And both ceased speaking. Rotgier presently called some boys, and ordered

them to shut the window and light the torches, and after they had gone

away, he again inquired:

"What will you do with Jurand's daughter? Will you take her away from

here to Insburk?"

"I shall take her to Insburk and do with her what the good of the Order

demands."

"What am I to do then?"

"Have you courage in your heart?"

"What have I done to make you doubt it?"

"I doubt not because I know you and love you as my own son for your

courage. Go then to the court of the prince of Mazowsze and narrate

everything that has happened here, according to our arrangement."

"Can I expose myself to certain destruction?"

"You ought, if your destruction will bring glory to the Cross and Order.

But no! Destruction does not await you. They do no harm to a guest:

unless somebody should challenge you, as that young knight did who

challenged us all ... he, or somebody else, but that is not terrible...."

"May God grant it! they can seize me though and cast me under ground."

"They will not do that. Remember that there is Jurand's letter to the

prince, and besides that you will go to accuse Jurand. Narrate faithfully

what he did in Szczytno, and they must believe you.... We were even the

first to inform him that there was a certain girl; we were the first to

invite him to come to see her, and he came, went mad, killed the count

and slew our people. Thus you will speak, and what can they say to you?

Danveld's death will certainly resound throughout the whole Mazowsze. On

that account they will fail to bring charges. They will actually look for

Jurand's daughter, but, since Jurand himself wrote that she is not here,

no suspicion will fall upon us. It is necessary to face them boldly and

close their mouths, because they will also think that if we were guilty,

none of us would dare to go there."

"True! I will set out on the journey immediately after Danveld's

funeral."

"May God bless you, my dear son! If you do all properly, they not only

will not detain you, but they will have to disavow Jurand, so that we may

not be able to say: 'Look how they treat us!'"

"And so we must sue at all courts."

"The grand master will attend to that for the benefit of the Order,

besides being Danveld's relative."

"But if that devil of Spychow should survive and regain his liberty!..."

A dark look came into Zygfried's eyes and he replied slowly and

emphatically:

"Even if he should regain his liberty, he will never utter a word of

accusation against the Order."

He then commenced again to instruct Rotgier, what to say and demand at

the court in Mazowsze.

CHAPTER II.

The rumor of the occurrence in Szczytno arrived in Warsaw however before

Brother Rotgier, and there excited amazement and concern. Neither the

king himself, nor anybody else at the court, could understand what had

happened. Shortly before, just when Mikolaj of Dlugolas was starting for

Malborg with the prince's letter, in which he bitterly complained of the

capture of Danusia by turbulent border counts and almost threateningly

demanded her instant restoration, a letter had arrived from the owner of

Spychow stating that his daughter was not captured by the Teutons, but by

ordinary border bandits, and that she would be soon released for a

ransom. On that account the messenger did not leave; nobody ever dreamed

of the Teutons extorting such a letter from Jurand by the threat of his

daughter's death. It was difficult to understand what had happened,

because the border chiefs, who were subjects of the prince as well as of

the Order, attacked one another in the summer, but not in the winter when

the snows betrayed their trail. They also usually attacked merchants, or

perpetrated robberies in the villages, capturing people and seizing their

herds, but to dare to attack the prince himself and to capture his

protégée, who was at the same time the daughter of a powerful and

universally feared knight, this seemed entirely to exceed human belief.

This, as well as other doubts, was answered by Jurand's letter under his

own seal, brought this time by a man who was known to come from Spychow;

under such circumstances all suspicions became impossible; the prince

only became more enraged than he had ever been seen before, and he

ordered a pursuit of the ravishers throughout the border of his

principality, at the same time ordering the prince of Plock to do the

same and not fail to punish the insolent fellows.

Just then arrived the news of what had happened at Szczytno.

And as it passed from mouth to mouth, it was multiplied tenfold. It was

said that Jurand, having arrived all alone in the castle, ran in through

the open gate and there committed such slaughter that the garrison was so

terrified that it had to send for help to the neighboring castles, to

summon the superior knighthood and armed foot-soldiers, who only after a

two days' siege succeeded in reentering the castle and there slaying

Jurand as well as his associates. It was also said that those forces

would probably cross the border, and that a great war would undoubtedly

begin. The prince, who knew of how great consequence it was to the grand

master in case of war with the Polish king for the powers of both

principalities of Mazowsze to remain neutral, did not believe these

stories, because it was no secret to him, that should the Teutons declare

war on him or the principality of Plock, no human power could keep the

Poles back; the master therefore dreaded that war. He knew that it must

come, but he wished to postpone it, firstly, because he was of a peaceful

disposition, and secondly, because, in order to meet Jagiello's power, it

was necessary to gather a strength which the Order until now had never

yet possessed, and at the same time to secure the assistance of the

princes and knighthood, not only in Germany, but also in the entire West.

The prince, therefore, did not fear the war, but he wished to know what

had happened, what he really was to think of the occurrence in Szczytno,

of the disappearance of Danusia, and all those stories which arrived from

the border; he was also glad, although he hated the Teutons, when on a

certain evening the captain of the archers informed him that a knight of

the Order had arrived and begged for an audience.

He received him proudly, nevertheless, and although he recognized him

instantly as one of the brethren who were in the Forest Court, he

pretended not to recollect him and inquired who he was, whence he came,

and what caused his arrival in Warsaw.

"I am Brother Rotgier," replied the Teuton, "and a short time ago I had

the honor to bow before your Highness."

"Why then, being a brother, do you not wear the insignia of the Order?"

The knight commenced to explain that he did not wear a white cloak,

because by so doing he would be undoubtedly captured or killed by the

knighthood of Mazowsze: throughout the whole world, in all kingdoms and

principalities, the sign of the cross on the cloak is a protection and

gains human good-will and hospitality, and only in the principality of

Mazowsze does the cross expose the man who wears it to certain death.

But the prince interrupted him angrily:

"Not the cross," he said, "because we also kiss it, but your vices and if

they receive you better elsewhere it is, because they do not know you so

well."

Then, seeing that the knight was greatly troubled at these words, he

inquired: "Were you in Szczytno, do you know what happened there?"

"I was in Szczytno and know what happened there," replied Rotgier, "and I

came here not as any one's messenger, but only because the experienced

and pious count of Insburk told me: 'Our master loves the pious prince

and trusts in his justice, therefore while I hasten to Malborg, you go to

Mazowsze and state our grievance, our disgrace, our misery. The just lord

will surely not praise a violator of peace and a cruel aggressor, who has

shed so much Christian blood, as though he were not Christ's servant but

Satan's.'" And then he commenced to narrate everything that had occurred

in Szczytno: How Jurand, who had been summoned by them to see whether the

girl whom they had taken away from the robbers was not his daughter,

instead of repaying that with thankfulness, had fallen into a fit; how he

had killed Danveld, Brother Godfried, the Englishmen Hugues, von Bracht

and two noble warriors, not counting the servants; how they, remembering

God's commandment and not wishing to kill, had finally been compelled to

coil the terrible man in a net, who had then turned his sword against

himself and wounded himself terribly; how lastly, not only in the castle

but also in the tower, there were people, who, in the midst of a wintry

gale during the night after the fight, had heard terrible laughter and

voices in the air calling: "Our Jurand! Wrongdoer of the cross! Shedder

of innocent blood! Our Jurand!"

And the whole story, especially the last words of the Teuton, made a

great impression upon all present. Terror fell upon them all. They were

simply overwhelmed with fear lest Jurand had actually summoned unclean

powers to his assistance, and deep silence followed. But the princess,

who was present at the audience, and who, loving Danusia, had a heart

full of inconsolable sorrow for her, turned with an unexpected question

to Rotgier: "You say, knight," she remarked, "that, after capturing the

girl, you thought her to be Jurand's daughter, and therefore summoned him

to Szczytno?"

"Yes, beloved lady," replied Rotgier.

"How could you have thought so, since you saw the real daughter of Jurand

with me in the Forest Court?"

At that Brother Rotgier became embarrassed, because he was not prepared

for such a question. The prince arose and fixed a severe look on the

Teuton, while Mikolaj of Dlugolas, Mrokota of Mocarzew, Jasko of

Jagielnica and other knights of Mazowsze instantly sprang toward the

brother, inquiring alternately with threatening voices:

"How could you have thought so? Speak, German I How could that be?"

And Brother Rotgier recovered himself and said: "We brethren do not raise

our eyes to women. In the Forest Court with the beloved princess there

were many court ladies, but which among them was Jurand's daughter, none

of us knew."

"Danveld knew," said Mikolaj of Dlugolas. "He even talked to her during

the hunt."

"Danveld stands before God," replied Rotgier, "and of him I shall only

say that the following morning blooming roses were found on his coffin,

which, in this wintry weather, could not come there by human hands."

Then again followed silence.

"How did you know of the capture of Jurand's daughter?" inquired the

prince.

"Only the wickedness and audacity of the deed made it known to us.

Therefore on hearing about it, we ordered thanksgiving masses because

only a plain court lady, and not one of the children born of your

Highness, was captured from the Forest Court."

"But I still wonder, how you could mistake a wench for Jurand's

daughter."

"Danveld said: 'Often Satan betrayed his servants, so perhaps he changed

Jurand's daughter.'"

"The robbers though, as vulgar men, could not counterfeit Kaleb's writing

and Jurand's seal. Who could have done it?"

"The Evil Spirit."

And again nobody could find an answer.

Rotgier glanced searchingly into the prince's eyes and said: "Indeed,

these questions are like weapons in my breast, because they contain doubt

and suspicion. But I trust in God's justice and the power of truth. I ask

of your majesty: even Jurand himself suspected us of that action, and

when suspecting, before we summoned him to Szczytno, why did he search

for robbers through the whole border in order to buy his daughter back

from them?"

"It is true!" said the prince. "Even if you were hiding something from

men, you cannot hide it from God. He suspected you in the first moment

but then ... then he thought differently."

"Behold how the brightness of truth conquers the darkness," said Rotgier,

and he glanced triumphantly around the hall; he thought that Teutonic

heads had more adroitness and sense than the Polish, and that the latter

race would always be the prey and food of the Order, as a fly is the prey

and food of the spider.

Therefore, throwing off his previous disguise, he approached the prince

and commenced to speak in loud and impetuous tones:

"Requite us, lord, our losses, our grievances, our tears, and our blood!

That hell-hound was your subject; therefore, in the name of God from whom

the power of kings and princes is derived, in the name of justice and the

cross, requite us for our grievances and blood!"

But the prince looked at him in astonishment.

"For God's sake!" he said, "what do you want? if Jurand shed your blood

in madness, am I to answer for his frenzy?"

"He was your subject, lord," said the Teuton, "in your principality lie

his possessions, his villages and his castle, in which he imprisoned the

servants of the Order; at least let these possessions, this domain and

that wicked castle, become henceforth the property of the Order. Truly

this will not be an adequate payment for the noble blood shed! truly it

will not revive the dead, but perhaps it will partly appease God's anger

and wipe away the disgrace, which will otherwise fall upon this entire

principality. O, lord! The Order possesses grounds and castles

everywhere, which were given to it by the favor and piety of the

Christian princes, and only here in your territory have we no particle of

land. Let our grievance, which calls to God for vengeance, be at least so

rewarded that we may say that here also live people, who have the fear of

God in their hearts!" Hearing this, the prince was still more amazed, and

then, after a long silence, replied:

"For God's sake! And through whose clemency, if not through that of my

ancestors, does your Order even exist here? The lands, estates and

towers, which once upon a time belonged to us and our nation, and which

now are your property, do these not suffice for you yet? Jurand's girl is

yet alive because nobody has informed you of her death, while you already

want to seize the orphan's dower, and requite your grievances with an

orphan's bread?"

