The only thing which surprised her was the presence of Jurand without his

daughter. Then she continued questioning him:

"What caused him to leave her at home?"

Zbyszko explained to her his own reason, which seemed to her just, but

she did not comprehend it sufficiently.

"Jurand will now be thankful to us for his life," she said, "and forsooth

he owes it to you because you went to dig him out. His heart would be of

stone if he were still to continue his opposition to you. In this there

is also God's warning to him not to oppose the holy sacrament. I shall

tell him so as soon as he comes to his senses and is able to speak."

"It is necessary for him first to recover consciousness, because we do

not yet know why he has not brought Danuska with him. Perhaps she is

sick?"

"Do not say that something has happened I I feel so much troubled that

she is not here. If she were sick he would not have left her."

"True!" said Zbyszko.

They went to Jurand. The heat in the room was intense, as in a bath. It

was light, because there were big pine logs in the fireplace. Father

Wyszoniek kept watch over the patient, who lay in bed, covered with a

bear-skin; his face was pale, his hair matted with perspiration, and his

eyes closed. His mouth was open, and his chest laboring with difficulty,

but with such force that his breathing moved the bear-skin covering up

and down.

"How is he doing?" inquired the princess.

"I poured a mug of hot wine into his mouth," replied the priest, "and

perspiration ensued."

"Is he asleep, or not?"

"Probably not, for he labors heavily."

"Did you try to speak to him?"

"We tried, but he did not answer, and I believe that he will not speak

before dawn."

"We will wait till the dawn," said the princess.

The priest insisted that she should retire but she paid no attention, for

she always in everything wished not to fall short of the late Queen

Jadwiga, in Christian virtues, in caring for the sick and to redeem with

her merits her father's soul; she therefore did not omit any opportunity

to make the old Christian country appear no worse than others, and by

this means to obliterate the remembrance that she was born in a heathen

land.

Besides that, she was burning with desire to hear from Jurand's own lips

about Danusia, for she was much concerned about her. She therefore sat by

his bedside and began to tell her beads, and then dozed. Zbyszko who had

not yet entirely recovered and was moreover greatly fatigued by the night

journey, followed her example; and as the hours passed on, both fell

asleep, so soundly that they might have slept on till daylight, if they

had not awakened by the ringing of the bell of the castle chapel.

But the same sound also awoke Jurand, who opened his eyes and suddenly

sat up in bed and began to stare about him with blinking eyes.

"Praised be Jesus Christ!... How do you feel?" said the princess.

But he apparently had not yet regained consciousness, for he looked at

her as though he knew her not, and after awhile he exclaimed:

"Hurry! Be quick! Dig open the snowdrift."

"In the name of God, you are already in Ciechanow!" again replied the

princess.

Jurand wrinkled his brow like one who with difficulty tries to collect

his thoughts, and replied:

"In Ciechanow?... The child is waiting ... and ... principality ...

Danuska! Danuska!"

Suddenly, he closed his eyes and again fell back on the pillow. Zbyszko

and the princess feared lest he was dead, but at the same moment his

breast began to heave and he breathed deeply like one who is fast asleep.

Father Wyszoniek put his finger to his lips and motioned not to awake

him, then he whispered:

"He may sleep thus a whole day."

"So, but what did he say?" asked the princess.

"He said that the child waits in Ciechanow," Zbyszko replied.

"Because he does not remember," explained the priest.

CHAPTER III.

Father Wyszoniek feared that even at Jurand's next awakening, he might be

stupefied and might not recover consciousness for a long time. Meanwhile

he promised the princess and Zbyszko to let them know when the old knight

could speak, and himself retired after they left. In fact Jurand first

awoke on the second Holy Day just before noon, but fully conscious. The

princess and Zbyszko were present. Therefore, sitting on the bed, he

looked at and recognized her and said:

"Your Highness ... for God's sake, am I in Ciechanow?"

"And you overslept the Holy Day," replied the lady.

"The snows covered me. Who saved me?"

"This knight: Zbyszko of Bogdaniec. You remember him in Krakow...."

And Jurand gazed with his sound eye at the youth for a moment and said:

"I remember ... but where is Danusia?"

"She did not ride with you?" anxiously inquired the princess.

"How could she ride with me, when I did not go to her?"

Zbyszko and the princess looked at each other, believing him to be still

speaking under the influence of the fever. Then the lady said: "Wake up,

for God's sake! There was no girl with, you?"

"Girl? With me?" inquired Jurand in amazement.

"Because your people perished, but she could not be found among them."

"Why did you leave her in Spychow?"

He then again repeated, but now with alarm in his voice:

"In Spychow? Why, she is with you, Your Highness, not with me!"

"However you sent a letter for her to the Forest Court."

"In the name of the Father and Son!" replied Jurand. "I did not send for

her at all."

Then the princess suddenly became pale:

"What is that?" she said, "are you positive that you are speaking in your

right senses?"

"For God's mercy, where is the child?" exclaimed Jurand, starting up.

Father Wyszoniek, on hearing this, quickly left the room, while the

princess continued:

"Listen: There arrived an armed retinue and a letter from you to the

Forest Court, for Danusia. The letter stated that you were knocked down

in a conflagration by a falling beam ... that you were half blinded and

that you wished to see the child.... They took Danusia and rode away...."

"My head swims!" exclaimed Jurand. "As there is a God in Heaven, there

was no fire in Spychow, nor did I send for her!"

At that moment Father Wyszoniek returned with the letter, which he handed

to Jurand and inquired: "Is not this your clerkly writing?"

"I do not know."

"And the seal?"

"It is mine."

"What does the letter say?"

Father Wyszoniek read the letter while Jurand listened, tearing his hair

and finally saying: "The writing is counterfeited! ... the seal is

false!... my soul! They have captured my child and will destroy her!"

"Who are they?"

"The Teutons!"

"For God's sake! The prince must be informed! He shall send messengers to

the master!" exclaimed the princess. "Merciful Jesus, save her and help!"

... and she left the room screaming.

Jurand jumped out of bed and began hurriedly to clothe his gigantic

frame. Zbyszko sat as if petrified, but in a few moments his tightly set

teeth began to gnash with rage.

"How do you know that the Teutons captured her?" asked Father Wyszoniek.

"By the Passion of our Lord, I'll swear!"

"Wait! ... It may be so. They came to complain about you to the Forest

Court."

"They wanted to take revenge on you..."

"And they captured her!" suddenly exclaimed Zbyszko. Then he hurried out

of the room, and running to the stables he ordered horses to be saddled

and harnessed to wagons, not knowing well himself why he did so. He only

knew that it was necessary to go to Danusia's assistance--at once--and

as far as Prussia--and there to tear her out of the foe's hands or

perish.

He then returned to the room to tell Jurand that the weapons and horses

would soon be ready. He was sure that Jurand would accompany him. His

heart was burning with rage, pain and sorrow,--but at the same time he

did not lose hope; it seemed to him that he and the formidable knight of

Spychow together would be able to accomplish everything--and that they

were equal to attacking the whole Teutonic force.

In the room, besides Jurand, he met Father Wyszoniek and the princess,

also the prince and de Lorche, as well as the old knight of Dlugolas,

whom the prince, having heard of the affair, summoned also to council on

account of his wisdom and extensive knowledge of the Teutons, who had

kept him for a number of years in slavery.

"It is necessary to set about it prudently, so as not to commit a sin in

blind fury and so lose the girl," said the knight of Dlugolas.

"A complaint must be instantly filed with the master and I will ride

thither, if His Highness will give me a letter to him."

"I will give the letter, and go with it," said the prince. "We will not

allow the child to be lost, so help me God and Holy Cross! The master

dreads war with the Polish king, and he is anxious to win over Semka, my

brother and myself.... They did not capture her at his command--and he

will order her return."

"And if it was by his orders?" inquired Father Wyszoniek.

"Although he is a Teuton, there is more honesty in him than in the

others," replied the prince; "and, as I told you, he would rather

accommodate me than make me angry now. The Jagiellonian power is no

laughter. Hej! They poured hog's grease under our skin as long as they

could, but they did not perceive that if also we Mazurs should assist

Jagiello, then it would be bad...."

But the knight of Dlugolas said, "That is true. The Teutons do nothing

foolishly; therefore, I think that if they have captured the girl, it is

either to disarm Jurand, or to demand a ransom, or to exchange her." Here

he turned to the knight of Spychow:

"Whom have you now among your prisoners of war?"

"Herr von Bergow," replied Jurand.

"Is he important?"

"It seems so."

De Lorche, hearing the name von Bergow, began to inquire about him, and,

having found out, said: "He is a relative of the Duke of Geldryi, a great

benefactor of the Order, and devoted to the Order from his birth."

"Yes," said the knight of Dlugolas, translating his words to those

present. "Von Bergow held high rank in the Order."

"Danveld and von Löve strongly demanded him," remarked the prince.

"Whenever they opened their mouths, they said that von Bergow must be

free. As God is in Heaven they undoubtedly captured the girl, in order to

liberate von Bergow."

"Hence they will return her," said the prince.

"But it would be better to know where she is," replied the knight of

Dlugolas. "But suppose the master asks: 'Whom shall I order to return

her?' what shall we say then?"

"Where is she?" said Jurand, in a hollow voice. "They certainly are not

keeping her on the border, for fear that I might recover her, but they

have taken her somewhere to a far secret hold or to the sea."

But Zbyszko said: "I will find and recover her."

The prince now suddenly burst out with suppressed anger: "Villains

carried her off from my court, disgracing me as well, and this shall not

be forgiven as long as I live. I have had enough of their treacheries!

enough of their assaults! I would rather have wolves for neighbors! But

now the master must punish these lords and return the girl, and send

messengers with apologies to me, otherwise I will send out a call to

arms!"

Here he struck the table with his fist and added:

"Owa! The lord of Plock will follow me, and Witold and King Jagiello's

forces! Following enough! Even a saint would snort away his patience. I

have had enough!"

All were silent, waiting until his anger had quieted down; but Anna

Danuta rejoiced that the prince took Danusia's affair so to heart; she

knew that he was long-suffering, but stubborn also, and when he once

undertook anything he never relinquished it until he attained his object.

Then Father Wyszoniek rose to speak. "There was of old a rule in the

Order," he said, "that no lord was permitted to do anything on his own

responsibility without the permission of the assembly or the master.

Therefore God gave them such extensive territories that they almost

exceed all other earthly powers. But now they know neither obedience,

truth, honesty, nor belief. Nothing but greed and such ravage as if they

were wolves and not human beings. How can they obey the master's commands

or those of the assembly, if they do not even obey God's commandments?

Each one resides in his castle like an independent prince--and one

assists another in doing evil. I shall complain to the master--but they

will deny it. The master will order them to restore the girl, but they

will refuse to do so, or they will say: 'She is not here, because we have

not captured her.' He will command them to take oath and they will do so.

What shall we do then?"

"What to do?" rejoined the knight of Dlugolas. "Let Jurand go to Spychow.

If they did carry her off for ransom, or to exchange her for von Bergow,

then they must and will inform no one but Jurand."

"Those who used to visit the Forest Court captured her," said the priest.

"Then the master will submit them to trial, or order them to give Jurand

the field."

"They must give me the field," exclaimed Zbyszko, "because I challenged

them first!"

And Jurand removed his hands from his face and inquired: "Which of them

were in the Forest Court?"

"There were Danveld, old von Löve, and two brethren, Godfried and

Rotgier," replied the priest.

"They made complaint and wished the prince to order you to release von

Bergow from imprisonment. But the prince, being informed by de Fourcy

that the Germans were the first to attack you, rebuked and dismissed them

without satisfaction."

"Go to Spychow," said the prince, "because they will apply to you there.

They failed to do it till now, because this young knight's follower

crushed Danveld's arm when bearing the challenge to them. Go to Spychow,

and if they apply, inform me. They will send your daughter back in

exchange for von Bergow, but I shall nevertheless take vengeance, because

they disgraced me also by carrying her off from my court."

Here the prince began to get angry again, for the Teutons had entirely

exhausted his patience, and after a moment he added:

"Hej! They blew and blew the fire, but they will end by burning their

mouths."

"They will deny it," repeated the priest Wyszoniek.

