somebody.

The library was in the same style as the entrance hall. High arches, columned windows, armchairs covered with leather now turned brown with age, enormous closets of morain oak and books, books, and books.

Well, how can I pass them by without saying at least a few words! My heart stops beating at these memories. Ancient parchment books, books made of the first porous paper, books in which the paper had become yellow with time, paper smooth and glossy. Books of the 17th century which you can immediately recognize by their leather bindings. The red leather of the bindings of the 18th century; the wooden boards, bound with thin black leather, that covered the books of the 16th century.

And the titles, my God, what titles: “The Royal Roussian Catechism”, “An Authentic Chronicle of the Life of Jan Zbaroŭski”, “Varlaam the Indian”, “A Parable about Fame”, old “Six-Day” manuscripts,[2] collections of ancient legends, “Gesta Romanorum” consisting of 200 stories, “Trishchan and Izota”, the Belarusian variant of “Bova”, “Apephegma”, “Speech of Mialeška”. A treasure-house! And there were newer books written in a mannered style, with long titles, such as “Cupid Contrives, or One Thousand Ways and Means an Adoring Lover Can Apply to Make His Beloved Consent to Love's Greed”.

However, quite enough, for otherwise I risk never finishing my description. I was so carried away by the books that I did not immediately notice there was another person in the room. But he, in the meantime, got up from his armchair and was expectantly looking at me. On his lips a pleasant smile, in his eyes a kind smile. With one hand on his belly he was timidly holding together the sides of his house-coat. We introduced ourselves:

“Andrej Biełarecki.”

“Ihnaś Bierman-Hacevič, the estate-manager,” his voice quiet and affable.

We seated ourselves. I looked at this man with great interest. What was it that held him in this awful place, this Marsh Firs? Money? But there wasn't any. And he, as if anxious to answer my thoughts, said:

“Look what books there are here. Because of them I am living here. I am a book-lover”

The book-lover was a small man and was badly built. His face, soft, gentle, too gentle for a man of 35, looked so lifeless, so much like a porcelain doll that it was startling. And in all respects he was too “doll-like”. Large grey eyes, long eyelashes, a straight little nose, pleasantly-formed lips. Like a little shepherd on a snuff-box… And his beard hardly grew, as was the case with many Belarusians living in unhealthy marshland.

“You are from the northern parts of Greater Miensk, aren't you?” I asked.

“Oh, the gentleman is not mistaken, yes,” he answered. “Previously I lived in a provincial city, but now here.”

Were I asked which trait stood out most of all in this little man, I should say “old-fashioned gallantry”. He was extremely well-bred, this little doll-like man, bred in the spirit of that provincial gallantry of the gentry, a gallantry that makes us laugh. When you look at such people, it seems that the children of their families, playing at hide-and-seek, hid themselves under the woollen, six-pieced skirts of their grannies, grannies who knitted stockings or darned new socks so that they should not wear through so quickly.

This impression, however, soon vanished. Something of cruelty and puritanical stand-offishness was in his eyes, in his pursed lips. But the man that he was, that could not be taken away from him. He was a real connoisseur of books. That I understood in about twenty minutes. And moreover, I became convinced that this self-taught man knew ancient literature no worse than I, a man with a university education.

Therefore I directed our conversation towards the subject of the “Wild Hunt”.

“Why does this subject interest you?”

“I am an ethnographer.”

“Oh, then, of course. However, I doubt whether my modest person can tell you about that in a way required by so lofty a guest. Perhaps better to allow the yellowed pages of the books to do that. The gentleman understands the literary language of the 17th century, doesn't he?”

With an artistic movement of his fingers (they were thin, twice as long as normal ones) he opened one of the bookcases.

And here now on my knees is an enormous volume written in a calligraphic hand in small letters turned brown with age: “The year one thousand six hundred and one knew no peace on this land. Judge Bałvanovič has only just now investigated the murder — the ferocious murder — of His Worship Januk Babajed, committed by his serfs. And in other places, too, there was no peace. The cudgel came to the city of Viciebsk, to Kryčaŭ and Mścisłaŭ, and here the serfs brought death and murder and savagery. Fourteen landowners were killed, and it was said that three more were beaten so hard that it was uncertain whether they would live.”