"Lord, you admit the wrong," said Rotgier, "consequently right it

according to what your princely conscience and your honest soul

dictates." And he was again glad in his heart, because he thought: "Now,

they not only will not sue but they will even consider how to wash their

hands and to evade the whole matter. Nobody will blame us for anything,

and our fame will be as spotless as the white cloak of the Order."

Just then the voice of old Mikolaj of Dlugolas was heard: "They suspect

you of being avaricious and God knows whether justly or no, because even

in this matter, you care more for the profits than the honor of the

Order."

"True!" cried the Mazovian knights in chorus. Then the Teuton advanced a

few steps, proudly raised his head, and measuring them with a haughty

look, said:

"I do not come here as a messenger, but merely as a witness of the affair

and a knight of the Order who is ready to defend the honor of the Order

with his own blood to the last gasp! Who, then, in contradiction to

Jurand's own words, dares to suspect the Order of having captured his

daughter--let him raise this knightly pledge and submit to God's

judgment!"

Having said this, he cast before them his knightly glove, which fell upon

the floor; they again stood in deep silence, because, although more than

one of them would have liked to break his weapon on the Teuton's back,

they all feared God's judgment. Every one knew that Jurand had expressly

stated that the knights of the Order had not captured his child; so they

all thought to themselves, "It is a just cause; consequently Rotgier will

be victorious."

He again became so much the more insolent, and leaning upon his loins,

inquired:

"If it is so, who will raise that glove?"

Just then, a knight, whose entrance nobody had yet observed, and who for

some time had listened at the door to the conversation, advanced to the

centre, raised the gauntlet and said:

"I will!" and so saying, he stared directly into Rotgier's face, and then

began to speak with a voice which in that universal silence resounded

like thunder through the hall:

"Before God, before the august prince and all the honorable knighthood of

this land, I tell you, Teuton, that you bark like a dog against justice

and truth--and I challenge you to a combat on foot, or horseback, with

lance or axe, short or long weapons, and not unto imprisonment but unto

the last gasp, unto death!"

A fly could be heard in the hall. All eyes were turned upon Rotgier and

the challenging knight, whom nobody recognized, because he had a helmet

covering his head, although without a steel cap, but with a circular

visor descending below the ear entirely covering the upper part of the

face, and casting a deep shadow over the lower part. The Teuton was no

less astonished than the rest. Confusion, pallor and raging anger chased

each other over his face, as lightning flashes across a mighty heaven.

He caught the gauntlet and attached it to the hook of his armlet, and

said:

"Who are you that challenge God's justice?"

The other then unbuckled his gorget, removed the helmet, beneath which

appeared a fair, youthful head, and said:

"Zbyszko of Bogdaniec, the husband of Jurand's daughter."

They were all amazed, and Rotgier, with the others, because none of them,

except the prince and his wife, Father Wyszoniek and de Lorche, knew of

Danusia's marriage; the Teutons moreover were confident that Jurand's

daughter had no other natural defender besides her father; but at that

moment de Lorche stood up and said:

"Upon my knightly honor I vouch for the truthfulness of his words; should

anybody dare to doubt it, here is my guage."

Rotgier, who did not know what fear meant, and whose heart swelled with

anger at this moment, would have perhaps accepted even this challenge,

but remembering that the man who cast it was powerful, and moreover a

relative of Duke Geldryi, he refrained, and the more readily, because the

prince himself arose and, wrinkling his brows, said:

"It is forbidden to accept this challenge, because I also declare that

this knight has told the truth."

The Teuton, on hearing this, bowed, and then said to Zbyszko:

"If you wish it, then on foot, in closed lists with axes."

"I have already challenged you in all ways," replied Zbyszko.

"May God give the victory to justice!" exclaimed the Mazovian knights.

CHAPTER III.

There was anxiety about Zbyszko in the whole court, among the knights as

well as among the ladies, because he was universally liked; but,

according to Jurand's letter, nobody doubted that the right was on the

side of the Teuton. On the other hand it was known that Rotgier was one

of the more famous brethren of the Order. The squire van Krist narrated

among the Mazovian nobility, perhaps on purpose, that his lord before

becoming an armed monk, once sat at the Honor-Table of the Teutons, to

which table only world-famous knights were admitted, those who had

accomplished an expedition to the Holy Land, or fought victoriously

against giants, dragons, or mighty magicians. Hearing van Krist tell such

tales, and, at the same time, boast that his lord had repeatedly met five

opponents single-handed with his "dagger of mercy" in one hand and an axe

or sword in the other, the Mazurs were disquieted, and some said: "Oh, if

only Jurand were here, he could give an account of himself with even two;

no German ever escaped him yet, but the youth--bah!--for the other

exceeds him in strength, years and experience."

Therefore others regretted that they had not accepted the challenge,

asserting that they would undoubtedly have done so, if it had not been

for the news from Jurand. "But fear of the judgment of God...." On this

occasion, and for mutual entertainment, they recalled the names of

Mazovian and more often of Polish knights, who, either in courtly jousts

or hunting, had gained numerous victories over the western knights; above

all they mentioned Zawisza of Garbow, with whom no knight of the

Christian kingdom could cope. But there were also those who cherished

great hopes of Zbyszko: "He is not to be despised!" they said "and

according to common report he once admirably broke the heads of Germans

in fair field." But their hearts were particularly strengthened by the

action of Zbyszko's follower, the Bohemian Hlawa, who, on the eve of the

combat, hearing how van Krist was talking about Rotgier's unheard-of

victories, and being a hasty youth, caught van Krist by the beard, pulled

his head up, and said:

"If it is no shame to lie before men, then look up, so that God also may

hear you!"

And he kept him long enough to say a "Pater"; while the other, when at

length liberated, began to ask him about his lineage, and, having heard

that he sprang from the _wlodykas_, challenged him also to fight with

axes.

The Mazovians were delighted at such conduct, and again several said:

"Indeed these fellows will not hobble on the barn-floor; even if truth

and God be on their side these Teutonic women will not carry away sound

bones with them!"

But Rotgier succeeded in throwing dust in the eyes of all, so that many

were disquieted as to which had the truth on his side, and the prince

himself partook of that fear.

Therefore, on the evening before the combat, he summoned Zbyszko to a

consultation at which was present the princess only, and asked:

"Are you positive that God will be with you? How do you know that they

captured Danusia? Did Jurand perchance tell you any thing? Because, you

see, here is Jurand's letter, by the hand of the priest Kaleb, and his

seal, and in this letter Jurand says that he knows that it was not the

Teutons. What did he tell you?"

"He said that it was not the Teutons."

"How then can you risk your life and appeal to the judgment of God?"

Then Zbyszko was silent, and only his jaws worked for some time and tears

gathered in his eyes.

"I know nothing, gracious lord," he said. "We left here together with

Jurand, and on the way I admitted our marriage. He then began to lament

that this might be a sin against God, but when I told him it was God's

will, he quieted down and forgave me. Along the whole way he said that

nobody captured Danusia but the Teutons, and what happened afterward I do

not know myself! That woman who brought certain medicines for me to the

Forest Court, came to Spychow, accompanied by another messenger. They

shut themselves up with Jurand and deliberated. Neither do I know what

they said, only after the interview his own servants could not recognize

Jurand, because he looked as if he had risen from the grave. He told us:

'Not the Teutons,' but he released von Bergow and all the prisoners he

had underground, God knows why! he himself again rode away without any

warrior or servant.... He said that he was riding after robbers to ransom

Danusia, and ordered me to wait. And I waited until the news from

Szczytno arrived, that Jurand had slain Germans and fallen himself. Oh!

gracious lord! The soil in Spychow almost scorched me and I nearly ran

mad. I made people mount horses in order to revenge Jurand's death, and

then the priest Kaleb said: 'You will not be able to take the castle, and

do not commence war. Go to the prince, perhaps they know something about

Danusia there.' Hlawa and I arrived, and just heard how that dog was

barking about Teutonic grievances and Jurand's frenzy.... My lord, I

accepted his challenge, because I had challenged him before, and although

I know nothing, this much I know, that they are hellish liars--without

shame, without honor and without belief! Look, gracious lord, they

stabbed de Fourcy to death and tried to cast the guilt upon my follower!

By God! they stabbed him like an ox, and then they came to you, lord, for

vengeance and retribution! Who will swear then, that they did not lie to

Jurand before, and now do the same to you, lord?... I know not, I know

not where Danusia is but I challenged him, because, even if I were to

lose my life, I prefer death to life without my love, without the one who

is clearest to me in the whole world."

Saying this in rapture, he tore off a band from his head, so that his

hair fell about his shoulders, and clutching it, he began to weep

bitterly, until the princess Anna Danuta was moved to the bottom of her

soul for the loss of Danusia, and, pitying him for his sufferings, laid

her hands upon his head, and said:

"May God help you, console and bless you!"

CHAPTER IV.

The prince did not object to the duel, because, according to the customs

of that time, he had no power to do so. He only prevailed upon Rotgier to

write a letter to the master and to Zygfried von Löve, stating that he

was the first to throw down the gauntlet to the Mazovian knights, in

consequence of which he appeared at a combat with the husband of Jurand's

daughter, who had already challenged him once before.

The Teuton also explained to the grand master, that if he appeared at the

duel without permission, he did it for the sake of the honor of the

Order, and to avert ugly suspicions, which might entail disgrace, and

which he, Rotgier, was always prepared to redeem with his own blood. This

letter was sent instantly to the border by one of the knight's footmen,

to be sent thence to Malborg by mail, which the Teutons, some years

before others, invented and introduced into their possessions.

Meanwhile the snow in the courtyard was leveled and strewn with ashes, so

that the feet of the fighters should neither clog nor slip upon the

smooth surface. There was unusual excitement in the whole castle.

The knights and court ladies were so agitated that on the night preceding

the fight nobody slept. They said, that a fight on horseback with spears,

and even with swords, frequently terminates in wounds; on foot on the

contrary, and particularly with terrible axes, it always terminates in

death. All hearts were with Zbyszko, but the very ones who felt most

friendly toward him or Danusia recollected with so much more fear the

stories about the fame and dexterity of the Teuton. Many ladies spent the

night in church, where also Zbyszko confessed to the priest Wyszoniek,

They said one to another as they looked at his almost boyish face: "Why,

he is a child yet! how can he expose his head to the German axe?" And

they prayed the more fervently for aid for him. But when he arose at

daybreak and walked through the chapel, in order to put on his arms in

the hall, they again gained courage, because, although Zbyszko's features

were indeed boyish, his body was of an extraordinary size, and strong, so

that he seemed to them to be a picked man, who could take care of himself

against even the most powerful.

The fight was to take place in the castle yard, which was surrounded by a

porch. When it was broad daylight, the prince and princess arrived

together with their children and took their seats in the centre between

the pillars, from where the whole yard could best be overlooked. Next to

them were the principal courtiers, noble ladies, and the knighthood. All

the corners of the vestibule were filled: the domestics gathered behind

the wall which was made from the swept snow, some clung to the posts, and

even to the roof. There the vulgar muttered among themselves: "God grant

that our champion may not be subdued!"

The day was cold, moist, but clear; the sky swarmed with daws, which

inhabited the roofs and summits of the bastions, and which, scared by the

unusual bustle, moved in circles, with great clapping of wings, over the

castle. Notwithstanding the cold, the people perspired with excitement,

and when the first horn sounded to announce the entrance of the

combatants, all hearts began to beat like hammers.

They entered from opposite sides of the arena and halted at the barriers.