"If they once inform Jurand that the girl is with them, then they will

not be able to deny it," somewhat impatiently replied Mikolaj of

Dlugolas. "He believes that they are not keeping her on the border, and

that, as Jurand has justly pointed out, they have carried her to some

distant castle or to the seashore, but if there be proof that they are

the perpetrators, then they will not disclaim it before the master."

But Jurand said in a strange and, at the same time, terrible tone:

"Danveld, von Löve, Godfried and Rotgier."

Mikolaj of Dlugolas also recommended that experienced and shrewd people

be sent to Prussia, to find out whether Jurand's daughter was there, and

if not, whither she had been taken; then the prince took the staff in his

hand and went out to give the necessary orders; the princess again turned

to Jurand to speak encouraging words:

"How are you?" she inquired.

He did not reply for a moment, as if he had not heard the question, but

then he suddenly said:

"As if one had struck me in an old wound."

"But trust in God's mercy; Danusia will come back as soon as you return

von Bergow to them. I would willingly sacrifice my own blood."

The princess hesitated whether to say anything about the marriage now,

but, considering a little, she did not wish to add new worries to

Jurand's already great misfortunes, and at the same time she was seized

with a certain fear. "They will look for her with Zbyszko; may he find an

occasion to tell him," she said to herself, "otherwise he may entirely

lose his mind." She therefore preferred to discuss other matters.

"Do not blame us," she said. "People wearing your livery arrived with a

writing under your seal, informing us that you were ill, that your eyes

were closing, and that you wished to look once more upon your child. How

could we oppose it and not obey a father's command?"

But Jurand embraced her feet. "I do not blame anybody, gracious lady."

"And know also that God will return her to you, because His eye is upon

her. He will send her succor, as He did at the last hunt, when a fierce

wild bull attacked us--and Jesus inspired Zbyszko to defend us. He almost

lost his own life, and was ill for a long time afterward, but he saved

Danusia and me, for which he received a girdle and spurs from the prince.

You see!... God's hand is over her. Surely, the child is to be pitied! I,

myself, am greatly grieved. I thought she would arrive with you, and that

I should see the dear child, but meanwhile" ... and her voice trembled,

tears fell from her eyes, and Jurand's long repressed despair burst out

for a moment, sudden and terrible as a tempest. He took hold of his long

hair, and began to beat his head against the wall, groaning and repeating

in husky tones: "Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!"

But Zbyszko sprang to his side, and shaking him by the shoulders with all

his might, exclaimed:

"We must go! To Spychow!"

CHAPTER IV.

"Whose retinue is this?" inquired Jurand, suddenly starting from musing,

as if from sleep, beyond Radzanow.

"Mine," replied Zbyszko.

"And did all my people perish?"

"I saw them dead in Niedzborz."

"Have you no old comrades?"

Zbyszko made no reply, and they traveled on in silence, but hurriedly,

because they wanted to get to Spychow as quickly as possible, hoping

possibly to meet some Teutonic messengers there. To their good fortune

the frosts set in again, and the highways were firm, so that they could

make haste.

Toward evening Jurand spoke again, and began to inquire about those

brethren of the Order who were at the Forest Court, and Zbyszko narrated

everything--their complaints, their departure, the death of de Fourcy,

his follower's action in crushing Danveld's arm so terribly, and, as he

spoke, one circumstance recurred strikingly to his mind, namely the

presence in the Forest Court of that woman who brought the healing

balsams from Danveld. During the bait, he commenced therefore to inquire

of the Bohemian and Sanderus about her, but neither knew exactly what had

become of her. It seemed to them, that she had left either in company

with those people, who came for Danusia, or soon after them. It now

occurred to Zbyszko's mind, that this might have been some one sent for

the purpose of warning the people in case Jurand should happen to be at

the court in person. In that case they would not claim to have come from

Spychow, but could have prepared another missive to give to the princess

instead of Jurand's fictitious letter. All this had been arranged with

hellish dexterity, and the young knight, who so far had known the Teutons

only from the battlefield, thought for the first time, that the fist was

not sufficient for them, but that they must be overcome with the head as

well. This was a sullen thought for him, because his great sorrow and

pain had become concentrated into a desire for fight and blood. Even help

for Danusia in his mind took the form of a series of battles either in

troops or singly; and now he perceived that it might be necessary to

restrain his desire for revenge and splitting of heads, like a bear on a

chain, and seek new means of saving and recovering Danusia. While

thinking of this, he felt sorry that Macko was not with him. Macko was as

cunning as he was brave. He secretly determined to send Sanderus from

Spychow to Szczytno, in order to find that woman and to try to learn from

her what had happened to Danusia. He said to himself that, even if

Sanderus wished to betray him, he could do little harm in the matter, and

on the contrary might render great service, because his trade gained

admittance for him everywhere. However, he wished to consult Jurand

first, but postponed it until their arrival in Spychow, the more so

because night came on, and it seemed to him, that Jurand, sitting on a

knight's high saddle, had fallen asleep from fatigue, exhaustion and

great anxiety. But Jurand rode with a bowed head only because misfortune

weighed it down. And it was apparent that he was constantly thinking of

it, with a heart full of terrible dread, because he finally said:

"I would rather be frozen under Niedzborz! It was you that dug me out?"

"I, with others."

"And at the hunt, you saved my child?"

"What should I have done?"

"Will you help me now, too?"

And there burst forth in Zbyszko at the same time such love for Danusia

and such great hatred toward the Teuton wrongdoers, that he rose in his

saddle and began to speak through tightly set teeth, as though with

difficulty:

"Listen to what I say: even if I have to bite the Prussian castles with

my teeth, I will do it and get her."

Then followed a moment's silence.

The vengeful and uncontrollable nature of Jurand also seemed to awake in

full force under the influence of Zbyszko's words, because he began to

gnash his teeth in the darkness and after a while to repeat again the

names: Danveld, von Löve, Rotgier and Godfried! And he thought in his

soul that if they wanted him to restore von Bergow, he would do so; if

they demanded an additional payment he would give it, even if he had to

throw into the price Spychow entire; but then, woe to those who had

raised their hands against this his only child!

Throughout the whole night, sleep did not close their eyelids for a

moment. At dawn, they scarcely recognized each other, to such an extent

had their faces changed during this single night. At length Jurand was

struck by that pain and inveterate hatred on Zbyszko's face and therefore

said: "She saved you and snatched you from death--I know. But you also

love her?"

Zbyszko looked directly into his eyes with an almost defiant expression

and replied: "She is my wife."

Upon that, Jurand stopped his horse and looked at Zbyszko, blinking his

eyes with astonishment.

"What do you say?" he inquired.

"I say that she is my wife and I am her husband."

The knight of Spychow brushed his eyes with his sleeve, as if he were

dazed by a sudden thunder-stroke, and after awhile, without a word of

reply, he urged his horse forward to the head of the troop and rode on

silently.

CHAPTER V.

But Zbyszko, riding behind him, could not stand it very long, and said to

himself: "I would rather have him burst forth in anger, than become

embittered." He therefore rode up to him and jogging his stirrup against

his, he commenced to speak: "Listen how it happened. You know what

Danusia did for me in Krakow, but you do not know that they proposed to

me Jagienka of Bogdaniec, the daughter of Zych of Zgorzelice. My uncle,

Macko, was in favor of it, also her parents and Zych; a relative, an

abbot, a wealthy man as well.... What is the use of many words?--an

honest girl and a beautiful woman and the dowry respectable also. But it

could not be. I felt sorry for Jagienka, but still more so for

Danusia--and I set out to her to Mazowsze, because, I tell you frankly, I

could not live any longer without her. Recollect the time when you

yourself loved--recollect it! and it will not seem strange to you."

Here Zbyszko broke off, waiting for a word from Jurand, but as the latter

remained silent, he continued:

"God gave me an opportunity at the Forest Court to save the princess and

Danusia from a wild bull while hunting. And the princess immediately

said: 'Now Jurand will not object any more, because how could he refuse

to reward such a deed?' But I did not wish to take her even then without

your parental consent. Yet! I was weak,... because the terrible animal

injured me so much, that it almost killed me. But then, as you know,

those people came for Danusia, in order to take her, as it seemed, to

Spychow, and I was still unable to leave my bed. I thought I should never

see her again. I thought that you would take her to Spychow and give her

to some one else. You objected to me at Krakow ... and I already thought

that I should die. Ah! great God, what a night I passed. Nothing but

worry; nothing but grief! I thought that if she also left me, the sun

would rise no more. Consider human love and human grief!"

And, for a moment, tears almost choked Zbyszko's voice, but, having a

courageous heart, he controlled himself and said:

"The people arrived for her in the evening and wanted to take her

immediately, but the princess ordered them to wait until morning. Just

then Jesus inspired me with the idea of presenting the princess with my

compliments and asking her for Danusia. I thought that if I died I should

have that consolation at least. Remember that the girl had to leave,

while I remained ill and nearly dying. There was also no time to ask for

your permission. The prince was no longer in the Forest Court, the

princess therefore weighed both sides because she had nobody to take

counsel with. But they, together with Father Wyszoniek at last took pity

upon me, and Father Wyszoniek performed the ceremony.... God's power,

God's right!..."

But Jurand interrupted, gloomily: "And God's punishment!"

"Why should there be punishment?" inquired Zbyszko. "Consider only, they

had sent for her before the ceremony, and whether it had been performed

or not, they would have carried her off nevertheless."

But Jurand again replied nothing, and rode on alone, gloomy, and with

such a stony face, that though Zbyszko at first felt the relief that

confession of a long concealed thing always produces, at length he was

seized with fear and said to himself, with constantly increasing fear,

that the old knight was bitterly angered, and that thenceforth they would

be strangers and foes to each other. And there came upon him a moment of

great depression. He had never felt so badly since his departure from

Bogdaniec. It seemed to him now that there was no hope of reconciliation

with Jurand, nor, what was far worse, of saving Danusia, that all was of

no avail, and that in the future still greater misfortunes and miseries

would befall him. But this depression of spirits lasted a short while

only, and, in accordance with his nature, it soon changed into anger, and

a desire for quarreling and fight. "He does not want peace," he said to

himself, thinking of Jurand, "then let there be discord, let come what

will!" And he was ready to fly at Jurand's face. He also longed for a

fight with anybody for anything, merely to do something, merely to give

vent to his grief, bitterness and anger, and so find some relief.

Meanwhile they arrived at an inn at a ford called Swietlik, where Jurand,

on his return from the prince's court, usually allowed his people and

horses to rest. He did so now also involuntarily. After a while he and

Zbyszko found themselves alone in a separate chamber. Suddenly Jurand

stopped before the young knight and, fixing his eyes upon him, inquired:

"Did you wander about for her sake?"

The other almost harshly retorted:

"Do you suppose that I shall deny it?" And he looked straight into

Jurand's eyes, ready to meet anger with anger. But there was no

indignation in the old warrior's face; there was only almost boundless

grief.

"And you saved my child?" he inquired, after a moment, "and dug me out?"

But Zbyszko looked at him in astonishment and fear that his mind was

wandering, because Jurand repeated exactly the same questions that he had

already asked.

"Be seated," he said, "because it seems to me that you are still weak."

But Jurand raised his hands, placed them on Zbyszko's shoulders, and so

drew him suddenly with all his strength to his breast; the other,

recovering from a momentary amazement, clasped him round the waist and

they embraced each other for a long time, because mutual anxiety and

mutual woe united them.

After relaxing their hold, Zbyszko again embraced the older knight's

knees, and began to kiss his hands with tears in his eyes.

"Will you not object to me?" he asked.

To that Jurand replied: "I did oppose you, because in my soul I

consecrated her to God."

"You devoted her to God, and God to me. His will!"

"His will!" repeated Jurand. "But now we need mercy also."

"Whom will God help, if not a father who seeks his daughter; if not a

husband who seeks his wife? He will certainly not assist robbers."

"But they captured her nevertheless," answered Jurand.

"Then you will return von Bergow to them."

"I shall return all they wish."

But at the thought of the Teutons, the old passion soon awoke in him and

enfolded him like a flame, because he added after a moment through his

clenched teeth:

"I shall also add to it what they do not want."

"I also swore their ruin," replied Zbyszko, "but now we must make haste

to Spychow."