But it is probably too long-winded to copy this in full. Therefore I shall relate the contents of this legend in a simple way:

In those days it was not only the serfs who rebelled. The ancient Belarusian gentry, deeply offended by the new order, also rebelled. In the vicinity of Marsh Firs the situation was particularly restless. Here, in the Chadanoŭskaja virgin forest, sat the lame Father Jaraš Štamiet who supported the high-born Belarusian landowher Stach Horski, a relative through his ancestors of the Vilnia Prince Alexander. This proud young man had but one aim: to achieve independence. He had everything on his side: the royal blood which flowed in his veins, which was very important then, the support of the Greek Orthodox Church believers and the “Forest Brethren”, the talent of a warrior, and what was most important — the awful poverty, the hopeless situation of the peasantry. The young leader was already called King throughout the entire region.

He gathered his forces in the meantime, and with great diplomacy clouded the heads of the representatives of the State Power. According to the manuscript his forces already consisted of 8,000 horsemen who were hiding partly in the virgin forest, and partly in his castle.

In the late autumn of 1602 all was finally ready. In the surrounding churches the peasants took the oath of allegiance to King Stach, and with an unexpected stroke he seized the strongest castle in the district. They were only awaiting Jaraš Štamiet with his followers, and since the army was strong, and the King decisive and resolute, a bright new page might have been written in the history of Belarus.

Raman Janoŭski, a powerful magnate, the owner of Marsh Firs, was the only one who was not enthusiastic about King Stach. The King suspected that Raman had entered into reprehensible relations with the Lithuanian hetman[3] and even with the Roman Church. He warned Janoŭski that that would end badly for him. Janoŭski assured him of his respect and devotion and King Stach believed him. He mixed his blood and Raman's in a goblet, and then both parties drank it. Stach presented Raman with a silver dish.

It is unknown what had compelled Raman to decide on the following move. We know, however, that he was a friend of the lawful King. He invited King Stach to go hunting with him, and the King came to him with his hunters, a group of 20 men. Shtamet was to appear at the castle the following day and there was plenty of time. The King decided to make a short delay as the object of their hunt was a very tempting animal: the marsh lynx which reminded one in size and colour of a tiger, and which at that time was already rare in our virgin forests, and afterwards entirely disappeared.

What Raman had planned was black treachery. Wouldn't God have blessed King Stach's reign if he had seized the throne of his ancestors, even though he was a mužyk king, even though he had rebelled against the lording sovereigns?

King Stach arrived at Marsh Firs, and in his honour the castle was decorated with lights and feasting began. And he drank and made merry with the landowner, Raman, and the other landowners, and of these gentlemen there were, perhaps, a hundred and thirty. And at night they rode off on the hunt, since the nights were bright, and on such nights the marsh lynx leaves its bushy haunts and walks about the plain from Marsh Firs to the Kurhany and Pniuchi groves and catches not only cattle but also solitary wayfarers.

And that is why everybody hates the marsh lynx and kills it. The wolf will pass by, and the forest lynx will more often turn away, while the marsh lynx does not — he is a man-eater.

And so all the guests left, and Raman left to hunt the marsh lynx together with the King's hunt and his faithful old friend, Alachno Varona, his beater-in, and with Dubatoŭk of the petty Polish gentry. And the night turned out to be one in which the moon barely shone and hardly anything was visible, and although it was autumn, blue marsh lights were skipping about in the swamps.

And people extinguished the lights in their dwellings, and, perhaps, even God, moved by his indescribable wisdom, extinguished the lights in some human souls, too. And Raman and King Stach lagged behind their beaters-in.

They had hardly taken a look around, when a marsh lynx sprang out from the bushes, knocked down Raman's horse, and tore out a piece of the horse's stomach together with his intestines, for such is this animal's habit. And Raman fell, and he felt mortal terror, for the animal, that was wider and longer than himself, looked at him with fiery eyes.

At this moment Stach jumped down from his daredevil horse straight onto the animal's back, grabbed it by the ear, tore its snout from Raman, who was lying on the ground, and with his short sword slashed at its throat. The lynx shook Stach off with its paw and pounced hard on him, but at this moment Raman jumped down and broke the skull of the man-eater with his fighting calk. And so the three of them lay there, and Raman helped the King to stand up, and said:

“We are quits, my friend. You saved my life, and I your heart.”