Every one of the onlookers then held his breath, every one thought, that

very soon two souls would escape to the threshold of the Divine Court and

two dead bodies remain on the snow, and the lips, as well as the cheeks

of the women turned pale and livid at that thought; the eyes of the men

again gazed steadfastly at the opponents as at a rainbow, because every

one was trying to forecast, from their postures and armament alone, which

side would be victorious.

The Teuton was dressed in an enameled blue cuirass, with similar armor

for the thighs, as also the helmet with raised visor, and with a

magnificent bunch of peacock feathers on the crest. Zbyszko's breast,

sides and back were encased in splendid Milanese mail, which he had once

captured from the Fryzjans. He had on his head a helmet with an open

visor, and without feathers; on his legs was bull's hide. On their left

shoulders, they carried shields with coat of arms; on the Teuton's at the

top was a chessboard, at the bottom, three lions rampant; on Zbyszko's, a

blunt horseshoe. In the right hand they carried broad, huge, terrible

axes, set in oaken, blackened helves, longer than the arm of a grown man.

The warriors who seconded them were: Hlawa, called by Zbyszko, Glowacz,

and van Krist, both dressed in dark iron mail, both equally with axes and

shields: van Krist had on his shield a St. John's wort; the shield of the

Bohemian resembled that of the _Pomian_, with this difference, that

instead of an axe stuck in a bull's head, it had a short weapon half sunk

in the eye.

The horn sounded the second time, and, at the third, the opponents,

according to agreement, were to advance against each other. A small space

strewn with grey ashes now only separated them; over that space hovered

in the air like an ominous bird--death. But before the third signal was

given, Rotgier approached the pillars between which sat the prince's

family, raised his steel-encased head, and began to speak in such a loud

voice that he was heard in all corners of the vestibule:

"I take God, you, worthy lord, and the whole knighthood of this soil, as

witness that I am not guilty of the blood that is about to be shed."

At these words their hearts were again ready to break with grief, seeing

that the Teuton was so confident of himself and his victory. But Zbyszko,

having a simple soul, turned to his Bohemian, and said:

"That Teutonic boasting stinks; it would be more appropriate after my

death than while I am alive. That boaster moreover has a peacock's plume

on his helmet, and at the very outset I made a vow to obtain three of

them and afterward as many fingers of the hand. God grant it!"

"Lord ..." said the Bohemian, bending down and picking up in his hands

some ashes from the snow, to prevent the axe-handle from slipping in his

hand; "perhaps Christ will permit me quickly to despatch that vile

Prussian, and then perhaps, if not to defeat this Teuton, at least put

the handle of the axe between his knees and upset him."

"God save you!" hastily exclaimed Zbyszko; "you would cover me and

yourself with disgrace."

But at that moment the horn sounded the third time. On hearing it, the

seconds sprang quickly and furiously at each other, while the knights

moved slowly and deliberately, as their dignity and gravity demanded, for

the first bout.

Very few paid attention to the seconds, but those of the experienced men

and of the domestics who looked at them understood at once how great were

the odds on Hlawa's side. The German wielded the heavier axe and his

shield was cumbersome. Below the shield were visible his legs which were

longer, though not so strong nor active as the sturdy and tightly covered

legs of the Bohemian.

Hlawa moreover pressed so vigorously that van Krist, almost from the

first moment, was compelled to retreat. It was instantly understood that

one of the adversaries would fall upon the other like a tempest; that he

would attack and strike like lightning, while the other, under the

conviction that death was already upon him, would merely defend himself

so as to postpone the terrible moment as long as possible.

And so it actually was. That boaster, who generally stood up to fight

only when he could not do otherwise, now recognized that his insolent and

heedless words had led him into a fight with a terrible giant whom he

ought to have avoided like a perdition; and so, when he now felt that

every one of these blows could kill an ox, his heart began to fail

entirely. He almost forgot that it is not sufficient to catch the blows

on the shield, but that it was also necessary to return them. He saw

above him the lightning of the axe and thought that every gleam was the

last. Holding up the shield, he involuntarily half closed his eyes with a

feeling of terror and doubt whether he would ever open them again. Very

rarely he gave a blow himself, but without any hope of reaching his

opponent, and raised the shield constantly higher over his head, so as to

save it yet for a little.

Finally he began to tire, but the Bohemian struck on constantly more

powerfully. Just as from a tall pine-tree great chips fly under the

peasant's axe, so under the Bohemian's strokes fragments began to scale

off and fly from the German warrior's armor. The upper edge of the shield

was bent and shattered, the mail from the right shoulder rolled to the

ground, together with the cut and already bloody strap of leather. This

made van Krist's hair stand on end--and a deadly fear seized him. He

struck with all the force of his arm once and again at the Bohemian's

shield; finally, seeing that he had no chance against his adversary's

terrible strength and that only some extraordinary exertion could save

him, he threw himself suddenly with all the weight of his armor and body

against Hlawa's legs. Both fell to the ground and tried to overcome each

other, rolling and struggling in the snow. But the Bohemian soon appeared

on top; for a moment he still checked the desperate efforts of his

opponent; finally he pressed his knee upon the chain-armor covering his

belly, and took from the back of his belt a short three-edged "dagger of

mercy."[109]

"Spare me!" faintly gasped van Krist, raising his eyes toward those of

the Bohemian.

But the latter, instead of answering, stretched himself upon him the

easier to reach his neck, and, cutting through the leather fastening of

the helmet under the chin, stabbed the unfortunate man twice in the

throat, directing the sharp edge downward toward the centre of the

breast.

Then van Krist's pupils sank in their sockets, his hands and legs began

to beat the snow, as if trying to clean it of the ashes, but after a

moment he stiffened out and lay motionless, breathing only with red,

foam-covered lips, and bleeding profusely.

But the Bohemian arose, wiped the "dagger of mercy" on the German's

clothing, then raised the axe, and, leaning against it, he began to look

at the harder and more stubborn fight between his knight and Brother

Rotgier.

The western knights were already accustomed to comforts and luxuries,

while the landowners in Little Poland and Great Poland, as also in

Mazowsze, led a rigorous and hardy life, wherefore they awoke admiration

by their bodily strength and endurance of all hardships, whether constant

or occasional, even among strangers and foes. Now also it was

demonstrated that Zbyszko was as superior to the Teuton in bodily

strength as his squire was superior to van Krist, but it was also proven

that his youth rendered him the inferior in knightly training.

It was in some measure favorable for Zbyszko that he had chosen a combat

with axes, because fencing with that kind of weapon was impossible. With

long and short swords, with which it was necessary to know the strokes,

thrusts, and how to ward off blows, the German would have had a

considerable superiority. But even so, Zbyszko, as well as the

spectators, recognized from his motions and management of the shield,

that they had before them an experienced and formidable man, who

apparently was not entering a combat of this kind for the first time. To

each of Zbyszko's blows Rotgier offered his shield, slightly withdrawing

it at the concussion, by which means even the most powerful swing lost

its force, and could neither cleave nor crush the smooth surface. He at

times retreated and at times became aggressive, doing it quietly, though

so quickly that the eyes could hardly follow his motions.

The prince was seized with fear for Zbyszko, and the faces of the men

looked gloomy; it seemed that the German was purposely trifling with his

opponent. Sometimes he did not even interpose the shield, but at the

moment when Zbyszko struck, he turned half aside, so that the sharp edge

of the axe cut the empty air. This was the most terrifying thing, because

Zbyszko might thereby lose his balance and fall, and then his destruction

would be inevitable. Seeing this, the Bohemian, standing over the slain

van Krist, also became alarmed, and said to himself: "My God! if my

master falls, I will strike him with the hook of my axe between the

shoulder-blades, and overthrow him also."

However, Zbyszko did not fall, because, being very strong upon his legs

and separating them widely, he was able to support the entire weight of

his body on either as he swung.

Rotgier observed that instantly, and the onlookers were mistaken in

supposing that he underestimated his opponent. On the contrary, after the

first strokes, when, in spite of his utmost skill in withdrawing the

shield, his hand almost stiffened under it, he understood that he would

have a hard time with this youth, and that, if he did not knock him down

by some clever manoeuvre, the combat would prove long and dangerous. He

expected Zbyszko to fall upon the snow after a vain stroke in the air,

and as that did not happen, he immediately became uneasy. He saw, beneath

the steel visor, the closely-drawn nostrils and mouth of his opponent,

and occasionally his gleaming eyes, and he said to himself that the other

would fly into a blind rage and forget himself, lose his head, and madly

think more of striking than of defending himself. But he was mistaken in

this also. Zbyszko did not know how to avoid a stroke by a half-turn, but

he did not forget his shield, and, while raising the axe, did not expose

himself more than was necessary. His attention was apparently redoubled,

and having recognized the experience and skill of his opponent, instead

of forgetting himself he collected his thoughts and became more cautious;

and there was that premeditation in his blows which not hot but cool

anger only can conquer.

Rotgier, who had fought in many wars and battles, either in troop or

singly, knew by experience that there are some people, like birds of

prey, who are born to fight, being specially gifted by Nature, who

bestows all things, with what others only attain after years of training,

and he at the same time observed that he was now dealing with one of

those. He understood from the very first strokes that there was in this

youth something as in a hawk, who sees in his opponent only his prey, and

thinks of nothing but getting him in his claws. Notwithstanding his own

strength, he also noticed that it was not equal to Zbyszko's, and should

he get exhausted before succeeding in giving a final stroke, the combat

with this formidable, although less experienced, stripling, might result

in his ruin. Thus reflecting, he determined to fight with the least

possible effort, drew the shield closer to him, did not move much either

forward or backward, restricted his motions, and gathered all the power

of his soul and arm for one decisive stroke, and awaited his opportunity.

The terrible fight lasted longer than usual. A deathlike silence reigned

in the porches. The only sounds heard were the sometimes ringing and

sometimes hollow blows of the sharp points and edges of the axes against

the shields. Such sights were not strange to the princes, knights and

courtiers; and nevertheless a feeling, resembling terror, seemed to

clutch all hearts as if with tongs. It was understood that this was not a

mere exhibition of strength, skill and courage, but that in this fight

there was a greater fury and despair, a greater and more inexorable

stubbornness, a deeper vengeance. On one side terrible wrongs, love and

fathomless sorrow; on the other, the honor of the entire Order and deep

hatred, met on this field of battle for the Judgment of God.

Meanwhile the wintry, pale morning brightened, the grey fog cleared away,

and the sunrays shone upon the blue cuirass of the Teuton and the silver

Milanese armor of Zbyszko. The bell rang in the chapel for early mass,

and at the sounds of the bell flights of crows again flew from the castle

roofs, flapping their wings and crowing noisily, as if in joy at the

sight of blood and the corpse lying motionless in the snow. Rotgier

looked at it once and again during the fight, and suddenly began to feel

very lonesome. All the eyes that were turned upon him were those of

enemies. All the prayers, wishes and silent vows which the women were

offering were in Zbyszko's favor. Moreover, although the Teuton was fully

convinced that the squire would not cast himself upon him from behind,

nor strike him treacherously, nevertheless, the presence and nearness of

that terrifying figure involuntarily inspired him with such fear as

people are subject to at the sight of a wolf, a bear or a buffalo, from

which they are not separated by bars. And he could not shake off this

feeling, especially as the Bohemian, in his desire to follow closely the

course of the battle, constantly changed his place, stepping in between

the fighters from the side, from behind, from the front--bending his head

at the same time, and looking at him fiercely through the visor of the

helmet, and sometimes slightly raising his bloody weapon, as if

involuntarily.