And he commenced to hasten the saddling of the horses. Accordingly, after

they had eaten their oats, and the men had warmed themselves in the

rooms, they started out, although it was growing dark outside. As the way

was long, and a severe frost had set in for the night, Jurand and

Zbyszko, who had not yet regained their strength, traveled in sledges.

Zbyszko told about Uncle Macko, for whom his heart yearned, and regretted

that he was not present, because his courage as well as craft might be of

use, the latter qualification being more necessary against such foes than

courage. At last he turned to Jurand and inquired:

"And are you cunning?... Because I am not."

"Neither am I," retorted Jurand. "I did not fight them with craft, but

with this hand and that which remained in me."

"I understand that," said the young knight. "I understand it because I

love Danusia and because they carried her off. If, God forbid...."

And he did not finish, because the mere thought made him feel not a human

but a wolfs heart in his breast. For some time they rode silently over a

white, moonlight-flooded road; then Jurand commenced to speak as if to

himself:

"If they only had any reason to take revenge on me--I would not say! But

gracious God! they had none.... I waged war with them in the field, when

sent on an embassy by our prince to Witold, but here I was like a

neighbor to neighbors.... Bartosz Natecz captured, chained and imprisoned

under ground in Kozmin forty knights who attacked him. The Teutons were

compelled to pay half a wagonful of money for them. While I, when a

German guest happened to come on his way to the Teutons, received and

rewarded him like one knight another. Frequently also, the Teutons came

against me across the swamps. I was not hard on them then, and they did

to me what I would not do even to-day to my greatest foe...."

And terrible recollections began to tear him with increasing force, his

voice died away for an instant in his breast, then he said, half

groaning: "I had only one, like a ewe lamb, like the heart in my breast,

and they captured her like a dog on a rope, and she died there.... Now

again, the child ... Jesus, Jesus!"

And again there was silence. Zbyszko raised his youthful, perplexed face

toward the moon, then again looked at Jurand and inquired:

"Father!... It would be far better for them to earn men's esteem than

their vengeance. Why do they commit so much wrong on all nations and all

people?"

But Jurand spread his hands apart as if in despair, and replied with a

choked voice: "I do not know...."

Zbyszko meditated for a time over his own question, presently however his

thoughts turned to Jurand.

"People say that you wreaked a worthy vengeance," he said.

Jurand meanwhile controlled his anguish, bethought himself and said:

"But I swore their ruin ... and I also swore to God that if He would

permit me to glut my vengeance I would surrender to Him the child that

was left to me. This is the reason why I objected to you. But now I do

not know: was it His will, or did you awaken His anger by your action?"

"No," said Zbyszko. "I told you once before that even if the ceremony had

not been performed, yet the scoundrels would have carried her off. God

accepted your vow, and presented me with Danusia, because without His

will we could accomplish nothing."

"Every sin is against God's will."

"A sin is, but not the sacrament. Because the sacrament is God's matter."

"Therefore there is no help."

"And God be blessed there is not! Therefore do not complain, because

nobody would help you against the robbers so well as I will. You will

see! In any case I shall pay them for Danusia, but even if one of those

who captured your deceased be still alive, leave him to me and you shall

see!"

But Jurand shook his head.

"No," he answered, gloomily, "none of those will be alive...."

For a time only the snorting of horses and the smothered echo of the

hoofs striking against the beaten road was audible.

"Once at night," continued Jurand, "I heard a voice, as if coming from a

wall, saying to me: 'Enough vengeance!' but I did not obey, because it

was not the voice of the deceased."

"And whose voice could that be?" inquired Zbyszko, anxiously.

"I do not know. In Spychow frequently something talks in the walls, and

sometimes moans, because many have died there in chains underground."

"And what does the priest tell you?"

"The priest sanctified the castle and also ordered me to relinquish

vengeance, but that could not be. I became too hard on them, and then

they themselves sought revenge. They lay in ambush and challenged me in

the field.... And so it was this time. Meineger and von Bergow were the

first to challenge me."

"Did you ever accept ransom?"

"Never! Of those I have captured, von Bergow will be the first to come

out alive."

The conversation ceased, because they now turned from the broad highway

into a narrower road, on which they traveled for a long time in silence

on account of its tortuous course, and because in some places the snow

formed drifts difficult to traverse. In the spring or summer, on rainy

days, this road must have been almost impassable.

"Are we approaching Spychow already?" asked Zbyszko.

"Yes," answered Jurand. "There is a good deal of forest yet, and then

begin the morasses, in the centre of which is the castle.... Beyond the

morasses are the marshes and dry fields, while the castle can be

approached only by the dike. The Germans wished to capture me repeatedly,

but they could not, and their bones rot among the forest weeds."

"And it is hard to find," said Zbyszko. "If the Teutons send messengers

with letters, how will they find us?"

"They have sent out several times already, and they have people who know

the way."

"If we could only meet them at Spychow," said Zbyszko.

This wish was realized sooner than the young knight thought, for issuing

from the forest into the open country, where lay Spychow among the

swamps, they perceived before them two riders and a low sledge, in which

were sitting three dark figures.

The night was very bright, therefore the whole group was perfectly

visible against the white background of snow. Jurand's and Zbyszko's

heart began to beat faster at this sight, because who else would be

riding to Spychow in the middle of the night, but the messengers from the

Teutons?

Zbyszko ordered the driver to go faster, and so they soon came so near

each other, that they could be heard, and two riders, who apparently

watched over the safety of the sledge, turned to them, and, unslinging

their crossbows, cried:

"Who is there?"

"Germans!" whispered Jurand to Zbyszko.

Then he raised his voice and said:

"It is my right to ask, and yours to reply!"

"Who are you?"

"Travelers."

"What sort of travelers?"

"Pilgrims."

"Where from?"

"From Szczytno."

"It is they!" again whispered Jurand.

Meanwhile the sledges had come together, and at the same time six

horsemen appeared before them. This was the guard of Spychow, which

watched the dike leading to the castle day and night. With the horses

were very large and savage dogs, exactly resembling wolves.

The guardsmen, having recognized Jurand, began to utter cries of welcome

mingled with astonishment that the master had returned so soon and

unexpectedly; but he was entirely engaged with the messengers, and

therefore turned to them again:

"Where are you traveling to?" he asked.

"To Spychow."

"What do you want there?"

"We can tell that only to the lord himself."

Jurand was about to say: "I am the lord of Spychow;" but he restrained

himself, feeling that conversation could not be carried on in the

presence of others. He asked them instead, whether they had any letters,

and, when they replied that they were ordered to communicate verbally, he

gave orders to drive as fast as the horses could go. Zbyszko was equally

anxious to hear news of Danusia, and could not turn his attention to

anything else. He became impatient when the guards on the dike stopped

them twice; and when the bridge was lowered over the moat, behind which

rose on the mound a gigantic palisade, and although he had previously

often desired to see that castle of ominous fame, at the mention of which

the Germans made the sign of a cross, now he saw nothing but the Teuton

messengers, from whom he might hear where Danusia was and when she would

be set at liberty. He did not foresee though, that a great disappointment

was awaiting him. Besides the horsemen, who were given for defence, and

the driver, the embassy from Szczytno was composed of two persons: one of

these was the same woman who had once brought the healing balsam to the

Forest Court; the other was a young _pontnik_.[108] Zbyszko did not

recognize the woman, because he had not seen her at the Forest Court; the

_pontnik_ at once seemed to him to be a disguised warrior. Jurand soon

led both into the neighboring room, and halted before them, huge, and

almost terrible in the glow of the fire, which fell upon him from the

logs burning in the chimney.

"Where is the child?" he asked.

But they were frightened, standing face to face with a menacing man.

Although the _pontnik_ had an insolent face, he simply trembled like a

leaf, and the woman's legs trembled also. She glanced from Jurand to

Zbyszko, and then at the shining bald head of the priest Kaleb, and then

again at Jurand, as if inquiring what the other two were doing there.

"Sir," she said, finally, "we do not know what you are asking, but we

were sent to you on important matters. Yet, the one who sent us ordered

us explicitly, that the conversation should be held without witnesses."

"I have no secrets from these!" said Jurand.

"But we have, noble lord," replied the woman, "and if you order them to

remain, then we shall ask for nothing but that you allow us to leave

to-morrow."

Anger appeared in Jurand's face as he was not used to opposition. For a

moment his tawny moustache worked ominously, but he reflected, "For

Danusia's sake!" and restrained himself. Moreover, Zbyszko, who wanted

above all things that the conversation might be concluded as soon as

possible, and felt sure that Jurand would repeat it to him, said:

"If it must be so, then remain alone." And he left, together with the

priest Kaleb; but he scarcely found himself in the main hall, in which

were hanging targets and weapons, captured by Jurand, when Glowacz

approached him.

"Sir," he said, "that is the same woman!"

"What woman?"

"From the Teutons, who brought the balsam. I recognized her at once, and

so did Sanderus. She came, at it seems, to spy, and she certainly knows

now where the lady is."

"And we shall know," said Zbyszko.

"Do you also know that _pontnik_?"

"No," replied Sanderus; "but do not buy, sir, any remissions from him,

because he is a false _pontnik_,"

"If you put him to the torture, you might obtain a lot of information."

"Wait!" said Zbyszko.

Meanwhile, in the next room hardly had the doors closed behind Zbyszko

and the priest Kaleb, when the sister of the Order quickly approached

Jurand and whispered:

"Robbers captured your daughter."

"With crosses on their robes?"

"No. But God blessed the pious brethren, so that they recovered her, and

now she is with them."

"Where is she, I ask."

"Under the care of the religious Brother Shomberg," she answered,

crossing her hands on her breast and bowing humbly.

But Jurand, hearing the dreadful name of the hangman of Witold's

children, turned as pale as linen; after a moment he sat on a bench, shut

his eyes, and began to wipe away the cold perspiration, which collected

in beads on his forehead.

Seeing this, the _pontnik_, although he had not hitherto been able to

restrain his fear, now put his hands on his hips, lounged on the bench,

stretched out his legs and looked at Jurand, with eyes full of pride and

scorn. A long silence followed.

"Brother Markward also assists Brother Shomberg in guarding her," again

said the woman; "it is a vigilant watch and no harm will happen to the

lady."

"What am I to do in order to get her back?" inquired Jurand.

"To humble yourself before the Order!" proudly said the _pontnik_.

At this Jurand arose, went up to him, and bending down over him, said in

concentrated, terrible tones:

"Be silent!"

And the _pontnik_ was again terror-stricken. He knew, that he could

threaten and say what would tame and overwhelm Jurand, but he was

terrified lest, before saying a word, something dreadful would happen to

him; he therefore remained silent, with dilated eyes, as if petrified

with fear, fixed on the threatening face of the lord of Spychow, and sat

motionless, only his beard began to quiver with agitation.

Jurand again turned to the sister of the Order:

"Have you a letter?"

"No, sir. We have no letter. What we have to say, we were ordered to say

verbally."

"Then speak!"

And she repeated again, as if wishing that Jurand should impress it well

in his memory:

"Brother Shomberg and Brother Markward watch over the lady; therefore,

you sir, restrain your anger.... But no evil will happen to her, because

although you have gravely injured the Order for many years, nevertheless

the brethren wish to repay you good for evil if you comply with their

just demands."

"What do they wish?"

"They wish you to release Herr von Bergow."

Jurand breathed heavily.

"I will return von Bergow to them," he said.

"And the other prisoners that you have in Spychow."

"There are two retainers of Meineger and von Bergow, besides their boys."

"You must release them, sir, and make amends for the imprisonment."

"God forbid that I should bargain for my child."

"The religious friars expected that from you," said the woman, "but this

is not all that I was ordered to say. Your daughter, sir, was captured by

some men, undoubtedly robbers, and certainly for the purpose of demanding

a rich ransom. God permitted the brethren to recapture her, and now they

demand nothing but the return of their brother and associate. But the

brethren know, and you, too, sir, what hatred there is in this country

against them, and how unfairly even their most righteous actions are

judged. For this reason the brethren are sure that, if the people here

found out that your daughter was with them, they would at once begin to

suspect that they had captured her, and would consequently utter only

slander and complaints.... O yes, evil and malicious people here have

frequently repaid them so, and the reputation of the holy Order has

suffered greatly by it, and the brethren are greatly concerned about it,

and therefore they add this sole condition that you alone assure the

prince of this country and all the mighty knights that it is true, that

not the Teutonic knights, but robbers carried off your daughter, and that

you had to ransom her from robbers."