And then the hunters met them and decided to spend the night in the forest and drink again and make merry, for their souls and their hearts had not yet had enough food and drink after the struggle with the lynx, and they asked for wine. They made a camp-fire in the forest and began to drink. It was so dark when the moon disappeared, that on making a step from the fire you could not see the fingers on your hand. They took the barrel of wine that Raman had brought and they drank and made merry. Nobody knew that the wine was poisoned, except Raman, Varona and Dubatoŭk, who had beforehand accustomed themselves to this poison.

Everybody drank, only King Stach drank little.

Just a moment, Raman. What are you doing, Raman? This man wanted to give up his life for his country. Do you then wish to exchange God's plans for your own? You regret your supremacy, but have you thought that the will of your people is being trampled on, that their language and faith and their souls are being trampled on? You are not thinking of this, your heart is filled with envy and pride.

And they continued drinking until King Stach's hunters could hardly keep their eyes open. But the King kept on talking, saying how happy he would make everybody when he took his seat on the throne of his forefathers.

And then the Polish landowner, Raman, took his lunge, holding it by the handle with both hands, come up to King Stach from behind, threw the lunge over his head, and lowered the lunge with its sharp end onto the back of King Stach's head. The drowsy King lifted his head, looked into Raman's eyes, and his face running with blood was like a terrible wail to God for vengeance.

“But what have you done? We are brothers, aren't we?” And attempting to rise, he shouted:

“Why have you sold your people, apostate? You have deprived many people of their happiness now.”

Raman struck him with his sword a second time, and Stach fell, but he had not yet lost the gift of speech:

“Now beware, you traitor! My curse on you and your evil kin! May the bread in your mouth turn to stone, may your wives remain childless, and your husbands choke in their own blood!”

And then, his voice weakening, he said cruelly:

“You've betrayed your land, my former brother! But we shall not die. We'll yet come to you and to your children, and to their heirs, my hunters and I. Unto the twelfth generation will we take revenge ruthlessly, nor shall you hide from us. You hear? Unto the twelfth generation! And each generation shall tremble with greater pain and more terribly than I now at your feet.”

And he dropped his head. And his hunters dumb until now, at last came to, and snatched up their knives. And they fought twenty against three, and the battle was a fearful one. But the three conquered the twenty and killed them.

And afterwards they strapped the corpses and the wounded, who were pitifully groaning, to their saddles and drove off the horses, and the horses hastened off in a straight line to the Giant's Gap.

But nobody had noticed that there was a spark of life yet in King Stach's body. The horses flew on into the night, and a faint moon lit up their long manes, and somewhere ahead of them blue lights skipped about among the mounds.

And from this wild herd came King Stach's voice:

“To the devil with my soul, if God doesn't help. Hold Raman! Our horsemen are coming at a gallop to you! Tremble, Raman, and shiver, our eternal enemy. We shall come! We shall avenge!”

And nobody knew that these words were true words, that King Stach had become a weapon in the hands of the devil for revenge and punishment. No murder whatever deserves such vengeance as fratricide.

Not long was their stay on this earth. The beater-in, Varona, was the first to see the ghosts of Stach and his followers within two weeks. The Wild Hunt raced on heedlessly, onward it flew across the most terrible quagmire, across the forest, across the rivers.

No tinkling of bits, no ringing of swords. Silent were the horsemen on their horses, and ahead of the phantom King Stach's Wild Hunt were the swamp lights skipping across the quagmire.

Varona went mad. And Dubatoŭk perished afterwards. The Lithuanian hetman dispersed peasant armies who were left without a leader; Jaraš Štamiet was killed in battle. But Raman Janoŭski was alive and laughed.

But once after hunting, he was returning home alone through the heather wasteland, the moon hardly lighting the way for him. Suddenly from somewhere behind him the marsh lights came skipping. And the sound of bugles reached him, and the stamping of hoofs which was heard but faintly. Later, vague apparitions of horsemen were seen. The horses' manes waved with the wind, an unleashed cheetah ran ahead of the phantom Wild Hunt. And noiseless was their flight across the heather and the quagmire. And silent were the horsemen, while the hunting sounds came flying from somewhere on the other side. And ahead of all, dimly lit by the moon, galloped the enormous King Stach. And brightly burned the eyes of the horses, the people and the cheetah.

And Raman raced on, and they silently and quickly flew after him; the horses sometimes pawed the ground in their flight, and the wild heather sang, and the moon looked at the chase with indifference.