At last the Teuton began to tire. One after another, he gave two blows,

short but terrible, directing them at Zbyszko's right arm, but they were

met by the shield with such force that the axe trembled in Rotgier's

hand, and he himself was compelled to retreat suddenly to save himself

from falling; and from that moment, he retreated steadily. Finally, not

only his strength but also his coolness and patience began to be

exhausted. At the sight of his retreating, a few triumphant shouts

escaped from the breasts of the spectators, awakening in him anger and

despair. The strokes of the axes became more frequent. Perspiration

flowed from the brows of both fighters, and panting breath escaped from

their breasts through their clenched teeth. The spectators ceased keeping

silence, and now every moment voices, male or female, cried: "Strike! At

him!... God's judgment! God's punishment! God help you!"

The prince motioned with his hand several times to silence them, but he

could not restrain them! Every moment the noise increased, because

children here and there began to cry on the porches, and finally, at the

very side of the princess, a youthful, sobbing, female voice called out:

"For Danusia, Zbyszko! for Danusia!"

Zbyszko knew well that it was for Danusia's sake. He was sure that this

Teuton had assisted in her capture, and in fighting him, he fought for

her wrongs. But being young and eager for battles, during the combat he

had thought of that only. But suddenly, that cry brought back to his mind

her loss and her sufferings. Love, sorrow and vengeance poured fire into

his veins. His heart began to call out with suddenly awakened pain, and

he was plainly seized with a fighting frenzy. The Teuton could not any

longer catch nor avoid the terrible strokes, resembling thunderbolts.

Zbyszko struck his shield against his with such superhuman force, that

the German's arm stiffened suddenly and fell.... He retreated in terror

and half crouched, but that instant there flashed in his eyes the gleam

of the axe, and the sharp edge fell like a thunderbolt upon his right

shoulder.

Only a rending cry reached the ears of the onlookers: "Jesus!"--then

Rotgier retreated one more step and fell upon his back on the ground.

Immediately there was a noise and buzz on the porches, as in a bee-garden

in which the bees, warmed by the sun, commence to move and swarm. The

knights ran down the stairs in whole throngs, the servants jumped over

the snow-walls, to take a look at the corpses. Everywhere resounded the

shouts: "This is God's judgment ... Jurand has an heir! Glory to him and

thanksgiving! This is a man for the axe!" Others again cried: "Look and

marvel! Jurand himself could not strike more nobly." A whole group of

curious ones stood around Rotgier's corpse, and he lay on his back with a

face as white as snow, with gaping mouth and with a bloody arm so

terribly shorn from the neck down to the armpit, that it scarcely held by

a few shreds.

Therefore, others again said: "He was alive just now and walked upon the

earth with arrogance, but now he cannot even move a finger." And thus

speaking, some admired his stature, because he took up a large space on

the battlefield, and appeared even larger in death; others again admired

his peacock plume, changing colors beautifully in the snow; others again

his armor, which was valued at a good village. But the Bohemian, Hlawa,

now approached with two of Zbyszko's retainers in order to take it off

from the deceased, therefore the curious surrounded Zbyszko, praising and

extolling him to the skies, because they justly thought that his fame

would redound to the credit of the whole Mazovian and Polish knighthood.

Meanwhile the shield and axe were taken from him, to lighten his burden,

and Mrokota of Mocarzew unbuckled his helmet and covered his hair, wet

with perspiration, with a cap of scarlet cloth.

Zbyszko stood, as if petrified, breathing heavily, with the fire not

fully extinguished yet in his eyes, and a face pale with exhaustion and

determination and trembling somewhat with excitement and fatigue. But he

was taken by the hand and led to the princely family, who were waiting

for him in a warm room, by the fireside. There Zbyszko kneeled down

before them and when Father Wyszoniek gave him a blessing and said a

prayer for the eternal rest of the souls of the dead, the prince embraced

the young knight and said:

"God Almighty decided between you two and guided your hand, for which His

name be blessed. Amen!"

Then turning to the knight de Lorche and others, he added:

"You, foreign knight and all present I take as witnesses to what I

testify myself, that they met according to law and custom, and as the

'Judgment of God' is everywhere performed, this also was conducted in a

knightly and devout manner."

The local warriors cried out affirmatively in chorus; when again the

prince's words were translated to de Lorche, he arose and announced that

he not only testified that all was conducted in knightly and devout

style, but should anybody in Malborg or any other princely court dare to

question it, he, de Lorche, would challenge him instantly to fight either

on foot or horseback, even if he should not merely be a common knight,

but a giant or wizard, exceeding even Merlin's magical power.

Meanwhile, the princess Anna Danuta, at the moment when Zbyszko embraced

her knees, said as she bent down to him:

"Why do you not feel happy? Be happy and thank God, because if He in His

mercy has granted you this suit, then He will not leave you in the

future, and will lead you to happiness."

But Zbyszko replied:

"How can I be happy, gracious lady? God gave me victory and vengeance

over that Teuton, but Danusia was not and still is not here, and I am no

nearer to her now than I was before."

"The most stubborn foes, Danveld, Godfried and Rotgier live no longer,"

replied the princess, "and they say that Zygfried is more just than they,

although cruel. Praise God's mercy at least for that. Also de Lorche said

that if the Teuton fell he would carry his body away, and go instantly to

Malborg and demand Danusia from the grand master himself. They will

certainly not dare to disobey the grand master."

"May God give health to de Lorche," said Zbyszko, "and I will go with him

to Malborg."

But these words frightened the princess, who felt it was as if Zbyszko

said he would go unarmed among the wolves that assembled in the winter in

packs in the deep Mazovian forests.

"What for?" she exclaimed. "For sure destruction? On your arrival,

neither de Lorche nor those letters, written by Rotgier before the fight,

will help you. You will save nobody and only ruin yourself."

But he arose, crossed his hands and said: "So may God help me, that I

shall go to Malborg and even across oceans. So may Christ bless me, that

I shall look for her until the last breath of my nostrils, and that I

shall not cease until I perish. It is easier for me to fight the Germans,

and meet them in arms, than for this orphan to moan under ground. Oh,

easier! easier!"

And he said that, as always when he mentioned Danusia, with such rapture,

with such pain, that his words broke off as if some one had clutched him

by the throat.

The princess recognized that it would be useless to turn him aside, and

that if anybody wanted to detain him it must be by chaining him and

casting him under ground.

But Zbyszko could not leave at once. Knights of that day were not allowed

to heed any obstacles, but he was not permitted to break the knightly

custom that required the winner in a duel to spend a whole day on the

field of combat, until the following midnight, and this in order to show

that he remained master of the field of battle and to show his readiness

for another fight, should any of the relatives or friends of the defeated

wish to challenge him to such.

This custom was even observed by whole armies, which thus sometimes lost

advantages which might accrue from haste after the victory. Zbyszko did

not even attempt to evade that inexorable law, and refreshing himself,

and afterward putting on his armor, he lingered until midnight in the

castle yard, under the clouded wintry sky, awaiting the foe that could

not come from anywhere.

At midnight, when the heralds finally announced his victory by sound of

trumpet, Mikolaj of Dlugolas invited him to supper and at the same time

to a council with the prince.

CHAPTER V.

The prince was the first to take the floor at the consultation and spoke

as follows:

"It is bad that we have no writing nor testimony against the counts.

Although our suspicions may be justified, and I myself think that they

and nobody else captured Jurand's daughter, still what of it? They will

deny it. And if the grand master asks for proofs, what shall I show him?

Bah! even Jurand's letter speaks in their favor."

Here he turned to Zbyszko:

"You say that they forced this letter from him with threats. It is

possible, and undoubtedly it is so, because if justice were on their

side, God would not have helped you against Rotgier. But since they

extorted one, then they could extort also two. And perhaps they have

evidence from Jurand, that they are not guilty of the capture of this

unfortunate girl. And if so, they will show it to the master and what

will happen then?"

"Why, they admitted themselves, gracious lord, that they recaptured her

from bandits and that she is with them now."

"I know that. But they say now that they were mistaken, and that this is

another girl, and the best proof is that Jurand himself disclaimed her."

"He disclaimed her because they showed him another girl, and that is what

exasperated him."

"Surely it was so, but they can say that these are only our ideas."

"Their lies," said Mikolaj of Dlugolas, "are like a pine forest. From the

edge a little way is visible, but the deeper one goes the greater is the

density, so that a man goes astray and loses his way entirely."

He then repeated his words in German to de Lorche, who said:

"The grand master himself is better than they are, also his brother,

although he has a daring soul, but it guards knightly honor."

"Yes," replied Mikolaj. "The master is humane. He cannot restrain the

counts, nor the assembly, and it is not his fault that everything in the

Order is based upon human wrongs, but he cannot help it. Go, go, Sir de

Lorche, and tell him what has happened here. They are more ashamed before

strangers than before us, lest they should tell of their outrages and

dishonest actions at foreign courts. And should the master ask for

proofs, then tell him this: 'To know the truth is divine, to seek it is

human, therefore if you wish proofs, lord, then seek them.' Order the

castles to be summoned and the people to be questioned, allow us to

search, because it is foolishness and a lie that this orphan was stolen

by bandits of the woods."

"Folly and lies!" repeated de Lorche.

"Because bandits would not dare to attack the princely court, nor

Jurand's child. And even if they should have captured her, it would be

only for ransom, and they alone would inform us that they had her."

"I shall narrate all that," said the Lotaringen, "and also find von

Bergow. We are from the same country, and although I don't know him, they

say that he is a relative of Duke Geldryi's. He was at Szczytno and

should tell the master what he saw."

Zbyszko understood a few of his words, and whatever he did not, Mikolaj

explained to him; he then embraced de Lorche so tightly that the knight

almost groaned.

The prince again said to Zbyszko:

"And are you also absolutely determined to go?"

"Absolutely, gracious lord. What else am I to do? I vowed to seize

Szczytno, even if I had to bite the walls with my teeth, but how can I

declare war without permission?"

"Whoever began war without permission, would rue it under the

executioner's sword," said the prince.

"It is certainly the law of laws," replied Zbyszko. "Bah! I wished then

to challenge all who were in Szczytno, but people said that Jurand

slaughtered them like cattle, and I did not know who was alive and who

dead.... Because, may God and the Holy Cross help me, I will not desert

Jurand till the last moment!"

"You speak nobly and worthily," said Mikolaj of Dlugolas. "And it proves

that you were sensible not to go alone to Szczytno, because even a fool

would have known that they would keep neither Jurand nor his daughter

there, but undoubtedly would carry them away to some other castle. God

rewarded your arrival here with Rotgier."

"And now!" said the prince, "as we heard from Rotgier, of those four only

old Zygfried is alive, and the others God has punished already either by

your hand or Jurand's. As for Zygfried, he is less of a rascal than the

others, but perhaps the more ruthless tyrant. It is bad that Jurand and

Danusia are in his power, and they must be saved quickly. In order that

no accident may happen to you, I will give you a letter to the grand

master. Listen and understand me well, that you do not go as a messenger,

but as a delegate, and write to the master as follows: Since they had

once made an attempt upon our person, in carrying off a descendant of

their benefactors, it is most likely now, that they have also carried off

Jurand's daughter, especially having a grudge against Jurand. I ask

therefore of the master to order a diligent search, and if he is anxious

to have my friendship, to restore her instantly to your hands."

Zbyszko, hearing this, fell at the prince's feet, and, embracing them,

said:

"But Jurand, gracious lord, Jurand? Will you intercede also in his

behalf! If he has mortal wounds, let him at least die in his own home and

with his children."

"There is also mention made of Jurand," said the prince, kindly. "He is

to appoint two judges and I two also to investigate the counts' and

Jurand's actions, according to the rules of knightly honor. And they

again will select a fifth to preside over them, and it will be as they

decide."