"It is true," said Jurand, "that bandits have captured my child, and that

I have to buy her back from bandits...."

"You shall tell nobody otherwise, because if only one person should find

out that you come to terms with the brethren, if only one living soul or

only one complaint were sent to the master, or the assembly, great

complications would ensue."

Jurand's face exhibited great alarm. At the first moment it seemed to him

quite natural that the knights required secrecy, fearing responsibility

and disgrace, but now a suspicion arose in his mind that there might be

another reason, but, not being able to account for it, he was seized with

such terror as sometimes happens to the most courageous when danger does

not threaten them alone, but also their relatives and loved ones.

He determined however to find out more from the Order's servant.

"The knights wish secrecy," he said, "but how can it be kept, when I

release von Bergow and the others in return for my child?"

"You will say that you accepted ransom for von Bergow in order to be able

to pay the robbers."

"People will not believe it, because I never accepted ransom," gloomily

replied Jurand.

"But your child was never in question," hissed the messenger in reply.

And again silence followed, after which the _pontnik_, who, in the

meanwhile had gained courage, and judged that Jurand must now restrain

himself more, said:

"Such is the will of the brethren Shomberg and Markward."

The messenger continued:

"You will say, that this _pontnik_ who came with me, brought you the

ransom, we also will leave here with the noble von Bergow and the

prisoners."

"How so?" said Jurand, frowning, "do you think that I will give up the

prisoners before you return my child?"

"You can act, sir, still differently. You can call personally for your

daughter at Szczytno, whither the brethren will bring her to you."

"I? at Szczytno?"

"Because, should the bandits capture her again on the way, your and your

people's suspicion would again fall upon the pious knights, and therefore

they prefer to give her into your own hands."

"And who will pledge himself for my return, if I walk alone into a wolf's

throat?"

"The virtue of the brethren, their justice and godliness!"

Jurand began to walk up and down the room. He began to suspect treason

and feared it, but he felt at the same time that the Teutons could impose

any conditions they pleased upon him, and that he was powerless before

them.

However, an idea struck him, and suddenly halting before the _pontnik_,

he gazed at him with a piercing look, and then turned to the messenger

and said;

"Well, I will go to Szczytno. You and this man, who is wearing _pontnik_

garb, will remain here until my return, after which you will leave with

von Bergow and the prisoners."

"Do you refuse, sir, to believe friars." said the _pontnik_; "how then

can they trust you to liberate us and von Bergow on your return?"

Jurand's face turned pale with fury, and a critical moment followed, in

which it almost seemed that he would catch the _pontnik_ by the throat

and dash him to the floor; but he suppressed his anger, drew a deep

breath and commenced to speak slowly but emphatically.

"Whoever you are, do not strain my patience to the breaking point!"

But the _pontnik_ turned to the sister: "Speak! what you were ordered."

"Lord," she said: "we would not dare distrust your oath upon your sword

and knightly honor, but it is not proper for you to swear before people

of low rank. And we were not sent for your oath."

"What were you sent for?"

"The brethren told us that, without saying anything to anybody, you must

appear at Szczytno with von Bergow and the prisoners."

At that, Jurand's shoulders began to draw together, and his fingers to

extend like the claws of a bird of prey; at last, stopping before the

woman, he bent down, as if to speak into her ear, and said:

"Did they not tell you that I should order you and von Bergow to be

broken on the wheel in Spychow?"

"Your daughter is in the power of the brethren, and under the care of

Shomberg and Markward," replied the sister, meaningly.

"Robbers, poisoners, hangmen!" burst forth Jurand.

"Who are able to avenge us and who said at our departure: 'Should he not

comply with all our orders, it would be far better that the girl should

die, as Witold's children died.' Choose!"

"And understand that you are in the power of the knights," remarked the

_pontnik_. "They do not wish to do you any harm, and the _starosta_ of

Szczytno sends you his word by us that you shall go free from his castle;

but they want you, for the wrong done to them, to present your respects

to the Teuton, and beg for the victor's mercy. They want to forgive you,

but they first wish to bend your stubborn neck. You denounced them as

traitors and perjurers.--therefore they want you to acknowledge their

good faith. They will restore you and your daughter to liberty--but you

must beg for it. You trampled upon them--now you must swear that your

hand will never, be raised against the white robe."

"The knights wish it so," added the woman, "and Markward and Shomberg

with them."

A moment of deathlike silence followed. It seemed only that somewhere

among the beams of the ceiling some smothered echo repeated as if in

terror: "Markward ... Shomberg."

Outside the windows could be heard the voices of Jurand's archers keeping

watch on the mounds near the palisade of the castle.

The _pontnik_ and the servant of the Order looked for a long time at each

other and Jurand, who sat leaning against the wall, motionless, and with

a face deeply shadowed by furs suspended by the window. His brain

contained only one thought, that, if he did not do what the Teutons

demanded, they would destroy his child; again, if he should do it, he

might perhaps even then not save Danusia nor himself. And he saw no help,

no way of escape. He felt a pitiless superior force over him which was

crushing him. He saw in his soul already the iron hands of a Teuton on

Danusia's throat; knowing them thoroughly, he did not doubt for a moment

that they would kill her, bury her in the castle yard, and then deny

it,--and who would then be able to prove that they had captured her?

It was true that Jurand had the messengers in his power; he could bring

them to the prince and get a confession by means of torture, but the

Teutons had Danusia, and they might not care about their agents' torture.

And for a moment he seemed to see his child stretching out her hands from

afar, asking for assistance.... If he at least knew that she was really

at Szczytno, then he could go that very night to the border, attack the

unsuspecting Germans, capture the castle, destroy the garrison and

liberate the child--but she might not be and positively was not in

Szczytno. It flashed like lightning through his head, that if he were to

seize the woman and the _pontnik_, and take them directly to the grand

master, then perhaps the master could draw confessions from them and

might order the return of his daughter; but that gleam was extinguished

almost as quickly as it took fire.

These people could tell the master that they came to ransom von Bergow

and that they knew nothing about a girl. No! that way led to nothing, but

what did? He thought, that should he go to Szczytno they would chain him

and cast him under ground, while Danusia would not be released, lest it

should transpire that they had captured her, if for no other reason. And

meanwhile death hung over his only child, death over the last dear

head!... And finally his thoughts grew confused, and the pain became so

great, that it overpowered itself and became numbness. He sat motionless,

for his body became as dead as if cut out of stone. If he wanted to rise

now, he would not be able to do so.

Meanwhile the others grew tired of the long waiting, therefore the

servant of the Order arose and said:

"It will be soon daylight, therefore permit us, sir, to retire, because

we need a rest."

"And refreshment after the long journey," added the _pontnik_. Then they

both bowed to Jurand and went out.

But he continued to sit motionless, as if seized by sleep or death.

Presently, however, the door opened and Zbyszko appeared, followed by the

priest Kaleb.

"Who are the messengers? What do they want?" inquired the young knight,

approaching Jurand.

Jurand quivered, but at first answered nothing; he only began to blink

like a man awakened from a sound sleep.

"Sir, are you not ill?" said the priest Kaleb, who, knowing Jurand

better, noticed that something curious was taking place within him.

"No!" replied Jurand.

"And Danusia?" further inquired Zbyszko; "where is she and what did they

say to you?"

"What did they bring?"

"The ransom," slowly replied Jurand.

"The ransom for von Bergow?"

"For von Bergow...."

"How so, for von Bergow? what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

But in his voice there was something so strange and listless that a

sudden fear seized those two, especially because Jurand spoke of the

ransom and not the exchange of von Bergow for Danusia.

"Gracious God!" exclaimed Zbyszko: "where is Danusia?"

"She is not with the Teutons,--no!" replied Jurand, in a sleepy tone; and

suddenly he fell from the bench upon the floor as if dead.

CHAPTER VI.

The following day at noon the messengers saw Jurand, and soon afterward

they rode away taking with them von Bergow, two esquires and a number of

other prisoners. Jurand then summoned Father Kaleb and dictated a letter

to the prince, stating that Danusia had not been carried off by the

Knights of the Order, but that he had succeeded in discovering her

refuge, and hoped to recover her in a few days. He repeated the same to

Zbyszko, who had been wild with astonishment, dread and perplexity since

the night before.

The old knight refused to answer any of his questions, telling him

instead to wait patiently and not to undertake anything for the

liberation of Danusia, because it was unnecessary.

Toward evening he shut himself in again with Father Kaleb, whom he had

ordered to write down his last will; then he confessed himself, and after

receiving the sacrament, he summoned Zbyszko, and the old taciturn

Tolima, who used to accompany him in all his expeditions and fights, and

in times of peace administered the affairs of Spychow.

"Here," he said, turning to the old warrior and raising his voice, as if

he was speaking to a man who could not hear well, "is the husband of my

daughter whom he married at the prince's court, for which he had my

entire consent. Therefore, after my death, he will be the master and

owner of the castle, the soil, forests, waters, people and all the craft

in Spychow...."

Hearing this, Tolima was greatly surprised and began to turn his square

head to Jurand and to Zbyszko alternately, he said nothing, however,

because he scarcely ever did say anything, he only bowed to Zbyszko and

lightly embraced his knees. And Jurand continued:

"This is my will, written by Father Kaleb, and below is my seal in wax;

you must testify that you have heard this from me, and that I ordered

that the young knight should be obeyed here even as I am. Furthermore,

what is in the treasury in booty and money, you will show him, and you

will serve him faithfully in peace as well as in war till death. Did you

hear?"

Tolima raised his hands to his ears and nodded his head, then, at a sign

from Jurand, he bowed and went out; the knight again turned to Zbyszko

and said impressively:

"There is enough in the treasury to satisfy the greatest greed and to

ransom not one but a hundred captives. Remember!"

But Zbyszko inquired:

"And why are you giving me Spychow already?"

"I give you more than Spychow, in the child."

"And we know not the hour of death," said Father Kaleb.

"Yes, unknown," repeated Jurand, sadly, "a short time ago, the snow

covered me up, and, although God saved me, I have no more my old

strength...."

"Gracious God!" exclaimed Zbyszko, "something his changed within you

since yesterday, and you prefer to speak of death than of Danusia.

Gracious God!"

"Danusia will return, she will," replied Jurand; "she is under God's

protection. But if she returns ... listen ... take her to Bogdaniec and

leave Spychow with Tolima.... He is a faithful man, and this is a wild

neighborhood.... There they cannot capture her with a rope ... there she

is safer...."

"Hej!" cried Zbyszko, "and you talk already as if from the other world.

What is that?"

"Because I went half-way to the other world, and now I seem to be ill.

And I also care for my child ... because I have only her. And, you too,

although I know that you love her...."

Here he interrupted, and drawing a short weapon from its sheath, called

the _misericordia_, he held the handle toward Zbyszko.

"Swear to me now upon this little cross that you will never harm her and

that you will love her constantly...."

And tears suddenly started in Zbyszko's eyes; in a moment he fell upon

his knees and, putting a finger on the hilt, exclaimed:

"Upon the Holy Passion, I will never harm, and will love her constantly!"

"Amen," said Father Kaleb.

Jurand again put the "dagger of mercy" back into the sheath and extended

his arms:

"Then you are my child too!..."

They separated then, because it was late, and they had had no good rest

for several days. However, Zbyszko got up the following morning at

daybreak, because the previous day he had been frightened, lest Jurand

were really falling ill, and he wished to learn how the older knight had

spent the night. Before the door to Jurand's room he met Tolima, who had

just left it.

"How is the lord? well?" he inquired.

The other again bowed, and then, putting his hand to his ear, said:

"What orders, your grace?"

"I am asking how the lord is?" repeated Zbyszko, louder.

"The lord has departed."

"Where to?"

"I do not know.... In arms!"

CHAPTER VII.

The dawn was just beginning to whiten the trees, bushes and boulders

scattered in the fields, when the hired guide, walking beside Jurand's

horse, stopped and said:

"Permit me to rest, knight, for I am out of breath. It is thawing and

foggy, but it is not far now."

"You will conduct me to the road, and then return," replied Jurand.