And Raman did thrice shout: “The Wild Hunt!” So loud his voice that he was heard by people even in distant huts. And then the Wild Hunt caught up with him, and his heart failed him. That is how Raman perished.

From that time on many people saw King Stach's Wild Hunt in the peat-bogs. And although this Wild Hunt penalized not everybody, there were few people whose hearts did not fail them when they saw the dark shadows of the horsemen in the swamps.

In this way did Raman's son and the son of his son perish, after whose death I am writing about this for the sake of science and to frighten his descendants who, perhaps, by doing good deeds could deprive the ancient curse of its power over them.

People, beware of the quagmire, beware of the swamps at night, when the blue lights gather and begin dancing in the worst places. There you will see 20 horsemen, their chief racing ahead of all of them, the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes. No clanging of swords, no neighing of horses.

From somewhere, and only rarely, can be heard the song of a huntsman's bugle. Manes are flying, marsh lights are twinkling under the horses' hoofs.

Across the heather, across the fatal quagmire rides the Wild Hunt, it will ride as long as the world lasts. It is our land, a land we do not love, a terrible land. May God forgive us!..

I tore myself away from the papers and shook my head, desiring to rid myself of the wild images. Bierman looked at me biding his time.

“Well, I beg your pardon, but what does the gentleman think of this?”

“What an awful, a beautiful and fantastic legend!” I exclaimed. “It just begs for the brush of a great artist. There is nothing one's imagination cannot invent!”

“Oh! If this were, I beg your pardon, but a legend… You must know I am a free-thinker, an atheist, as is every person who lives in the spirit of our highly-educated age. But I believe in King Stach's Wild Hunt. And, indeed, it would be strange not to believe in it. It is due to the Wild Hunt that Raman's descendants have perished and the Janoŭski family has almost become extinct.”

“Listen,” I said, “I have already said this to one person, and now I shall say it to you. I can be carried away by an old legend, but what can make me believe it? Raman's descendants were killed by The Hunt 200 years ago. In those days the Mahiloŭ Chronicle seriously claimed that before the war there appeared on the Mahiloŭ stone walls (which a man cannot climb) bloody imprints left by the palms of hands.”

“Yes, I remember that,” the book-lover answered. “And a number of other examples might be given, but they…m-m… are somewhat frivolous. Our ancestors were such crude people.”

“So you see,” I said reproachfully. “And you believe in this Hunt.”

The doll-like man, it seemed to me, hesitated somewhat.

“Well, and what would you say, Honourable Sir, were I to declare that I had seen it?”

“A fable,” I cut him off harshly, “and aren't you ashamed of yourself to frighten a woman with such reports?”

“They are not fables,” Bierman turned pink, “this is serious. Not everyone can be a hero, and I, honestly speaking, am afraid. Now I do not even eat at the same table with the mistress, because King Stach's anger falls also on such as she. You remember, don't you? In the manuscripts?…”

“And how did you see the Wild Hunt?”

“As it is described here in the book. I was at Dubatoŭk's, a neighbour of the Janoŭskis. By the way, a descendant of that Dubatoŭk, and was returning home from his house. I was walking along the heather wasteland just past the enormous pile of boulders. And the night was rather bright. I didn't hear them appear! They rushed past me directly across the quagmire. Oh! It was frightening!”

A turbid look of confusion flashed in his eyes. And I thought that in this house, and probably, in the entire plain there was something wrong with the brains of the people.

“Isn't there at least one normal person here? Or all of them are mad?” I thought.

“Most important was that they tore along noiselessly. The horses, you must know, of such an ancient breed, they are nowhere to be found today for love or money — they are extinct now: genuine Paleśsie “drygants” with their tendons cut at the tails. The manes waved with the wind, their veleis capes were clasped at the right shoulder so that they did not interfere with the hand holding the sword.”

“Those capes were worn only over a coat of mail,” I told him disrespectfully. “But what coat of mail could there be when on the hunt?”

“That I know,” simply and very frankly did this doll-like man agree with me, fixing his big fawning eyes on me, eyes as tender as a deer's. “Believe me, if I had wished to lie, I could have invented something much better.”

“Then I beg your pardon.”

“These capes are blown about by the wind behind the riders' backs. Their lances extend upwards in the air, and they race, race like an invasion.”

“Again I must beg your pardon. But tell me, perhaps at supper at your neighbour's you had been treated to some mead?”