With this, the council terminated, after which Zbyszko took leave of the

prince, because they were soon to start on their journey. But before

their departure, Mikolaj of Dlugolas, who had experience and knew the

Teutons well, called Zbyszko aside and inquired:

"And will you take that Bohemian fellow along with you to the Germans?"

"Surely, he will not leave me. But why?"

"Because I feel sorry for him. He is a worthy fellow, but mark what I

say: you will return from Malborg safe and sound, unless you meet a

better man in combat, but his destruction is sure."

"But why?"

"Because the dog-brothers accused him of having stabbed de Fourcy to

death. They must have informed the master of his death, and they

doubtless said that the Bohemian shed his blood. They will not forgive

that in Malborg. A trial and vengeance await him because, how can his

innocence be proven to the master. Why, he even crushed Danveld's arm,

who is a relative of the grand master. I am sorry for him, I repeat, if

he goes it is to his death."

"He will not go to his death, because I shall leave him in Spychow."

But it happened otherwise, as reasons arose whereby the Bohemian did not

remain in Spychow. Zbyszko and de Lorche started with their suites the

following morning. De Lorche, whose marriage to Ulryka von Elner, Father

Wyszoniek dissolved, rode away happy and, with his mind entirely occupied

with the comeliness of Jagienka of Dlugolas, was silent. Zbyszko, not

being able to talk with him about Danusia also, because they could not

understand each other very well, conversed with Hlawa, who until now had

known nothing about the intended expedition into the Teutonic regions.

"I am going to Malborg," he said, "but God knows when I shall return....

Perhaps soon, in the spring, in a year, and perhaps not at all, do you

understand?"

"I do. Your honor also is surely going to challenge the knights there.

And God grant that with every knight there is a shield-bearer!"

"No," replied Zbyszko. "I am not going for the purpose of challenging

them, unless it comes of itself; but you will not go with me at all, but

remain at home in Spychow."

Hearing this, the Bohemian at first fretted and began to complain

sorrowfully, and then he begged his young lord not to leave him behind.

"I swore that I would not leave you. I swore upon the cross and my honor.

And if your honor should meet with an accident, how could I appear before

the lady in Zgorzelice! I swore to her, lord! Therefore have mercy upon

me, and not disgrace me before her."

"And did you not swear to her to obey me?" asked Zbyszko.

"Certainly! In everything, but not that I should leave you. If your honor

drives me away, I shall go ahead, so as to be at hand in case of

necessity."

"I do not, nor will I drive you away," replied Zbyszko; "but it would be

a bondage to me if I could not send you anywhere, even the least way, nor

separate from you for even one day. You would not stand constantly over

me, like a hangman over a good soul! And as to the combat, how will you

help me? I do not speak of war, because these people fight in troops,

and, in a single combat, you certainly will not fight for me. If Rotgier

were stronger than I, his armor would not lie on my wagon, but mine on

his. And besides, know that I should have greater difficulties there if

with you, and that you might expose me to dangers."

"How so, your honor?"

Then Zbyszko began to tell him what he had heard from Mikolaj of

Dlugolas, that the counts, not being able to account for de Fourcy's

murder, would accuse him and prosecute him revengefully.

"And if they catch you," he said, finally, "then I certainly cannot leave

you with them as in dogs' jaws, and may lose my head."

The Bohemian became gloomy when he heard these words, because he felt the

truth in them; he nevertheless endeavored to alter the arrangement

according to his desire.

"But those who saw me are not alive any more, because some, as they say,

were killed by the old lord, while you slew Rotgier."

"The footmen who followed at a distance saw you, and the old Teuton is

alive, and is surely now in Malborg, and if he is not there yet he will

arrive, because the master, with God's permission, will summon him."

He could not reply to that, they therefore rode on in silence to Spychow.

They found there complete readiness for war, because old Tolima expected

that either the Teutons would attack the small castle, or that Zbyszko,

on his return, would lead them to the succor of the old lord. Guards were

on watch everywhere, on the paths through the marshes and in the castle

itself. The peasants were armed, and, as war was nothing new to them,

they awaited the Germans with eagerness, promising themselves excellent

booty.

Father Kaleb received Zbyszko and de Lorche in the castle, and,

immediately after supper, showed them the parchment with Jurand's seal,

in which he had written with his own hand the last will of the knight of

Spychow.

"He dictated it to me," he said, "the night he went to Szczytno". And--he

did not expect to return."

"But why did you say nothing?"

"I said nothing, because he admitted his intentions to me under the seal

of confession."

"May God give him eternal peace, and may the light of glory shine upon

him...."

"Do not say prayers for him. He is still alive. I know it from the Teuton

Rotgier, with whom I had a combat at the prince's court. There was God's

judgment between us and I killed him."

"Then Jurand will undoubtedly not return ... unless with God's help!..."

"I go with this knight to tear him from their hands."

"Then you know not, it seems, Teutonic hands, but I know them, because,

before Jurand took me to Spychow, I was priest for fifteen years in their

country. God alone can save Jurand."

"And He can help us too."

"Amen!"

He then unfolded the document and began to read. Jurand bequeathed all

his estates and his entire possessions to Danusia and her offspring, but,

in case of her death without issue, to her husband Zbyszko of Bogdaniec.

He finally recommended his will to the prince's care; so that, in case it

contained anything unlawful, the prince's grace might make it lawful.

This clause was added because Father Kaleb knew only the canon law, and

Jurand himself, engaged exclusively in war, only knew the knightly. After

having read the document to Zbyszko, the priest read it to the officers

of the Spychow garrison, who at once recognized the young knight as their

lord, and promised obedience.

They also thought that Zbyszko would soon lead them to the assistance of

the old lord, and they were glad, because their hearts were fierce and

anxious for war, and attached to Jurand. They were seized with grief when

they heard that they would remain at home, and that the lord with a small

following was going to Malborg, not to fight, but to formulate

complaints.

The Bohemian Glowacz, shared their grief, although on the other hand, he

was glad on account of such a large increase of Zbyszko's wealth.

"Hej! who would be delighted," he said, "if not the old lord of

Bogdaniec! And he could govern here! What is Bogdaniec in comparison with

such a possession!"

But Zbyszko was suddenly seized with yearning for his uncle, as it

frequently happened to him, especially in hard and difficult questions in

life; therefore, turning to the warrior, he said on the impulse:

"Why should you sit here in idleness! Go to Bogdaniec, you shall carry a

letter for me."

"If I am not to go with your honor, then I would rather go there!"

replied the delighted squire.

"Call Father Kaleb to write in a proper manner all that has happened

here, and the letter will be read to my uncle by the priest of Krzesnia,

or the abbot, if he is in Zgorzelice."

But as he said this, he struck his moustache with his hand and added, as

if to himself:

"Bah! the abbot!..."

And instantly Jagienka arose before his eyes, blue-eyed, dark-haired,

tall and beautiful, with tears on her eyelashes! He became embarrassed

and rubbed his forehead for a time, but finally he said:

"You will feel sad, girl, but not worse than I."

Meanwhile Father Kaleb arrived and immediately began to write. Zbyszko

dictated to him at length everything that had happened from the moment he

had arrived at the Forest Court. He did not conceal anything, because he

knew that old Macko, when he had a clear view of the matter, would be

glad in the end. Bogdaniec could not be compared with Spychow, which was

a large and rich estate, and Zbyszko knew that Macko cared a great deal

for such things.

But when the letter, after great toil, was written and sealed, Zbyszko

again called his squire, and handed him the letter, saying:

"You will perhaps return with my uncle, which would delight me very

much."

But the Bohemian seemed to be embarrassed; he tarried, shifted from one

foot to another, and did not depart, until the young knight remarked:

"Have you anything to say yet, then do so."

"I should like, your honor ..." replied the Bohemian, "I should like to

inquire yet, what to tell the people?"

"Which people?"

"Not those in Bogdaniec, but in the neighborhood.... Because they will

surely like to find out!"

At that Zbyszko, who determined not to conceal anything, looked at him

sharply and said:

"You do not care for the people, but for Jagienka of Zgorzelice."

And the Bohemian flushed, and then turned somewhat pale and replied:

"For her, lord!"

"And how do you know that she has not got married to Cztan of Rogow, or

to Wilk of Brzozowa?"

"The lady has not got married at all," firmly answered the warrior.

"The abbot may have ordered her."

"The abbot obeys the lady, not she him."

"What do you wish then? Tell the truth to her as well as to all."

The Bohemian bowed and left somewhat angry.

"May God grant," he said to himself, thinking of Zbyszko, "that she may

forget you. May God give her a better man than you are. But if she has

not forgotten you, then I shall tell her that you are married, but

without a wife, and that you may become a widower before you have entered

the bedchamber."

But the warrior was attached to Zbyszko and pitied Danusia, though he

loved Jagienka above all in this world, and from the time before the last

battle in Ciechanow, when he had heard of Zbyszko's marriage, he bore

pain and bitterness in his heart.

"That you may first become a widower!" he repeated.

But then other, and apparently gentler, thoughts began to enter his head,

because, while going down to the horses, he said:

"God be blessed that I shall at least embrace her feet!"

Meanwhile Zbyszko was impatient to start, because feverishness consumed

him,--and the affairs of necessity that occupied his attention increased

his tortures, thinking constantly of Danusia and Jurand. It was

necessary, however, to remain in Spychow for one night at least, for the

sake of de Lorche, and the preparations which such a long journey

required. He was finally utterly worn out from the fight, watch, journey,

sleeplessness and worry. Late in the evening, therefore, he threw himself

upon Jurand's hard bed, in the hope of falling into a short sleep at

least. But before he fell asleep, Sanderus knocked at his door, entered,

and bowing, said:

"Lord, you saved me from death, and I was well off with you, as scarcely

ever before. God has given you now a large estate, so that you are

wealthier than before, and moreover the Spychow treasury is not empty.

Give me, lord, some kind of a moneybag, and I will go to Prussia, from

castle to castle, and although it may not be very safe there, I may

possibly do you some service."

Zbyszko, who at the first moment had wished to throw him out of the room,

reflected upon his words, and after a moment, pulled from his traveling

bag near his bed, a fair-sized bag, threw it to him and said:

"Take it, and go! If you are a rogue you will cheat, if honest--you will

serve."

"I shall cheat as a rogue, sir," said Sanderus, "but not you, and I will

honestly serve you."

Zygfried von Löve was just about to depart for Malborg when the postman

unexpectedly brought him a letter from Rotgier with news from the

Mazovian court. This news moved the old Knight of the Cross to the quick.

First of all, it was obvious from the letter that Rotgier had perfectly

conducted and represented the Jurand affair before Prince Janusz.

Zygfried smiled on reading that Rotgier had further requested the prince

to deliver up Spychow to the Order as a recompense for the wrong done.

But the other part of the letter contained unexpected and less

advantageous tidings. Rotgier further informed him that in order better

to demonstrate the guiltlessness of the Order in the abduction of the

Jurands, the gauntlet was thrown down to the Mazovian knights,

challenging everybody who doubted, to God's judgment, i.e., to fight in

the presence of the whole court. "None has taken it up," Rotgier

continued, "because all saw that in his letter Jurand himself bears

testimony for us, moreover they feared God's judgment, but a youth, the

same we saw in the forest court, came forward and picked up the gauntlet.