"The road will be to the right behind the forest, and you will soon see

the castle from the hill."

Then the peasant commenced to strike his hands against his armpits,

because he was chilled with the morning dampness; he then sat on a stone,

because this exercise made him still more breathless.

"Do you know whether the count is in the castle?" inquired Jurand.

"Where else could he be, since he is ill?"

"What ails him?"

"People say that the Polish knights gave him a beating," replied the old

peasant. And there was a feeling of satisfaction in his voice. He was a

Teuton subject, but his Mazovian heart rejoiced over the superiority of

the Polish knights.

He presently added:

"Hej! our lords are strong, but they have a hard task with them."

But immediately after saying this, he looked sharply at the knight, as if

to convince himself that nothing bad would happen to him for the words

which he had heedlessly let slip and said:

"You, lord, speak our language; you are no German?"

"No," replied Jurand; "but lead on."

The peasant arose, and again began to walk beside the horse. On the way,

he now and then put his hand into a leathern pouch, pulled out a handful

of unground corn, and put it into his mouth, and when he had thus

satisfied his first hunger, he began to explain why he ate raw grains,

although Jurand was too much occupied with his own misfortune and his own

thoughts, to heed him.

"God be blessed for that," he said. "A hard life under our German lords!

They lay such taxes upon grist, that a poor man must eat the grain with

the chaff, like an ox. And when they find a hand-mill in a cottage, they

execute the peasant, take whatever he has, bah! they do not pardon even

women and children.... They fear neither God nor the priests. They even

put the priest in chains for blaming them for it. Oh, it is hard under

the Germans! If a man does grind some grains between two stones, then he

keeps that handful of flour for the holy Sunday, and must eat like birds

on Friday. But God be blessed for even that, because two or three months

before the harvest there will not be even that much. It is not permitted

to catch fish ... nor kill animals ... It is not as it is in Mazowsze."

The Teutonic peasant complained, speaking partly to himself, and partly

to Jurand, and meanwhile they passed through a waste country, covered

with limestone boulders, heaped with snow, and entered a forest, which

looked grey in the morning light, and from which came a sharp, damp

coolness. It became broad daylight; otherwise it would have been

difficult for Jurand to travel along the forest road, which ran somewhat

up hill, and was so narrow that his gigantic battle-horse could, in some

places, hardly pass between the trunks. But the forest soon ended, and in

a few "_Paters_," they reached the summit of a white hill, across the

middle of which ran a beaten road.

"This is the road, lord," said the peasant; "you will find the way alone,

now."

"I shall," replied Jurand. "Return home, man." And putting his hand into

a leather bag, fastened in front of the saddle, he took from it a silver

coin and handed it to the guide. The peasant, accustomed more to blows

than to gifts from the local Teutonic knights, could scarcely believe his

eyes, and catching the money, dropped his head to Jurand's stirrup and

embraced it.

"O Jesus, Mary!" he exclaimed: "God reward your honor!"

"God be with you!"

"God's grace be with you! Szczytno is before you."

Then he once more bent down to the stirrup and disappeared. Jurand

remained on the hill alone and looked in the direction indicated by the

peasant, at a grey, moist veil of fog, which concealed the world before

him. Behind this fog was hidden that ominous castle, to which he was

driven by superior force and misery. It is already near, then, and what

must happen, must happen.... As that thought came into Jurand's heart, in

addition to his fear and anxiety about Danusia, and his readiness to

redeem her from a foe's hands even with his own blood, he experienced a

new, exceedingly bitter, and hitherto unknown feeling of humiliation. And

now Jurand, at the mere mention of whose name the neighboring counts

trembled, was riding to their command with a bowed head. He who had

defeated and trampled under foot so many of them, now felt himself

defeated and trampled upon. It is true, they had not overcome him in the

field with courage and knightly strength, nevertheless he felt himself

subdued. And it was to him something so unusual, that it seemed as if the

entire order of the world were subverted. He was going to submit himself

to the Teutons, he, who would rather meet single-handed the entire Teuton

force, if it were not for Danusia's sake. Had it not happened already,

that a single knight, having to choose between disgrace and death had

attacked whole armies? But he felt that he might meet disgrace, and, at

that thought, his heart groaned with agony as a wolf howls when it feels

the dart within it.

But he was a man with not only a body, but also a soul, of iron. He knew

how to subdue others, he knew also how to subdue himself.

"I will not move," he said to himself, "until I have overcome this anger

with which I should rather lose than deliver my child."

And he wrestled with his hard heart, his inveterate hatred and his desire

to fight. Whoever had seen him on that hill, in armor, on a gigantic

horse, would have said that he was some giant, wrought out of iron, and

would not have recognized that that motionless knight at that moment was

waging the hottest of all the battles of his life. But he fought with

himself until he had entirely overcome and felt that his will would not

fail him. Meanwhile the mist thinned, although it did not disappear

entirely, but finally something darker loomed through it.

Jurand guessed that these were the walls of the castle of Szczytno. At

the sight of it he still did not move from the place, but began to pray

so fervidly and ardently as a man prays, when nothing is left for him in

the world but God's mercy. And when his horse did finally move, he felt

that some sort of confidence was beginning to enter his heart. He was now

prepared to suffer everything that could befall him. There came back to

his memory Saint George, a descendant of the greatest race in Cappadocia,

who suffered various shameful tortures, and nevertheless not only did not

lose any honor, but is placed on the right hand of God and appointed

patron of all knighthood. Jurand had sometimes heard tales of his

exploits from the abbots, who came from distant countries, and now he

strengthened his heart with these recollections.

Slowly even, hope began to awaken in him. The Teutons were indeed famous

for their desire of revenge, therefore he did not doubt that they would

take vengeance on him for all the defeats which he had inflicted upon

them, for the disgrace which had fallen upon them after each encounter,

and for the dread in which they had lived for so many years.

But that very consideration increased his courage. He thought that they

had captured Danusia only in order to get him; therefore of what use

would she be to them, after they had gotten him? Yes! They would

undoubtedly seize him, and, not daring to keep him near Mazowsze, they

would send him to some distant castle, where perhaps he would have to

groan until his life's end under ground, but they would liberate Danusia.

Even if it should prove that they had got him insidiously and by

oppression, neither the grand master nor the assembly would blame them

very much for that, because Jurand was actually very hard on the Teutons,

and shed more of their blood than did any other knight in the world. But

that same grand master would perhaps punish them for the imprisonment of

the innocent girl, who was moreover a foster-daughter of the prince,

whose favor he was seeking on account of the threatening war with the

Polish king.

And his hope constantly increased. At times it seemed to him almost

certain that Danusia would return to Spychow, under Zbyszko's powerful

protection.... "He is a strong man," he thought; "he will not permit

anybody to injure her." And he began to recall with affection all he knew

of Zbyszko: "He defeated the Germans at Wilno, fought single-handed

against the Fryzjans whom he challenged with his uncle and quartered, he

also beat Lichtenstein, saved the child from the wild bull, and he

challenged those four, whom he will surely not pardon." Here Jurand

raised his eyes toward heaven and said: "I gave her to you, O Lord, and

you to Zbyszko!"

And he gained still more confidence, judging that if God had given her to

the youth, then He would certainly not allow the Germans to mock him but

snatch her out of their hands, even if the entire Teuton power should

oppose it. But then he commenced to think again about Zbyszko: "Bah! he

is not only a mighty man but also as true as gold. He will guard her,

love her, and Jesus! be good to her; but it seems to me, that, by his

side she will neither miss the princely court nor paternal love...." At

that thought his eyelids became suddenly moist, and a great yearning

filled us heart. He would like to see his child once more at least in his

life, and at some future time die in Spychow near those two, and not in

the dark Teuton cells. "But God's will be done!" Szczytno was already

visible. The walls became more distinct in the mist, the hour of

sacrifice was approaching; he therefore began to comfort himself, and

said to himself: "Surely, it is God's will! but the end of life is near.

A few years more or less, the result will be the same. Hej! I would like

to see both children yet, but, justly speaking, I have lived long enough.

Whatever I had to experience, I did; whomever to revenge, I revenged. And

what now? Rather to God, than to the world; and since it is necessary to

suffer, then it is necessary. Danusia with Zbyszko, even when most

prosperous, will not forget. Surely, they will sometimes recollect and

ask: where is he? is he alive yet, or already in God's court of justice?

They will inquire and perhaps find out. The Teutons are very revengeful,

but also very greedy for ransom. Zbyszko would not grudge ransoming the

bones at least. And they will surely order more than one mass. The hearts

of both are honest and loving, for which may God and the Most Holy Mother

bless them!"

The road became not only broader but also more frequented. Wagons laden

with lumber and straw were on the way to the town. Herders were driving

cattle. Frozen fish were carried on sledges from the lakes. In one place

four archers led a peasant on a chain to court for some offence, for he

had his hands tied behind him, and on his feet were fetters which,

dragging in the snow, hardly enabled him to move. From his panting

nostrils and mouth escaped breath in the shape of wreaths of vapor, while

they sang as they urged him on. Or seeing Jurand, they began to look at

him inquisitively, apparently marvelling at the huge proportions of the

rider and horse; but, at the sight of the golden spurs and knightly belt,

they lowered then crossbows as a sign of welcome and respect. The town

was still more populous and noisy, but everybody hastily got out of the

armed man's way, while he, traversing the main street, turned toward the

castle which, wrapped in clouds, seemed to sleep yet.

Not everything around slept, at least not the crows and ravens, whole

flights of which were stirring on the elevation, which constituted the

entrance to the castle, flapping their wings and crowing. On coming

nearer, Jurand understood the cause of their gathering. Beside the road

leading to the gate of the castle, stood wide gallows, on which were

hanging the bodies of four Mazovian peasants. There was not the least

breath of wind, therefore the corpses, which seemed to be looking at

their own feet, did not sway at all, except when the black buds perched

upon their shoulders and heads, jostling one another, striking the ropes

and pecking the bowed heads. Some of the hanged men must have been there

for a long time, because their skulls were entirely naked, and their legs

very much lengthened. At Jurand's approach, the flock arose with a great

noise, but they soon turned in the air and began to settle on the

crossbeam of the gallows. Jurand passed them, crossing himself,

approached the moat, and, stopping at the place where the drawbridge was

raised before the gate, sounded the horn.

He sounded it a second and a third time and waited. There was no living

soul upon the walls, nor could a voice be heard within the gates. After a

while though, a heavy flap, visible behind a grate built in stone near

the castle gate, was raised with a crash, and in the opening appeared the

bearded head of a German servant.

"_Wer da?_" inquired a harsh voice.

"Jurand of Spychow!" replied the knight.

Immediately the flap was closed again and deep silence followed.

Time passed. No movement was heard behind the gate, only the cawing of

birds reached his ear from the direction of the gallows.

Jurand stood yet a long time before he raised the horn and sounded it

again. But silence again was the sole response.

Now he understood that he was kept before the gate by Teuton pride, which

knew no bounds before the defeated, in order to humiliate him like a

beggar. He also guessed that he would have to wait thus until evening, or

even longer. Consequently his blood began to boil in the first moments;

he was suddenly seized with the desire to dismount, pick up one of the

rocks which lay near the moat, and cast it at the grate. He and every

other Mazovian or Polish knight would have done so, under other

circumstances, and let them come then from behind the gate and fight him.

But recollecting for what purpose he had come, he bethought himself and

desisted.

"Have I not sacrificed myself for my child?" he said in his soul.

And he waited.

Meanwhile something black appeared in the loopholes of the wall. There

appeared heads covered with fur, dark hoods and even iron bars, from

behind which curious eyes gazed at the knight. More came every moment,

because the terrible Jurand, waiting solitarily before the Teuton gate,

was an unusual sight for the garrison. Whoever had seen him hitherto, had

seen death, but now he could be looked at in safety. The heads constantly

multiplied till at last all the loopholes near the gate were occupied by

servants. Jurand thought that also the superiors must be looking at him

through the grates of the windows in the adjacent tower, and he turned

his eyes in that direction, but there the windows were cut in deep walls,

and it was impossible to see through them. But in the apertures, the

group of people who at first looked at him silently, began to talk. One

after another repeated his name, here and there laughter was heard, gruff

voices shouted as if at a wolf, louder and more insolently, and when,

apparently, nobody among them interfered, they finally began to throw

snow at the standing knight. He moved his horse as if involuntarily and

then for a moment the throwing of snow ceased, voices quieted down, and

even some heads disappeared behind the walls. Surely, Jurand's name must

have been very menacing! Soon, however, even the most cowardly bethought

themselves that a moat and a wall separated them from that terrible

Mazovian, therefore the rough soldiery again commenced to throw not only

small lumps of snow, but also ice, and even shards and stones, which

rebounded with a clang from the armor which covered the horse.