“I don't drink,” Bierman-Hacevič compressed his lips with dignity. “And I can tell you, they didn't even leave any imprints, and the horses' hoofs were hidden by the fog. And the face of the King was calm, lifelessly dull, dry and quite grey, like fog. What is most important is that they arrived at the Janoŭskis' castle that night. When I returned home I was told that at midnight the ring on the door thundered and a voice cried: “Raman of the twelfth generation, come out!”

“Why Raman?”

“Because Nadzieja, the last of Raman's descendants, is exactly the twelfth generation.”

“I do not believe it.” I said again, resisting to the very end, because Bierman's face was really pale. “Give me the Janoŭski family register.”

Bierman readily dragged out and unrolled the parchment manuscript with the family tree. And indeed, eleven generations appeared in the list. From the time of Raman the Elder. Below the eleventh generation, again Raman, an entry was made in a small handwriting: “October 26th, 1870 my daughter, Nadzieja, was born. The last, our twelfth generation, my only child. Cruel fate, remove your curse from us, let only the eleventh generation perish. Have pity on this tiny bundle. Take me, if that is necessary, but let her live. She is the last of the Janoŭskis, I set my hopes on you.”

“This was written by her father?” I asked, deeply moved, and I thought that I was eight years old when this little girl was born.

“Yes, by him. You see, he had a presentiment about it… His fate is a proof of the truth of the legend about King Stach. He knew it, they all knew it, for the curse hung over these unfortunate people like an axe. One will go mad, one will be killed for his brother's money, one will perish while hunting. He knew and he made preparations for it: he provided the girl with an income, though a miserly one, still ah income, found guardians in good time, drew up his will (by the way, I am afraid of this autumn, many of the Janoŭskis did not live to see their coming of age, and her birthday will be in two days, and the Wild Hunt has already twice appeared at the walls of the castle). Raman never left the house at night. But two years ago Nadzieja went to visit Kulša's wife, a relative on her mother's side. The girl stayed there till late. Raman was very nervous when she didn't come home. And the Kulša's house stood near the Giant's Gap. He saddled his horse and rode off. The little girl returned home with Ryhor, the Kulša's watchman. But the master hadn't come. He was searched for. It was autumn, however, the time when King Stach's Wild Hunt appeared particularly often. We followed in the tracks of the master's horse, Ryhor and I. I was afraid, but Ryhor, not a bit. The tracks led along the road, then turned and began to make loops across the meadow. And Ryhor found other tracks on the side.

He is a good hunter, this Ryhor is. How horrible, sir! Those tracks were made by twenty horsemen! And the horseshoes were old ones, with tridents resembling forks. Their like has not been forged here for ever so long. And at times the track disappeared, then within 20–30 steps they appeared again, as if the horses had flown across the air. Then we found a wad from the master's gun, I'd have recognized it among hundred. Ryhor recalled that when he was carrying the little girl home, someone had fired a shot near the Gap. We drove the horses faster, for about five hours had passed, the night had grown dark before the dawn. Soon we heard a horse neighing somewhere. We came out onto a large glade overgrown with heather. Here we noticed that the horses of the Wild Hunt had begun to gallop faster. But the master's horse had stumbled several times, apparently tired.” Bierman's voice became wild, and broke off. “And at the end of the glade just where the Gap begins, we saw the horse still alive. He was lying with a broken leg, screaming as terribly as if he were a man. Ryhor said that the master had to be somewhere nearby. We found his footprints, they stretched from the quagmire. I moved on in their tracks which led to the horse and there disappeared. Here, in the damp earth were dents as if a person had fallen there. And nothing more. And no footprints nearby. The Hunt had turned about two metres or so from this pace. Either Raman had risen or else King Stach's horses had reached him by air and taken him away with them. We waited about half an hour, and in the darkness preceding the dawn Ryhor clapped himself on the forehead and ordered me to gather heather. I, a man of the gentry, obeyed this serf: at that time he had such authority over me as if he were a baron. When we had lit the heather he bent down over the footprints. ‘Well, what can you say, sir?’ he said with an air of apparent superiority. ‘I don't know why he had to go away from the quagmire, how he got there,’ I answered, perplexed. Then that boor burst out laughing… ‘He didn't even think of going away from the quagmire. He, Honourable Sir, he went towards it. And his feet weren't at all turned backwards forward, as you are probably thinking. He retreated to the quagmire, from something fearful. You see, right here he hit against the earth. The horse broke his leg, and Raman flew over its head. He sprained an ankle: you see the print of his right foot is bigger and deeper, that means that he sprained his left foot. He moved backwards towards the quagmire. Let's go there, there we shall probably see the end.’ And really, we did see the end. With his torch Ryhor lit the way for us to a precipice in the quagmire, and he said, ‘You see, here he slipped.’ I held him by the belt, and he bent over the odge of the precipice and then called to me: ‘Look!’ And here I saw Raman's head sticking out from the brown, oily, dung water of the Gap and I saw his twisted hand with which he had managed to catch at some rotten tree. We dragged him out with great difficulty, but we dragged out a dead man: in these marshes there are often springs in the depths of the pools, and he simply froze there. Besides that, his heart had failed him, the doctor told us afterwards. My god! The fear on his face was so terrible, a fear it was impossible to endure and remain alive! There was a kind of a bite on his hand, his collar was torn off. We tied the corpse to my saddle and rode off. Hardly had we ridden thirty paces than we saw through an opening in the forest vague shadows of floating horses. It was surprising that there were no sounds of hoofs. And then a horn began to blow somewhere from quite another direction, and so stifled, as if coming through cotton wool. We rode on with the corpse, greatly depressed, the horses were nervous, — they sensed the dead body. And the night was, oh! What a night! And somewhere there blew the horn of the Wild Hunt. Afterwards it appeared only from time to time. And now again… The hour of vengeance has come.”