Do not wonder then, O pious and wise brother, for that is the cause of my

delay in returning. Since I have challenged, I am obliged to stand. And

since I have done it for the glory of the Order, I trust that neither the

grand master nor you whom I honor and heartily love with filial affection

will count it ill. The adversary is quite a child, and as you know, I am

not a novice in fighting, it will then be an easy matter for me to shed

his blood for the glory of the Order, especially with the help of Christ,

who cares more for those who bear His cross than for a certain Jurand or

for the wrong done to a Mazovian girl!" Zygfried was most surprised at

the news that Jurand's daughter was a married woman. The thought that

there was a possibility of a fresh menacing and revengeful enemy settling

at Spychow inspired even the old count with alarm. "It is clear," he said

to himself, "that he will not neglect to avenge himself, and much more so

when he shall have received his wife and she tells him that we carried

her off from the forest court! Yes, it would be at once evident that we

brought Jurand here for the purpose of destroying him, and that nobody

ever thought of restoring his daughter to him." At this thought it struck

Zygfried that owing to the prince's letters, the grand master would most

likely institute an investigation in Szczytno so that he might at least

clear himself in the eyes of the prince, since it was important for the

grand master and the chapter to have the Mazovian prince on their side in

case of war with the powerful king of Poland. To disregard the strength

of the prince in face of the multitude of the Mazovian nobility was not

to be lightly undertaken. To be at peace with them fully insured the

knights' frontiers and permitted them better to concentrate their

strength. They had often spoken about it in the presence of Zygfried at

Malborg, and often entertained the hope, that after having subdued the

king, a pretext would be found later against the Mazovians and then no

power could wrest that land from their hands. That was a great and sure

calculation. It was therefore certain that the master would at present do

everything to avoid irritating Prince Janusz, because that prince who was

married to Kiejstut's daughter was more difficult to reconcile than

Ziemowit of Plock, whose wife, for some unknown reason, was entirely

devoted to the Order.

In the face of these thoughts, old Zygfried, who was ready to commit all

kinds of crimes, treachery and cruelty, only for the sake of the Order

and its fame, began to calculate conscientiously:

"Would it not be better to let Jurand and his daughter go? The crime and

infamy weigh heavily on Danveld's name, and he is dead; even if the

master should punish Rotgier and myself severely because we were the

accomplices in Danveld's deeds, would it not be better for the Order?"

But here his revengeful and cruel heart began to rebel at the thought of

Jurand.

To let him go, this oppressor and executioner of members of the Order,

this conqueror in so many encounters, the cause of so many infamies,

calamities and defeats, then the murderer of Danveld, the conqueror of

von Bergow, the murderer of Meineger, Godfried and Hugue, he who even in

Szczytno itself shed more German blood than one good fight in war. "No, I

cannot! I cannot!" Zygfried repeated vehemently, and at this thought his

rapacious fingers closed spasmodically, and the old lean breast heaved

heavily. Still, if it were for the great benefit and glory of the Order?

If the punishment should fall in that case upon the still living

perpetrators of the crimes, Prince Janusz ought to be by this time

reconciled with the foe and remove the difficulty by an arrangement, or

even an alliance. "They are furious," further thought the old count; "but

he ought to show them some kindness, it is easy to forget a grievance.

Why, the prince himself in his own country was an abductor; then there is

fear of revenge...."

Then he began to pace in the hall in mental distraction, and then stopped

in front of the Crucifix, opposite the entrance, which occupied almost

the whole height of wall between the two windows, and kneeling at its

feet he said: "Enlighten me, O Lord, teach me, for I know not! If I give

up Jurand and his daughter then all our actions will be truly revealed,

and the world will not say Danveld or Zygfried have done it but they will

lay the blame upon the Knights of the Cross, and disgrace will fall upon

the whole Order, and the hatred of that prince will be greater than ever.

If I do not give them up but keep them or suppress the matter, then the

Order will be suspected and I shall be obliged to pollute my mouth with

lying before the grand master. Which is better, Lord? Teach and enlighten

me. If I must endure vengeance, then ordain it according to Thy justice;

but teach me now, enlighten me, for Thy religion is concerned, and

whatever Thou commandest I will do, even if it should result in my

imprisonment and even if I were awaiting death and deliverance in

fetters."

And resting his brow upon the wooden cross he prayed for a long time; it

did not even for a moment cross his mind that it was a crooked and

blasphemous prayer. Then he got up, calmed, thinking that the grace of

the wooden cross sent him a righteous and enlightened thought, and that a

voice from on high said to him: "Arise and wait for the return of

Rotgier." "So! I must wait. Rotgier will undoubtedly kill the young man;

it will then be necessary to hide Jurand and his daughter, or give them

up. In the first instance, it is true, the prince will not forget them,

but not being sure who abducted the girl he will search for her, he will

send letters to the grand master, not accusing him but inquiring, and the

affair will be greatly prolonged. In the second instance, the joy at the

return of Jurand's daughter will be greater than the desire to avenge her

abduction. Surely we can always say that we have found her after Jurand's

outrage." The last thought entirely calmed Zygfried. As to Jurand himself

there was no fear; for he and Rotgier had long before come to an

understanding that in case Jurand were to be set free, he could neither

avenge himself nor harm them. Zygfried was glad in his terrible heart. He

rejoiced also at the thought of God's judgment which was to take place in

the castle at Ciechanow. And as to the result of the mortal combat he was

not in the least alarmed. He recollected a certain tournament in

Königsberg when Rotgier overcame two powerful knights, who passed in

their Andecave country as unconquerable fighters. He also remembered the

combat near Wilno, with a certain Polish knight, the courtier Spytko of

Melsztyn, whom Rotgier killed. And his face brightened, and his heart

exulted, for when Rotgier to a certain extent was already a celebrated

knight, he first had led an expedition to Lithuania and had taught him

the best way to carry on a war with that tribe; for this reason he loved

him like a son, with such deep love, that only those who must have strong

affections locked up in their hearts are able to do. Now that "little

son" will once more shed hated Polish blood, and return covered with

glory. Well, it is God's judgment, and the Order will at the same time be

cleared of suspicion. "God's judgment...." In the twinkling of an eye, a

feeling akin to alarm oppressed his old heart. Behold, Rotgier must

engage in mortal combat in defence of the innocence of the Order of the

Knights of the Cross. Yet, they are guilty; he will therefore fight for

that falsehood.... What then if misfortune happen? But in a moment it

occurred to him again that this was impossible. Yes! Rotgier justly

writes: "That by the help of Christ who cares more for those who bear the

cross than for a certain Jurand or the wrong done to one Mazovian girl."

Yes, Rotgier will return in three days, and return a conqueror.

Thus the old Knight of the Cross calmed himself, but at the same time he

wondered whether it would not be advisable to send Danusia to some out of

the way, distant castle, from which in no possible manner the stratagems

of the Mazovians could rescue her. But after hesitating for a moment he

gave up that idea. To take overt action and accuse the Order, only

Jurandowna's husband could do that. But he will perish by Rotgier's hand.

After that, there will only be investigations, inquiries, correspondence,

and accusations from the prince. But this very procedure will greatly

retard the affair, and it will be confused and obscured, and it goes

without saying, it will be infinitely delayed. "Before it comes to

anything," said Zygfried to himself, "I shall die, and it may also be

that Jurandowna will grow old in the prison of the Knights of the Cross.

Nevertheless, I shall order that everything in the castle be prepared for

defence, and at the same time to make ready for the road, because I do

not exactly know what will be the result of the meeting with Rotgier:

Therefore I shall wait."

Meanwhile two of the three days, in which Rotgier had promised to return,

passed by; then three and four, yet no retinue made its appearance at the

gates of Szczytno. Only on the fifth day, well-nigh toward dark, the

blast of the horn resounded in front of the bastion at the gate of the

fortress. Zygfried, who was just finishing his vesper prayer, immediately

dispatched a page to see who had arrived.

After a while the page returned with a troubled face. This Zygfried did

not observe on account of the darkness, for the fire in the stove was too

far back to illuminate the room sufficiently.

"Have they returned?" inquired the old Knight of the Cross.

"Yes!" replied the page.

But there was something in his voice which alarmed the old knight, and he

said:

"And Brother Rotgier?"

"They have brought Brother Rotgier."

Then Zygfried got up and for a long while he held on to the arm of the

chair to prevent himself from falling, then in a stifled voice he said:

"Give me the cloak."

The page placed the cloak on his shoulders. He had apparently regained

his strength, for he put on the cowl himself without assistance, then he

went out.

In a moment he found himself in the courtyard of the castle, where it was

already quite dark; he walked slowly upon the cracking snow toward the

retinue which was coming through the gate. He stopped near it where a

crowd had already gathered, and several torches, which the soldiers of

the guard brought, illuminated the scene. At the sight of the old knight

the servants opened a way for him. By the light of the torches could be

seen the terrified faces, and the whispering of the people could be heard

in the dark background:

"Brother Rotgier...."

"Brother Rotgier has been killed...."

Zygfried drew near the sleigh, upon which the corpse was stretched on

straw and covered with a cloak; he lifted one end of it.

"Bring a light," he said, whilst drawing aside the cowl.

One of the servants brought a torch which he held toward the corpse and

by its light the old knight observed the head of Rotgier; the face was

white as if frozen and bandaged with a black kerchief fastened under the

beard, evidently for the purpose of keeping the mouth closed. The whole

face was drawn and so much altered that it might be mistaken for somebody

else's. The eyes were closed, and around them and near the temples were

blue patches, and the cheeks were scaly with frost. The old knight gazed

at it for a long while amid complete silence. Others looked at him, for

it was known that he was like a father to Rotgier, and that he loved him.

But he did not shed even a single tear, only his face looked more severe

than usual, but there was depicted in it a kind of torpid calm.

"They sent him back thus!" he said at last.

But he immediately turned toward the steward of the castle and said:

"Let a coffin be prepared by midnight, and place the body in the chapel."

"There is one coffin left of those which were made for those Jurand

killed; it wants only to be covered with cloth, which I shall order to be

done."

"And cover him with a cloak," said Zygfried, whilst covering the face of

Rotgier, "not with one like this but with one of the Order."

After a while he added:

"Do not close the lid."

The people approached the sleigh. Zygfried again pulled the cowl over his

head, but he recollected something before leaving, and he asked:

"Where is van Krist?"

"He also was killed," replied one of the servants, "but they were obliged

to bury him in Ciechanow because putrefaction set in."

"Very well."

Then he left, walking slowly, entered the room and sat down upon the same

chair where he was when the tidings reached him; his face was as if

petrified and motionless and he sat there so long that the page began to

be alarmed; he put his head halfway in the door now and then. Hour after

hour passed by. The customary stir ceased within the castle, but from the

direction of the chapel came a dull indistinct hammering; then nothing

disturbed the silence but the calls of the watchmen.

It was already about midnight when the old knight awoke as from sleep,

and called the servant.

"Where is Brother Rotgier?" he asked.

But the servant, unnerved by the silence, events and sleeplessness,

apparently did not understand him, but looked at him with fear and

replied in a trembling voice:

"I do not know, sir...."

The old man burst out into laughter and said mildly:

"Child, I asked whether he is already in the chapel."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well then. Tell Diedrich to come here with a lantern and wait until

my return; let him also have a small kettle of coals. Is there already a

light in the chapel?"

"There are candles burning about the coffin."

Zygfried put on his cloak and left.

When he entered the chapel, he looked around to see whether anybody else

was present; then he closed the door carefully, approached the coffin,

put aside two of the six candles burning in large brazen candlesticks in

front of him, and knelt down before it.

As his lips did not move, it showed that he was not praying. For some

time he only looked at the drawn yet still handsome face of Rotgier as

though he were trying to discover in it traces of life.

Then amid the dead silence in the chapel he began to call in suppressed

tones:

"Dear little son! Dear little son!"