"I have sacrificed myself for the child," repeated Jurand to himself.

And he waited. Noontime arrived, the walls were deserted, because the

retainers were called to dinner. A few, those that had to be on guard,

ate their meal on the wall, and, after having eaten, entertained

themselves with throwing the picked bones at the hungry knight. They also

began to tease and question each other who would dare to descend and

strike him with the fist in the neck, or with the handle of the lance.

Others, returning from their meal, called to him that if he disliked

waiting he could hang himself, because there was a vacant hook on the

gallows with a ready rope. And amidst such mockery, cries, bursts of

laughter and cursing, the afternoon hours passed. The short wintry day

gradually drew toward evening, and the drawbridge was still up and the

gate remained closed.

But toward evening a wind arose, dispersed the mist, cleared the sky and

revealed the sunset glow.

The snow became dark-blue, and then violet. There was no frost, but the

night promised to be fair. The walls were again deserted by all but the

guard; the rooks and crows departed from the gallows to the forests.

Finally the sky darkened and complete silence followed.

"They will not open the gate before nightfall," thought Jurand.

And for a moment he thought to return to the city, but he soon gave up

that idea. "They want me to stand here," he said to himself. "If I

return, they will certainly not let me go home, but surround and capture

me, and then they will say that they owe me nothing, because they took me

by force, and if I should ride over them, even then I must return...."

The great endurance of the Polish knights for cold, hunger and hardships,

so admired by foreign chroniclers, frequently enabled them to perform

deeds which the less hardy people from the west could not undertake.

Jurand possessed that endurance to a still greater degree than others;

therefore, although hunger had long since began to gripe him, and the

evening frost penetrated his fur, which was covered with iron plates, he

determined to wait, even if he had to die before this gate.

But suddenly, before it became entirely dark, he heard behind him the

sound of footsteps in the snow.

He looked back: there were coming toward him, from the direction of the

city, six men, armed with lances and halberds; in their midst walked a

seventh man supporting himself on a weapon.

"They will perhaps open the gate for them and then I shall ride in with

them," thought Jurand. "They will not try to take me by force, nor kill

me, because there are too few; should they attack me, however, it will

prove that they do not mean to keep their promise, and then--woe to

them!"

Thus thinking, he raised the steel axe hanging at his saddle, so heavy,

that its weight was too great for the two hands of an ordinary man, and

moved toward them.

But they did not think of attacking him. On the contrary, the servants

planted their lances and halberds in the snow, and as the night was not

entirely dark yet, Jurand saw that the handles somewhat trembled in their

hands.

The seventh, who appeared to be the superior, put out his left arm

quickly, and turning his hand upward, said:

"Are you the knight Jurand of Spychow?"

"Yes."

"Do you wish to hear my message?"

"I listen."

"The powerful and religious Count von Danveld ordered me to tell you,

lord, that until you dismount, the gate will not be opened for you."

Jurand remained motionless for a while, then he dismounted, the horse

being instantly taken away by one of the archers.

"The arms must be surrendered to us," again said the man with the weapon.

The lord of Spychow hesitated. Perhaps they would attack him unarmed, and

kill him like a beast; or capture and cast him under ground? But after a

moment he thought that if it were to be so, they would have sent more

men. But should they throw themselves on him, they would not destroy his

armor at once, and then he could wrench a weapon from the nearest and

kill them all before assistance could arrive. They knew him well.

"And even if they should wish to shed my blood," he said to himself, "I

came for no other purpose than that."

Thus thinking, he threw down first the axe, then the sword, and finally

the _misericordia_, and waited. They took everything, and then the man

who had addressed him previously, withdrawing several steps, stopped and

began to speak in an insolent, loud voice:

"For all the wrongs you have done to the Order, you must, by the count's

orders, put on this sack cloth which I leave here, tie around your neck

the scabbard of your sword with a rope, and wait humbly at the gate until

the count's grace orders it to be opened for you."

And the next moment Jurand remained alone in the darkness and silence. In

the snow before him the penitential robe and rope showed black while he

stood long, feeling something in his soul dissolving, breaking,

agonizing, dying, and that shortly he would be a knight no more, Jurand

of Spychow no more, but a beggar, a slave without a name, without fame,

without respect.

Therefore, a long time passed before he approached the penitential robe,

and said:

"How can I do otherwise? Christ, Thou knowest they will kill the innocent

child, if I do not do all they order. And Thou also knowest that I would

not do that for the sake of my own life! Disgrace is a distasteful

thing!... distasteful!--but Thou also wast disgraced of old. Well then,

in the name of the Father and of the Son...."

He then bent down, put on the robe in which were cut the openings for the

head and hands, then he tied around his neck the scabbard of his sword,

and dragged himself to the gate.

He did not find it open; but now it was immaterial to him whether they

opened it sooner or later. The castle sank into nocturnal silence, only

the guards called now and then to each other on the bastions. In the

tower near the gate there was light in one window high up; the others

were dark.

The night hours flew one after another, on the sky appeared the crescent

moon and threw light upon the gloomy walls of the castle. It became so

quiet that Jurand was able to hear his own heart-beats. But he stiffened

and became entirely petrified, as if his soul were taken from him, and

took no account of anything. One thought remained with him, that he had

ceased to be a knight, Jurand of Spychow, but what he was he did not

know.... Sometimes it also seemed to him that in the middle of the night

death was coming to him across the snow from those hanged men that he had

seen in the morning....

Suddenly he quivered and awoke entirely.

"O gracious Christ! what is that?"

From the high window in the adjacent tower, the sounds of a lute, hardly

heard at first, reached his ear. Jurand, while on the way to Szczytno,

was sure that Danusia was not in the castle, and yet this sound of the

lute at night aroused his heart in an instant. It seemed to him that he

knew those sounds, and that nobody else was playing but she--his child!

his darling.... He therefore fell upon his knees, clasped his hands to

pray, and listened shivering, as in a fever.

Just then a half-childish and as if ardently longing voice began to sing:

"Had I the dear little wings

Of a gosling,

I would fly

To Jasiek at Szlonsk."

Jurand wished to reply, to utter the dear name, but his words were

imprisoned in his throat, as if an iron band squeezed them. A sudden wave

of pain, tears, longing, suffering, collected in his breast; he therefore

cast himself down with his face in the snow and began in ecstasy to call

upon heaven in his soul, as if in thankful prayer:

"O Jesus! I hear my child once again! O Jesus!" ...

And weeping began to tear his gigantic body. Above, the longing voice

continued to sing amid the undisturbed silence of the night:

"Would that I might sit

In the little Szlonsk garden

To gaze upon little Jasiek

The poor orphan!"

In the morning a stout, bearded German retainer began to prod the ribs of

the knight lying at the gate.

"Upon your feet, dog!... The gate is open, and the count orders you to

appear before him."

Jurand awoke, as if from sleep. He did not catch the man by the throat,

he did not crush him in his iron hands, he had a quiet and almost humble

face; he arose, and, without saying a word, followed the soldier through

the gate.

He had hardly crossed, when a clang of chains was heard, and the bridge

began to be drawn up again, while in the gateway itself fell a heavy iron

grating.

END OF PART FOURTH.

PART FIFTH.

CHAPTER I.

Jurand, finding himself in the castleyard, did not know at first where to

go, because the servant, who had led him through the gate, had left him

and gone toward the stables. It is true, the soldiers stood near the

palisades, either singly or in groups, but their faces were so insolent,

and their looks so derisive, that the knight could easily guess that they

would not show him the way, and even if they were to make a reply to his

question, it would be a brutal or an indignant one.

Some laughed, pointing at him with their fingers, others commenced to

throw snow at him, like yesterday. But he, noticing a door larger than

the others, over which was cut out in stone Christ on a cross, turned to

it, thinking that if the count and the elders were in another part of the

castle or in other rooms, somebody must set him right.

And so it happened. The instant Jurand approached that particular door,

both halves of it opened suddenly, and there stood before it a youth with

a head shaven like the clericals, but dressed in a worldly dress, who

inquired:

"Are you Sir Jurand of Spychow?"

"I am."

"The pious count ordered me to guide you. Follow me."

And he commenced to lead him through a great vaulted vestibule toward a

staircase. At the stairs though he halted, and casting a glance at

Jurand, again inquired:

"But have you no weapon with you? I was ordered to search you."

Jurand threw up his arms, so that his guide might be able to view his

whole figure, and replied:

"Yesterday I gave up everything."

Then the guide lowered his voice and said almost in a whisper:

"Be careful then not to break out into anger, because you are under might

and superior force."

"But also under God's will," returned Jurand.

Then he looked more carefully at his guide, and observing in his face

something in the nature of mercy and sympathy, said:

"Honesty looks through your eyes, young man! Will you answer sincerely to

what I question?"

"Make haste, sir," said the guide.

"Will they return the child to me?"

And the youth raised his brows wonderingly.

"Is your child here?"

"My daughter."

"That lady in the tower near the gate?"

"Yes. They promised to send her away if I surrendered to them."

The guide waved his hand to signify that he knew nothing, but his face

expressed trouble and doubt.

Then Jurand further asked:

"Is it true, that Shomberg and Markward are watching her?"

"Those brethren are not in the castle. Take her away though, sir, ere the

nobleman Danveld regains his health."

Hearing that, Jurand shivered, but there was no time to ask any more

questions, because they had arrived at the hall on the upper floor in

which Jurand was to face the chief Shchycienski. The youth, after having

opened the door, retreated toward the stairs.

The knight of Spychow entered and found himself in a roomy apartment,

very dark, because the lead-framed, oval-shaped panes transmitted very

little light; furthermore the day was wintry and cloudy. There was, it is

true, a fire burning in a large chimney at the other end of the

apartment, but the green logs produced little flame. Only after a time,

when Jurand's eyes became used to the darkness, he distinguished a table

behind which were knights sitting, and behind them a whole group of armed

warriors and servants also armed, among whom the castle fool held a tame

bear by a chain.

Jurand had frequently met Danveld some time before, and afterward had

seen him twice at the court of the prince of Mazowsze, as delegate, but

several years had passed since that time; yet, notwithstanding the

darkness, he recognized him instantly, because of his obesity, his face,

and finally because he sat in the centre behind the table in an armchair,

his hand being circled by wooden splints and resting upon the arm of the

chair. To his right sat the old Zygfried von Löve of Insburk, an

inexorable foe of the Polish race in general, and particularly of Jurand

of Spychow; to his left were the younger brethren, Godfried and Rotgier.

Danveld had invited them purposely, to witness his triumph over a

threatening foe, and at the same time to enjoy the fruits of the treason

which they had plotted together, and in the accomplishment of which they

had assisted. They sat now comfortably dressed in soft dark cloth, with

light swords at their sides. They were joyous and self-confident, and

looking upon Jurand with that pride and extreme contempt which they

always bore in their hearts toward the weaker and vanquished.

The silence lasted a long while, because they wished to satiate

themselves with the sight of the man whom they had previously dreaded,

and who stood before them now with his head bowed upon his breast, and

dressed like a penitent in sackcloth, and with a rope around his neck,

upon which was suspended the scabbard of his sword.

They also apparently wanted as great a number of people as possible to

witness his humiliation, for through a side door, leading into other

rooms, whoever pleased entered, and the hall was nearly half filled with

armed men. They all looked with extreme eagerness at Jurand, conversing

loudly and making remarks about him.

But he gained confidence, at the sight of them, because he thought to

himself:

"If Danveld did not wish to keep his promise, he would not have ordered

so many witnesses."

Meanwhile Danveld raised his hand, and stopped the conversation; he then

made a sign to one of the warriors, who approached Jurand, and catching

the rope which encircled his neck, dragged him a few steps nearer the

table.