He stopped talking, burying his face in his hands, his white, artistic fingers about twice as long as the fingers of an ordinary person. I kept quiet, but suddenly I lost all patience:

“You should be ashamed of yourself. Men, grown-up men! And you are unable to defend your mistress. Were it even the devil himself — you should fight, damn it! And why doesn't this Hunt appear all the time? Why hasn't it been here since I've come?”

“Often though they appear, they don't ever come on the eve of holy days or on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“Strange ghosts… And on Sundays?” The desire to give this inert, weak-willed, porcelain fellow a good slap on the face was growing ever stronger within me, for such as he are unable to perform any kind of deed, be it good or evil. They are not people, but grass-lice that choke the flower-beds. “But on St. Philip's Day, on St. Peter's Day they appear if they are such holy saints, don't they!”

“God allows them to on Sundays, for, if you remember, it was on Sunday that Stach was killed,” he answered quite seriously.

“So what then is He, this God of yours?” I barked at him. “Has He then bumped into the devil? You mean to say that He takes the lives of innocent girls in whose blood there is perhaps but one drop of Raman's blood?”

Bierman was silent.

“A four thousand and ninety-sixth part of Raman's blood flows in her veins,” I counted up. “So what is He good for, anyway, this God of yours?”

“Don't blaspheme!” he groaned, frightened. “Whose part are you taking?”

“Too much devilry is going on here, even for such a house…” I didn't give in. “The Little Man, the Lady-in-Blue, and here, in addition, the Wild Hunt of King Stach. The house has been surrounded from without and within. May it burn, this house!”

“M'm, to be frank with you, Honourable Sir, I don't believe in the Little Man or the Lady.”

“Everybody has seen them.”

“I haven't seen, I've heard them. And the nature of the sound is unknown to us. And add to that the fact that I am a nervous person.”

“The mistress has seen him.”

Bierman lowered his eyes modestly. He hesitated and said quietly:

“I cannot believe everything she says… She… well, in a word, it seems to me that her poor head hasn't been able to cope with all these horrors. She… m-m… she's peculiar in her psychic condition, if not to say anything more.”

I had also thought of that, therefore I kept silent.

“But I, too, heard steps.”

“Wild fancy. Simply an acoustic illusion. Hallucinations, Honourable Sir.”

We sat silent, I felt that I myself was beginning to lose my reason, what with the adventures going on here.

In my dreams that night King Stach's Wild Hunt silently raced on: the horses silently neighed, their hoofs landed, and their engraved bridles rocked. Beneath their feet was the cold heather, bending forward, the grey shadows raced on, marsh lights glittering on the foreheads of the horses. And above them a lonely star was burning, a star as sharp as a needle.

Whenever I awoke I heard steps in the corridor made by the Little Man, and at times his quiet pitiful moaning and groaning. And then again the black abyss of heavy sleep, and again the Wild Hunt, as swift as an arrow, galloped across the heather and the quagmire.