Then he remained silent; it seemed as though he were expecting an answer.

Then he stretched out his hand and pushed his emaciated talon-like

fingers under the cloak, uncovered Rotgier's breast and began to feel

about it, looking everywhere at the middle and sides below the ribs and

along the shoulder-blades: at last he touched the rent in the clothing

which extended from the top of the right shoulder down to the armpit, his

fingers penetrated and felt along the whole length of the wound, then he

cried with a loud voice which sounded like a complaint:

"Oh!... What merciless thing is this!... Yet thou saidst that fellow was

quite a child!... The whole arm! The whole arm? So many times thou hast

raised it against the Pagans in defence of the Order.... In the name of

the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Thou foughtest falsely, and so

succumbed in a false cause; be absolved and may thy soul...."

The words were cut short on his lips which began to tremble, and deep

silence reigned once more in the chapel.

"Dear little son! Dear little son!"

Now there was something like a petition in Zygfried's voice, and at the

same time it seemed as he lowered his voice as though his petition

contained some important and terrible secret.

"Merciful Christ!... If thou art not condemned, give a sign, move thy

hand, or give one twitch of the eye, for my old heart is groaning within

my breast.... Give a sign, I loved thee, say one word!..."

And supporting himself with his hands upon the edge of the coffin, he

fastened his vulture-like eyes upon the closed eyelids of Rotgier and

waited.

"Bah! How couldst thou speak?" said he, at last, "when frost and evil

odor emanate from thee. But as thou art silent, then I will tell thee

something, and let thy soul, flying about here among the flaming candles,

listen!"

Then he bent down to the face of the corpse.

"Dost thou remember how the chaplain would not permit us to kill Jurand

and how we took an oath. Well, I will keep that oath, but I will cause

thee to rejoice wherever thou art, even at the cost of my own damnation."

Then he retreated from the coffin, replaced the candlesticks, covered the

corpse with the cloak, and left the chapel.

At the door of the room, overpowered with deep sleep, slept the servant,

and according to Zygfried's orders Diedrich was already waiting inside.

He was of low stature thickly set, with bowed legs and a square face

which was concealed by a dark cowl falling to his arm. He was dressed in

an untanned buffalo jacket, also a buffalo belt upon his hips from which

was hanging a bunch of keys and a short knife. In his right hand he held

a membrane-covered lantern; in the other, a small kettle and a torch.

"Are you ready?" inquired Zygfried.

Diedrich bowed silently.

"I gave orders for you to bring with you a kettle with coal in it."

The short fellow was still silent; he only pointed to the burning wood in

the fireplace and took the iron shovel standing at the fireside, and

filled the kettle with the burning coal, then he lit the lantern and

waited.

"Now listen, dog," said Zygfried; "you have never revealed what Count

Danveld commanded you to do; the count also ordered the cutting out of

your tongue. But you can still motion to the chaplain with your fingers.

I therefore forewarn you, if you show him even with the slightest motion

of your hand what you are to do now by my command, I shall order you to

be hanged."

Diedrich again bowed in silence, but his face was drawn on account of the

terrible, ominous recollection; for his tongue was torn out for quite

another reason than what Zygfried said.

"Now proceed, and lead to the underground cell where Jurand is."

The executioner grasped the handle of the kettle with his gigantic hand,

picked up the lantern and then left. At the door they passed by the guard

who was asleep, descended the stairs, and turned, not toward the

principal entrance, but directed their steps to the small corridor in the

rear of the stairs, extending through the whole width of the edifice, and

terminating in a heavy iron door which was concealed in a niche in the

wall. Diedrich opened it and they found themselves again in the open air

in a small courtyard surrounded on its four sides by high walled

granaries where they kept their stores in case the castle should be

besieged. Underneath one of these stores, on the right, was an

underground prison. There was not a single guard standing there, because

even if a prisoner should succeed in breaking through from the

underground prison, he would then find himself in the courtyard which

only gave exit through the door in the niche.

"Wait," said Zygfried, and leaning against the wall, he rested, for he

felt that something was the matter with him; he was short of breath, as

though his breast was too much tightened under the straight coat of mail.

In plain terms, considering what had happened, he felt his old age, and

his brow under the cowl was covered with drops of perspiration; he

therefore stopped for a moment to recover breath.

The night following the gloomy day became extraordinarily clear and the

little courtyard was brightly illuminated by the rays of the moon which

caused the snow to glisten with a yellowish tint. Zygfried inhaled with

pleasure the cool invigorating air, but he forgot that on a similar

bright night Rotgier left for Ciechanow whence he did not return alive.

"And now thou liest in the chapel," he murmured to himself.

Diedrich thought that the count was talking to him; he therefore lifted

up his lantern and threw its light upon his face which had a terrible and

cadaverous appearance, but at the same time it looked like the head of an

old vulture.

"Lead on," said Zygfried.

Diedrich lowered the lantern again which cast upon the snow a yellow

circle of light and they proceeded. In the thick wall of the storehouse

there was a recess in which several steps led to a large iron door.

Diedrich opened it and went down the stairs in the deep dark aperture,

raising the lantern so as to show the way to the count. At the end of the

stairs there was a corridor in which, to the right and left, were

exceedingly low doors leading to the cells of the prisoners.

"To Jurand!" said Zygfried.

And in a moment the bars creaked and they entered, but there was perfect

darkness in the cell. But Zygfried, who could not see well in the dim

light from the lantern, ordered the torch to be lighted, and in a moment

he was enabled by its bright light to see Jurand lying on the straw. The

prisoner's feet were fettered, but the chains on the hands were somewhat

longer so as to enable him to carry food to his mouth. Upon his body was

the same coarse sackcloth which he had on when he was arraigned before

the court, but now it was covered with dark blood-stains, because, that

day when the fight ended, only when maddened with pain the frantic knight

was entangled in the net, the soldiers then tried to kill him, struck him

with their halberds and inflicted upon him numerous wounds. The chaplain

interfered and Jurand was not killed outright, but he lost so much blood

that he was carried to prison half dead. In the castle they expected his

death hourly. But owing to his immense strength he prevailed over death,

although they did not attend to his wounds, and he was cast into the

terrible subterranean prison, in which during the daytime when it thawed

drops fell from the roof, but when there was frost the walls were thickly

covered with snow and icicles.

On the ground on the straw lay the powerless man in chains, but he looked

like a piece of flint shaped in human form. Zygfried commanded Diedrich

to throw the light directly upon Jurand's face, then he gazed at it for a

while in silence. Then he turned to Diedrich and said:

"Observe, he has only one eye--destroy it."

There was something in his voice like sickness and decrepitude, and for

that very reason, the horrible order sounded more terrible, so that the

torch began somewhat to tremble in the hand of the executioner. Yet he

inclined it toward Jurand's face, and in a moment big drops of burning

tar began to fall upon the eye of Jurand, covering it entirely from the

brow down to the projecting cheek bone.

Jurand's face twitched, his grey mustachios moved, but he did not utter a

single word of complaint. Whether it was from exhaustion, or the grand

fortitude of his terrible nature, he did not even groan.

Zygfried said:

"It has been promised that you shall be freed, and you shall be, but you

shall not be able to accuse the Order, for your tongue, which you might

use against it, shall be torn out."

Then he again signaled to the executioner who replied with a strange

guttural sound and showed by signs that for this he roust employ both

hands, and therefore wanted the count to hold the light.

Then the old count took the torch and held it in his outstretched,

trembling hand, but when Diedrich pressed Jurand's chest with his knees

Zygfried turned his head and looked at the hoarfrost covered wall.

For a while resounded the clank of the chains, followed by the suppressed

panting of a human breast which sounded like one dull, deep groan--and

then all was still.

Finally Zygfried said:

"Jurand, the punishment which you have suffered you have deserved; but I

have promised to Brother Rotgier, whom your son-in-law has killed, to

place your right hand in his coffin."

Diedrich, who had just got up from his last deed, bent again upon the

prostrate form of Jurand, when he heard Zygfried's words.

After a little while, the old count and Diedrich found themselves again

in that open courtyard which was illuminated by the bright moon. When

they reëntered the corridor, Zygfried took the lantern from Diedrich,

also a dark object wrapped up in a rag, and said to himself in a loud

voice,

"Now to the chapel and then to the tower."

Diedrich looked keenly at the count, but the count commanded him to go to

sleep; he covered himself, hanging the lantern near the lighted window of

the chapel and left. On his way he meditated upon what had just taken

place. He was almost sure that his own end had also arrived and that

these were his last deeds in this world, and that he would have to

account for them before God. But his soul, the soul of a "Knight of the

Cross," although naturally more cruel than mendacious, had in the course

of inexorable necessity got accustomed to fraud, assassination and

concealing the sanguinary deeds of the Order, he now involuntarily sought

to cast off the ignominy and responsibility for Jurand's tortures, from

both himself and the Order. Diedrich was dumb and could not confess, and,

although he could make himself understood with the chaplain, he would be

afraid to do so. What then? Nobody would know. Jurand might well have

received all his wounds during the fight. He might have easily lost his

tongue by the thrust of a lance between his teeth. An axe or a sword

might have easily cut off his right hand. He had only one eye; would it

be strange therefore that the other eye was lost in the fracas, for he

threw himself madly upon the whole garrison of Szczytno. Alas! Jurand!

His last joy in life trembled for a moment in the heart of the old Knight

of the Cross. So, should Jurand survive, he ought to be set free. At

this, Zygfried remembered a conversation he had had once with Rotgier

about this, when that young brother laughingly remarked: "Then let him go

where _his eyes will carry him_, and if he does not happen to strike

Spychow, then let him _make inquiries_ on the road." For that which had

now happened was a part of the prearranged programme between them. But

now Zygfried reentered the chapel and, kneeling in front of the coffin,

he laid at Rotgier's feet Jurand's bleeding hand; that last joy which

startled him was only for a moment and quickly disappeared, for the last

time, from his face.

"You see," he said, "I have done more than we agreed to do. For King John

of Luxemburg, although he was blind, kept on fighting and perished

gloriously. But Jurand can stand no more and will perish like a dog

behind the fence."

At this he again felt that shortness of breath that had seized him on his

way to Jurand, also a weight on his head as of a heavy iron helmet, but

this only lasted a second. Then he drew a deep breath and said:

"Ah! My time has also come. You were the only one I had; but now I have

none. But if I lived longer, I vow to you, O little son, that I would

also place upon your grave that hand which killed you, or perish myself.

The murderer who killed you is still alive...."

Here his teeth clinched and such an intense cramp seized him that he

could not speak for some time. Then he began again, but in a broken

voice:

"Yes, your murderer still lives, but I will cut him to pieces ... and

others with him, and I will inflict upon them tortures even worse than

death itself...."

Then he ceased.

In a moment he rose again and approaching the coffin, he began to speak

in quiet tones,

"Now I take leave of you ... and look into your face for the last time;

perhaps I shall be able to see in your face whether you are pleased with

my promises.... The last time."

Then he uncovered Rotgier's face, but suddenly he retreated.

"You are smiling, ..." he said, "but you are smiling terribly...."

In fact, the frozen corpse, which was covered with the mantle, had

thawed. It may be from the heat of the burning candles, it had begun to

decompose with extraordinary rapidity, and the face of the young count

looked indeed terrible. The enormously swollen, and livid mouth looked

something monstrous, the blue and swollen curled lips had the appearance

of a grinning smile.

Zygfried covered that terrible human mask as quickly as possible.