And Danveld looked triumphantly at those present and said:

"Look, how the power of religion defeats anger and pride."

"May God always grant it so!" answered those present.

Then again followed a moment of silence, after which Danveld turned to

the prisoner:

"You were biting the faith like a mad dog, therefore God has caused you

to stand before us, with a rope around your neck, looking for charity and

mercy."

"Do not compare me with a dog, count," replied Jurand, "because you thus

lower the honor of those who met me and fell under my hand."

At these words the armed Germans commenced to murmur: it was not known

whether the daring answer aroused their anger or whether they were struck

by its justice.

But the count, dissatisfied at such a turn of the conversation, said:

"Look, even now he spits into our eyes with arrogance and pride!"

Jurand then raised his hands, like a man who calls heaven to witness, and

shaking his head, answered:

"God sees that my arrogance remained outside your gate; God sees and will

judge, whether in dishonoring my knighthood, you did not dishonor

yourself. There is the honor of a nobleman, which every one who has a

belt around him, should respect."

Danveld wrinkled his brows, but at that moment the castle fool started to

rattle the chain to which he had fastened the bear, and called out:

"Sermon! sermon! the preacher from Mazowsze has arrived! Listen! to the

sermon!"

Then turning to Danveld, he said:

"Sir! Duke Rosenheim ordered his sexton to eat the bell-rope from knot to

knot whenever the latter awakened him too early for the sermon. This

preacher has also a rope around his neck--make him also eat it up before

he finishes his sermon."

And, having said this, he gazed at the count in some alarm, being

uncertain whether the count would laugh or whether his inappropriate

remark would result in an order for a flogging for him. But the religious

brethren, gentle, well-behaved, and even humble, whenever they felt they

were not in power, did not know any limits before the defeated;

therefore, Danveld not only nodded his head at the bear-leader as a sign

that he permitted the mockery, but he himself burst out with such

unheard-of roughness that the faces of the younger warriors expressed

astonishment.

"Don't complain that you were put to shame," he said, "because even if I

had made you a dogcatcher, a religious dogcatcher is better than you,

knight!"

And the encouraged fool commenced to shout: "Bring the currycomb, comb

the bear, and he in turn will comb your shags with his paws."

At that, laughter was heard here and there, and a voice exclaimed from

behind the religious brethren:

"You will cut reeds on the lake in the summer!"

"And catch crabs with your carcass!" exclaimed another.

A third added: "And now begin to drive away the crows from the hanging

thief! There will always be plenty of work for you."

Thus they made fun of the once terrible Jurand. The assembly gradually

became joyous. Some, leaving the table, began to approach the prisoner

and look at him closely, saying:

"This is the wild boar of Spychow, whose tusks our count has knocked out;

his snout is surely foaming; he would gladly tear somebody, but he

cannot!"

Danveld and others of the religious brethren, who at first had wished to

give the hearing the solemn appearance of a court, seeing that the affair

had turned out differently, also arose from their benches and mingled

with those who approached Jurand.

The old Zygfried of Insburk was dissatisfied at that, but the count

himself said:

"Be cheerful, there will be a greater joy yet!"

And they also commenced to look at Jurand, for this was a rare

opportunity, because when any of the knights or servants had seen him

before from so near, they had usually closed their eyes forever. Some of

them also remarked:

"He is broad shouldered, although he has a fur beneath his sack; he could

be wrapped up with pease straw, and exhibited in country fairs."

Others again commenced to ask for beer in order to make the day a still

pleasanter one.

And so in a few moments flowing pitchers began to clink and the dark hall

became covered with the foam escaping from under the covers. The

good-humored count said:

"That is just right, let him not think that his disgrace is of great

importance!"

So they again approached him, and touching his chin with their pewters,

said:

"You would like to drink, Mazovian snout!" and others, pouring the beer

into their palms, cast it into his eyes, while he stood among them

stunned and abused, until at last he moved toward the old Zygfried, and

apparently feeling that he could not stand it any longer, he began to cry

so loudly as to deafen the noise in the hall:

"By the torture of the Saviour and the salvation of the soul, restore to

me my child, as you promised!"

And he attempted to seize the right hand of the old count who quickly

withdrew and said:

"Avaunt, prisoner! what dost thou want?"

"I released Bergow from prison, and came myself, because in return you

promised to restore my child who is here."

"Who promised you that?" inquired Danveld.

"By the soul and faith, you, count!"

"You will not find any witnesses, but they amount to nothing, if honor

and word are in question."

"Upon your honor, upon that of the Order," exclaimed Jurand.

"Then your daughter will be returned to you!" replied Danveld, and,

turning to the others, remarked: "All that has happened to him here is an

innocent trifle in comparison with his violence and crimes. But since we

promised to return his daughter if he should appear and submit himself to

us, then know, that the word of a Knight of the Cross is, like God's

word, irreproachable, and that that girl, whom we saved from the hands of

robbers, shall now be given her liberty, and after an exemplary penance

for his sins against the Order, he also shall be allowed to go back to

his home."

Such a speech astounded some, because, knowing Danveld and his old hatred

for Jurand, they did not expect such honesty from him. Therefore old

Zygfried, together with Rotgier and Brother Godfried, looked at him,

raising and wrinkling their brows with astonishment, but he pretended not

to observe their inquiring looks and said:

"I'll send your daughter back under guard, but you must remain here until

our guard returns safely and until you have paid your ransom."

Jurand himself was somewhat astonished, because he had ceased to hope

that his sacrifice would be of any use to Danusia; he therefore looked at

Danveld, almost with thankfulness and replied:

"May God reward you, count!"

"Recognize the Knights of the Cross," said Danveld.

"All mercy from Him!" replied Jurand; "but, since it is long since I saw

my child, permit me to see and bless my girl."

"Bah, and not otherwise than before all of us, so that there may be

witnesses of our good faith and mercy."

Then he ordered the warriors standing near to bring Danusia, while he

himself approached von Löve, Rotgier and Godfried, who surrounded him and

commenced a quick and animated conversation.

"I do not oppose you, although this was not your object," said old

Zygfried.

And the hot Rotgier, famous for his courage and cruelties, said: "How is

this? not only the girl but also that devilish dog is going to be

liberated, that he may bite again?"

"He will bite not that way only!" exclaimed Godfried.

"Bah! he will pay ransom!" lazily replied Danveld.

"Even if he should return everything, in a year he will have robbed twice

as much."

"I shall not object as to the girl," repeated Zygfried; "but this wolf

will yet make the sheep of the Order weep more than once."

"And our word?" queried Danveld, laughingly.

"You spoke differently...."

Danveld shrugged his shoulders. "Did you not have enough pleasure?" he

inquired. "Do you wish more?"

Others surrounded Jurand again and commenced to brag before him, praising

the upright conduct of Danveld, and the impression it made upon the

members of the Order.

"And what bone breaker!" said the captain of the castle-archers. "Your

heathen brethren would not have treated our Christian knights so!"

"You drank our blood?"

"And we give you bread for stones."

But Jurand paid no attention either to the pride or to the contempt which

their words contained: his heart swelled and his eyelashes were moist. He

thought that he would see Danusia in a moment, and that he would see her

actually by their favor; he therefore gazed at the speakers almost with

humility, and finally said:

"True! true! I used to be hard on you but ... not treacherous."

That instant a voice at the other end of the hall suddenly cried: "They

are bringing the girl;" and immediately silence reigned throughout the

hall. The soldiers scattered to both sides, because none of them had ever

seen Jurand's daughter, and the majority of them did not even know of her

presence in the castle on account of the secrecy with which Danveld

surrounded his actions; but those who knew, whispered to one another

about her admirable grace. All eyes turned with extreme curiosity toward

the door through which she was to appear.

Meanwhile a warrior appeared in front followed by the well-known servant

of the Order, the same woman that rode to the court in the forest. After

her entered a girl dressed in white, with loose hair tied with a ribbon

on the forehead.

And suddenly one great outburst of laughter, like the roaring of thunder,

rang through the entire hall. Jurand, who at the first moment had sprung

toward his daughter, suddenly recoiled and stood as pale as linen,

looking with surprise at the ill-shaped head, the bluish lips, and the

expressionless eyes of the wench who was restored to him as Danusia.

"This is not my daughter!" he said, in a terrifying voice.

"Not your daughter?" exclaimed Danveld. "By the holy Liboryusz of

Paderborn! Then either we did not rescue your daughter from the murderers

or some wizard has changed her, because there is no other in Szczytno."

Old Zygfried, Rotgier and Godfried exchanged quick glances with each

other, full of admiration at the shrewdness of Danveld, but none of them

had time enough to speak, because Jurand began to shout with a terrible

voice:

"She is, she is in Szczytno! I heard her sing, I heard the voice of dear

Danusia!"

Upon that Danveld turned to those assembled and said quietly but

pointedly:

"I take you all present as witnesses and especially you, Zygfried of

Insburk, and you pious brothers, Rotgier and Godfried, that, according to

my word and given promise, I restore that girl, who was said by the

robbers whom we defeated, to be the daughter of Jurand of Spychow. If she

is not--it is not our fault, but rather the will of our Lord, who in that

manner wished to deliver Jurand into our hands."

Zygfried and the two younger brethren bowed to signify that they heard

and would testify in case of necessity. Then again they glanced quickly

at each other, because it was more than they ever could have expected to

capture Jurand, not to restore his daughter, and still ostensibly to keep

a promise; who else could do that?

But Jurand threw himself upon his knees and commenced to conjure Danveld

by all the relics in Malborg, then by the ashes and heads of his parents,

to restore to him his true child and not proceed like a swindler and

traitor, breaking oaths and promises. His voice contained so much despair

and truth, that some began to suspect treason; others again thought that

some wizard had actually changed the appearance of the girl.

"God looks upon your treason!" exclaimed Jurand. "By the Saviour's

wounds, by the hour of your death, return my child!"

And arising, he went bent double toward Danveld, as if he wished to

embrace his knees; and his eyes glittered with madness, and his voice

broke alternately with pain, fear, and dread. Danveld, hearing the

accusations of treason and deceit in presence of all, commenced to snort,

and at length his features worked with rage; so that like a flame in his

desire utterly to crush the unfortunate, he advanced and bending down to

his ear, whispered through his set teeth: "If I ever give her up, it will

be with my bastard...."

But at that very moment Jurand roared like a bull, and with both hands he

caught Danveld and raised him high in the air.

The hall still resounded with the terrible cry: "Save me!" when the body

of the count struck the stone floor with such terrible force that the

brains from the shattered skull bespattered Zygfried and Rotgier who

stood by. Jurand sprang to the wall, near which stood the arms, and

snatching a large two-handed weapon, ran like a storm at the Germans, who

were petrified with terror. The people were used to battles, butchery and

blood, and yet their hearts sank to such an extent that even after the

panic had passed, they commenced to retreat and escape like a flock of

sheep before a wolf who kills with one stroke of his claws. The hall

resounded with the cry of terror, with the sound of human footsteps, the

clang of the overturned vessels, the howling of the servants, the

growling of the bear, who, tearing himself out of the hands of the

trainer, started to climb on a high window, and a terror-stricken cry for

arms and targets, weapons and crossbows. Finally weapons gleamed, and a

number of sharp points were directed toward Jurand, but he, not caring

for anything, half crazed, sprang toward them, and there commenced an

unheard-of wild fight, resembling a butchery more than a contest of arms.

The young and fiery Brother Godfried was the first to intercept Jurand's

way, but he severed his head, hand and shoulder-blade with a lightning

swing of his weapon; after him fell by Jurand's hand the captain of the

archers, and the castle administrator, von Bracht and the Englishman

Hugues, who, although he did not very well understand the cause, pitied

Jurand and his sufferings, and only drew his weapon when Danveld was

killed. Others, seeing the terrible force and the fury of the man,

gathered closely together, so as to offer combined resistance, but this

plan brought about a still greater defeat, because he, with his hair

standing upright on his head, with maddened eyes, covered all over with

blood, panting, raging and furious, broke, tore and cut with terrible

strokes of his sword that battered group, casting men to the floor,

splashed all over with clotted blood, as a storm overturns bushes and

trees. Then followed a moment of terrific fright, in which it seemed that

this terrible Mazovian, all by himself, would hew and slay all these

people. Like a pack of barking hounds that cannot overpower a fierce boar

without the assistance of the hunters, so were those armed Germans; they

could not match his might and fierceness in that fight which resulted

only in their death and discomfiture.

"Scatter! surround him! strike from behind!" shrieked old Zygfried von

Löve.

They consequently dispersed through the hall like a flock of starlings in

the field upon which a hawk with crooked beak swoops from a height, but

they could not surround him, because, in the heat of the fight, instead

of looking for a place of defence, he commenced to chase them around the

walls and whoever was overtaken died as if thunderstruck. Humiliation,

despair, disappointed hope, changed into one thirst for blood, seemed to

multiply tenfold his terrific natural strength. A weapon, for which the

most powerful of the Knights of the Cross needed both hands, he managed

to wield with one as if it were a feather. He did not care for his life,

nor look for escape; he did not even crave for victory; he sought

revenge, and like a fire, or like a river, which breaking a dam, blindly

destroys everything obstructing its flow, so he, a terrible, blindfolded

destroyer, tore, broke, trampled, killed and extinguished human beings.

They could not hurt him in his back, because, in the beginning they were

unable to overtake him; moreover the common soldiers feared to come near

him even from behind; they knew that if he happened to turn no human

power could save them from death. Others were simply terror-stricken at

the thought, that an ordinary man could cause so much havoc, and that

they were dealing with a man who was aided by some superhuman power.

But old Zygfried, and with him Brother Rotgier, rushed to the gallery

which extended above the large windows of the hall, and commenced to call

others to take shelter after them; these did so in haste, so that, on the

narrow stairs, they pushed each other in their desire to get up as

quickly as possible and thence to strike the strong knight, with whom any

hand to hand struggle appeared to them impossible.

Finally, the last one banged the door leading to the gallery and Jurand

remained alone below. From the gallery the sounds of joy and triumph

reached him, and soon heavy oak benches and iron collars of torches began

to fall upon the nobleman. One of the missiles struck him on the forehead

and bathed his face with blood. At the same time the large entrance door

opened, and through the upper windows the summoned servants rushed into

the hall in a body, armed with pikes, halberds, axes, crossbows,

palisades, poles, ropes and all varieties of weapons, which they could

hurriedly get hold of. And with his left hand the mad Jurand wiped the

blood from his face, so as not to obstruct his sight, gathered himself

together, and threw himself at the entire throng. In the hall again

resounded groans, the clash of iron, the gnashing of teeth and the

piercing voices of the slain men.

In the same hall, behind the table that evening, sat old Zygfried von

Löve, who, after the bailiff Danveld, temporarily took command of

Szczytno, and near him were Brother Rotgier, and the knight von Bergow, a

former prisoner of Jurand's and two noble youths, novices, who were soon

to put on white mantles. The wintry storm was howling outside the

windows, shaking the leaden window-frames; the torchlights, which were

burning in iron frames, wavered, and now and then the wind drove clouds

of smoke from the chimney into the hall. Silence reigned among the

brethren, although they were assembled for a consultation, because they

were waiting for the word from Zygfried, who, again resting his elbows on

the table and running his hands over his grey and bowed head, sat gloomy

with his face in the shadow and with sullen thoughts in his soul.

"About what are we to deliberate?" finally asked Brother Rotgier.

Zygfried raised his head, looked at the speaker, and, awakening from

thought, said:

"About the defeat, about what the master and the assembly will say, and

about this, that our actions may not cause any loss to the Order." He was

silent again, but after a while he looked around and moved his nostrils:

"There is still a smell of blood here."

"No, count," replied Rotgier; "I ordered the floor to be scrubbed and the

place to be fumigated with sulphur. It is the odor of sulphur."

And Zygfried looked at those present with a strange glance, and said:

"God have mercy upon the soul of our brothers Danveld and Godfried!"

They again understood that he implored God's mercy upon their souls,

because, at the mention of sulphur, he thought of hell; therefore a chill

ran through their bones and all at once replied: "Amen! amen! amen!"

After a moment the howling of the wind and the rattling of the

window-frames were heard again.

"Where are the bodies of the count and Brother Godfried?" inquired the

old man.

"In the chapel: the priests are chanting the litany over them."

"Are they already in coffins?"

"In coffins, only the count's head is covered, because his skull and face

are crushed."

"Where are the other corpses, and where are the wounded?"

"The corpses are in the snow so as to stiffen whilst the coffins are

being made, and the wounded are being attended to in the hospital."

Zygfried again ran his hands over his head.

"And one man did that!... God, have the Order under Thy care, when it

comes to a great war with this wolfish race!"

Upon that Rotgier turned up his eyes, as if recollecting something, and

said: "I heard in Wilno, how the bailiff of Samboz spoke to his brother

the master: 'If you do not make a great war and get rid of them, so that

even their name shall not remain, then woe to us and our nation.'"

"May God give such a war and a meeting with them!" said one of the noble

novices.

Zygfried looked at him for some time, as if he wanted to say: "You could

have met one of them to-day," but seeing the small and youthful figure of

the novice, and perhaps remembering that he himself, although famous for

his courage, did not care to expose himself to a sure destruction,

refrained and inquired:

"Who saw Jurand?"

"I," replied von Bergow.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, he lies in the same net in which we entrapped him. When he awoke

the servants wanted to kill him, but the chaplain would not allow it."

"He cannot be executed. He is too great a man among his people, and there

would be a terrible clamor," replied Zygfried. "It will be also

impossible to hide what has happened, because there were too many

witnesses."

"What then are we to say and do?" inquired Rotgier.

Zygfried meditated, and finally said:

"You, noble Count von Bergow go to Malborg to the master. You were

groaning in Jurand's slavery, and are now a guest of the Order; therefore

as such, and because you need not necessarily speak in favor of the

monks, they will rather believe you. Tell, then, what you saw, that

Danveld, having recovered from a band of rogues a certain girl and

thinking her to be Jurand's daughter, informed the latter, who also came

to Szczytno, and what happened further you know yourself."

"Pardon me, pious count," said von Bergow. "I suffered great hardships as

a slave in Spychow, and as your guest, I would gladly testify for you;

but tell me, for the sake of quieting my soul, whether there was not a

real daughter of Jurand's in Szczytno, and whether it was not Danveld's

treason that drove her father to madness?"

Zygfried von Löve hesitated for a moment with his answer; in his nature

lay deep hatred toward the Polish nation, and barbarity in which he

exceeded even Danveld, and rapacity, and, when the Order was in question,

pride and avarice, but there was no falsehood. It was the greatest

bitterness and grief of his life, that lately, through insubordination

and riot, the affairs of the Order had turned in such a manner that

falsehood had become one of the most general and unavoidable factors of

the life of the Order. Therefore von Bergow's inquiry touched the most

painful string of his soul, and, after a long silence, he said:

"Danveld stands before God, and God will judge him, while you, duke,

should they ask you for conjectures, answer what you please; should they

again ask you about what you saw, then say that before we coiled a wild

man in a net you saw nine corpses, besides the wounded, on this floor,

and among them the bodies of Danveld, Brother Godfried, von Bracht and

Hugues, and two noble youths.... God, give them eternal peace. Amen!"

"Amen! Amen!" again repeated the novices.

"And say also," added Zygfried, "that although Danveld wished to subdue

the foe of the Order, yet nobody here raised the first weapon against

Jurand."

"I shall say only what my eyes saw," replied von Bergow.

"Be in the chapel before midnight; we shall also go there to pray for the

souls of the dead," answered Zygfried.

He then extended his hand to him as a sign of gratitude and farewell; he

wished to remain for a further consultation alone with Brother Rotgier,

whom he loved and had great confidence in. After the withdrawal of von

Bergow, he also dismissed the two novices, under the pretence that they

might watch the work of the coffins for the common servants killed by

Jurand, and after the doors had closed behind them he turned with

animation to Rotgier, and said:

"Listen to what I am going to say: there is only one remedy: that no

living soul should ever find out that the real daughter of Jurand was

with us."

"It will not be difficult," replied Rotgier, "because nobody knew that

she was here except Danveld, Godfried, we two, and those servants of the

Order who watched her. Danveld ordered the people who brought her here to

be made intoxicated and hanged. There were some among the garrison who

suspected something, but that affair confused them, and they do not know

now themselves whether an error happened on our part, or whether some

wizard really exchanged Jurand's daughter."

"This is good," said Zygfried.

"I have been thinking again, noble count, whether, since Danveld lives no

longer, we should not cast all the guilt upon him...."

"And so admit before the whole world that we, in a time of peace and

concord with the prince of Mazowsze, ravished from his court the pupil of

the princess and her beloved courtlady? No, for God's sake! this cannot

be!... We were seen at the court together with Danveld; and the grand

master, his relative, knows that we always undertook everything

together.... If we accuse Danveld, he may desire to avenge his

memory...."

"Let us consult on that," said Rotgier. "Let us consult and find good

advice, because otherwise woe to us! If we return Jurand's daughter, then

she will say herself that we did not capture her from robbers, but that

the people who caught her carried her directly to Szczytno."

"That is so."

"And God is witness that I do not care for the responsibility alone. The

prince will complain to the Polish king, and their delegates will not

fail to clamor at all courts against our outrages, our treason, and our

crime. God alone knows how much loss the Order may suffer from it. The

master himself, if he knew the truth, ought to order that girl to be

hidden."

"And even if so, when that girl is lost, will they not accuse us?"

inquired Rotgier.

"No! Brother Danveld was a shrewd man. Do you remember, that he imposed

the condition on Jurand, that he should not only appear in Szczytno

personally, but also previously proclaim and write to the prince, that he

is going to ransom his daughter from the robbers, and that he knows that

she is not with us."

"True! but in that case how shall we justify what happened in Szczytno?"

"We shall say that knowing that Jurand was looking for his child, and

having captured some girl from the robbers and not being able to tell who

she was, we informed Jurand, thinking that this might possibly be his

daughter; on his arrival he fell into a fit at the sight of her, and,

being possessed with the devil, shed so much innocent blood that more

than one battle does not cost so much."

"That is true," replied Rotgier, "wisdom and the experience of age speak

through you. The bad deeds of Danveld, even if we should throw the guilt

on him, would always go to the account of the Order, therefore, to the

account of all of us, the assembly and the master himself; so again our

innocence will become apparent, and all will fall upon Jurand, the

iniquity of the Poles and their connection with infernal powers...."

"And then whoever wishes may judge us; the Pope, or the Roman Emperor!"

"Yes!" Then followed a moment of silence, after which Brother Rotgier

questioned:

"What shall we do then with Jurand's daughter?"

"Let us consult."

"Give her to me."

And Zygfried looked at him and replied:

"No I Listen, young brother! When the Order is in question, do not trust

a man, woman nor even your own self. Danveld was reached by God's hand,

because he not only wished to revenge the wrongs of the Order, but also

to satisfy his own desires."

"You misjudge me!" said Rotgier.

"Do not trust yourself," interrupted Zygfried, "because your body and

soul will become effeminate, and the knee of that hard race will some day

bear heavily upon your breast, so that you will not be able to arise any

more." And he the third time rested his gloomy head on his hand, but he

apparently conversed with his own conscience only, and thought of himself

only, because he said after a while:

"Much human blood, much pain, many tears weigh heavily on me also ...

moreover I did not hesitate to seek other means, when the Order was in

question, and when I saw I should not succeed by mere force; but when I

stand before the Almighty, I shall tell Him: 'I did that for the Order,

and for myself--what I chose.'"

And having said this, he put his hands to his breast and opened a dark

cloth garment, beneath which appealed a sackcloth. He then pressed his

temples with his hands, raised his head and eyes, and exclaimed:

"Give up pleasures and profligacy, harden your bodies and hearts, because

even now I see the whiteness of the eagle's feathers in the air and its

claws reddened with Teutonic blood!..."

Further speech was interrupted by such a terrible knock of the gate that

one window above the gallery opened with a crash, and the entire hall was

filled with a howling and whistling of the storm and with snowflakes.

"In the name of God, His Son and the Holy Ghost! this is a bad night,"

remarked the old Teuton.

"A night of unclean powers," answered Rotgier.

"Are there priests with Danveld's body?"

"Yes.... He departed without absolution.... God have mercy upon him!"