Then he took the lantern and left the chapel. Here again, for the third

time, he felt shortness of breath; he entered the house and threw himself

upon his hard bed of the Order and lay for a time motionless. He thought

he would fall asleep, when suddenly a strange feeling overpowered him; it

seemed to him that he would never again be able to sleep, and that if he

remained in that house death would soon follow.

Zygfried, in his extreme weariness, and without hope of sleep, was not

afraid of death; on the contrary he regarded it as an exceedingly great

relief. But he had no wish to submit himself to it that evening. So he

sat up in his bed and cried:

"Give me time till to-morrow."

Then he distinctly heard a voice whispering in his ear:

"Leave this house. It will be too late to-morrow and you will not be able

to accomplish your promise. Leave this house!"

The count got up with difficulty and went out. The guards were calling to

one another from the bastions upon the palisades. The light emanating

from the windows of the chapel illuminated the snow in front with a

yellow gleam. In the middle of the court near the stone wall were two

black dogs playing and tugging at a black rag. Beyond this the courtyard

was empty and silent.

"It is yet necessary this night!" said Zygfried. "I am exceedingly tired,

but I must go.... All are asleep. Jurand, overcome by torture, might also

be asleep. I only am unable to sleep. I will go. I will go, for there is

death within, and I have promised you.... Let death come afterward; sleep

will not come. You are smiling there, but my strength is failing me. You

are smiling, you are apparently glad. But you see that my fingers are

benumbed, my hands have lost their strength, and I cannot accomplish it

by myself ... the servant with whom she sleeps will accomplish it...."

Then he moved on with heavy steps toward the tower situated near the

gate. Meanwhile the dogs which were playing near the stone wall came

running up and began to fawn upon him. In one of them Zygfried recognized

the bulldog which was so much attached to Diedrich that it was said in

the castle that it served him as a pillow at night.

The dog greeted the count, it barked low once or twice; and then returned

toward the gate acting as though it had divined his thoughts.

After a while Zygfried found himself in front of the narrow little doors

of the tower, which at night were barred on the outside. Removing the

bars, he felt for the balustrade of the stairs which commenced quite near

the doors and began to ascend. In his absentmindedness he forgot the

lantern; he therefore went up gropingly, stepping carefully and feeling

with his feet for the steps.

Having advanced a few steps, he suddenly halted, when below quite near

him he heard something like the breathing of a man, or beast.

"Who is there?"

But there was no answer, only the breathing grew quicker.

Zygfried was not a timid man; he was not afraid of death. But the

preceding terrible night had quite exhausted his courage and

self-control. It crossed his mind that Rotgier or the evil spirit was

barring his way, and his hair stood up on his head and his brow was

covered with cold sweat.

He retreated to the very entrance.

"Who is there?" he asked, with a choked voice.

But at that moment something struck him a powerful blow on his chest, so

terrible that the old man fell through the door upon his back and

swooned. He did not even groan.

Silence followed, after which there could be seen a dark form, stealthily

issuing from the tower and making off toward the stable which was

situated on the left side of the courtyard near the arsenal. Diedrich's

big bulldog followed that figure silently. The other dog also ran after

him and disappeared in the shadow of the wall, but shortly appeared again

with its head to the ground, scenting as it were the trail of the other

dog. In this manner the dog approached the prostrate and lifeless body of

Zygfried, which it smelled carefully, then crouched near the head of the

prostrate man and began to howl.

The howling continued for a long while, filling the air of that sombre

night with a new kind of dolefulness and horror. Finally the small door

concealed in the middle of the gate creaked and a guard armed with a

halberd appeared in the courtyard.

"Death upon that dog," he said, "I'll teach you to howl during the

night."

And he aimed the sharp end of the halberd so as to hit the animal with

it, but at that moment he observed something lying near the little open

door of the bastion.

"Lord Jesus! what is that?..."

He bent his head so as to look in the face of the prostrate man, and

began to shout:

"Help! Help! Help!"

Then he rushed to the gate and pulled with all his strength at the

bell-rope.

END OF PART FIFTH.

PART SIXTH.

CHAPTER I.

Although Glowacz was somewhat anxious to hasten to Zgorzelice, he could

not make the progress he wished, because the road was exceedingly bad. A

general thaw had followed the severe winter, keen frost, and immense

snowdrifts which covered whole villages.

Luty (February), in spite of its name,[110] by no means showed itself

formidable. First there were thick, continuous fogs, succeeded by

torrential rains, which melted the white snowdrifts before one's eyes;

and in the intervals there were very high winds as is usual in the month

of March; then the tempestuous clouds were suddenly torn asunder by the

wind which now drove them together, and now scattered them, whilst on the

earth the wind howled in the thickets, whistled in the forests and

dispersed the snow beneath which only a short time before the boughs and

trunks had slept their silent, wintry sleep.

The woods assumed a dark color. The meadows were inundated with broad

sheets of water. The rivers and streams overflowed. Only the fishermen

were glad at the abundance of the watery element, but the rest of

humanity were confined as within a prison, sheltering themselves within

their houses and huts. In many places communication between village and

village could only be effected by means of boats. There was no lack of

dams, dykes and roads through the forests and swamps, constructed of

trunks, of trees and logs, but now the dykes became soft and the stumps

in the low, wet places endangered travel, or the roads were rendered

altogether impracticable. The most difficult part for the Bohemian to

traverse was the lake-land region of Wielkopolska, where every spring the

thaw was greater than in any other part of Poland. Consequently the road

was specially difficult for horses.

He was therefore obliged to wait whole weeks, sometimes in small towns,

sometimes in villages and farms, where he and his men were hospitably

received, according to custom, by the people, who were willing listeners

to the tale of the "Knights of the Cross," and paid for it with bread and

salt. For this reason spring was already far advanced, and the greater

part of March had already passed before he found himself in the

neighborhood of Zgorzelice and Bogdaniec.

He longed to see his mistress as soon as possible, although he knew that

he could never gain her, even as he could not gain the stars of heaven;

nevertheless he adored and loved her with his whole soul. Yet he resolved

first to go and see Macko; first, because he was sent to him; secondly,

because he was bringing men with him who were to be left at Bogdanice.

Zbyszko, having killed Rotgier, according to established rules, became

the owner of his following, which consisted of ten men and as many

horses. Two of them had been sent back with the body of Rotgier to

Szczytno. Knowing how anxious his uncle was to obtain colonists, he sent

the remaining eight men by Glowacz as a present to old Macko.

The Bohemian, on his arrival at Bogdaniec, did not find Macko at home; he

was informed that Macko had gone with his dogs and crossbow to the

forest; but he returned the same day, and having heard that an important

retinue was waiting for him, he hastened to salute the guests and offer

them hospitality. He did not recognize Glowacz at first, but when he gave

his name, Macko was greatly agitated, and throwing down his hat and

crossbow he cried:

"For God's sake! tell me, have they killed him? Tell what you know."

"They have not killed him," replied the Bohemian. "He is enjoying good

health."

On hearing this, Macko was somewhat ashamed of himself, and began to

puff; at last he drew a deep breath.

"Praised be the Lord Christ," he said. "Where is he now?"

"He left for Malborg and sent me here with news."

"And why did he go to Malborg?"

"To fetch his wife."

"Be careful, boy, in the name of God what wife did he go for?"

"For Jurand's daughter. There is much to be told about it, enough for a

whole night, but, honored sir, allow me to rest a little, for I have been

constantly traveling since midnight."

Macko ceased questioning for a little while, for his great surprise

deprived him of speech. When he had somewhat recovered, he shouted to the

servant to throw some wood on the fire and bring food for the Bohemian;

then he began to pace up and down, gesticulating and talking to himself:

"I cannot believe mine own ears.... Jurand's daughter.... Zbyszko

married...."

"He is married and not married," said the Bohemian.

Then he began slowly to relate what had happened, while Macko listened

eagerly, only interrupting with questions when what the Bohemian related

was not quite clear to him. For instance, Glowacz could not give the

exact time when Zbyszko had got married, as there had been no public

marriage. Nevertheless he affirmed that that marriage had surely taken

place, and that it had come to pass owing to the instigation of Princess

Anna Danuta, and had been made public only after the arrival of the

Knight of the Cross, Rotgier, when Zbyszko had challenged him to the

judgment of God, in the presence of the entire Mazovian court.

"Ah! He fought?" Macko exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with intense

curiosity. "What followed?"

"He cut the German in two, and God also made me happy by delivering the

armor-bearer into my hands."

Macko again began to puff, but this time with an air of satisfaction.

"Well!" he said. "He is a fellow not to be trifled with. He is the last

of the Gradys, but so help me God, not the least. He was that already in

the fight with the Fryzjans ... when he was a mere stripling...."

Here he glanced sharply once and again at the Bohemian, then he

continued:

"And so you tried to imitate him, and it seems you tell the truth. I

doubted your words, but, as you yourself say, you had little work with

the armor-bearer. But if he chopped off the arm of that dog-brother after

killing the Aurochs, those are valiant deeds."

Then he suddenly asked:

"Is there rich spoil?"

"We have taken the arms, horses and ten men, eight of whom, the young

lord sends you."

"What has he done with the other two?"

"He sent them back with the corpse."

"Why did not the prince send two of his own servants? Those two will not

return."

The Bohemian smiled at Macko's greed which often betrayed him.

"The young lord need not consider such trifles now," he said, "Spychow is

a large estate."

"It is a large estate; what of it, it is not yet his."

"Then whose is it?"

Macko rose from his seat.

"Speak! and Jurand?"

"Jurand is a prisoner, and dying, in the hands of the Knights of the

Cross. God knows whether he will survive, and even if he survives and

returns, what of it? Did not Father Caleb read Jurand's testament,

announcing to all that the young lord is to be their master?"

The last words obviously made a great impression upon Macko; because he

was too much amazed to thoroughly grasp the news. That Zbyszko had got

married was painful to him at the first moment, for he loved Jagienka

with a fatherly love, and heartily wished to see Zbyszko united to her.

But, on the other hand, he had already grown accustomed to regard the

affair as lost; moreover Jurandowna brought with her so much that

Jagienka could never bring; the prince's favor, and being an only

daughter her dower was many times greater. Macko already saw Zbyszko, as

the prince's friend, the master of Bogdaniec and of Spychow; nay, in the

near future, a castellan. That was not at all unlikely. For it was told

in those days of a certain poor nobleman who had twelve sons, six fell in

battle and the other six became castellans and were advancing toward

greatness; only a reputation could assist Zbyszko in this career, so that

Macko's ambition and greed for a pedigree might be realized according to

his wishes. The old man, however, had much cause for alarm. He, himself,

had once gone to the Knights of the Cross, to save Zbyszko and brought

back with him an iron splinter between the ribs; now Zbyszko had gone to

Malborg, into the very throat of the wolf. Was it to get his wife there

or death? They would not look upon him there with a favorable eye,

thought Macko. He had just destroyed one of their famous knights and

before that he had killed Lichtenstein. Those dog-blooded men loved

vengeance. That thought made the old knight very uneasy. It also occurred

to him that Zbyszko, being quick tempered, would engage in a fight with

some German; or what he most feared was that they would kidnap him as

they had old Jurand and his daughter. At Zlotorja they did not scruple to

kidnap even the prince himself. Why then should they be scrupulous with

Zbyszko?

Then he asked himself what would happen if the youngster should escape

the knights, but not find his wife? This thought pleased him, because

even if Zbyszko should not recover her, he would still be the owner of

Spychow, but that pleasure only lasted for a moment. For while the old

man was much concerned about the property, yet Zbyszko's offspring

interested him quite as much. If Danusia were to be lost, like a stone in

the water and nobody knew whether she were alive or dead, Zbyszko could

not marry another, and then there would be no heir to the Gradys of

Bogdaniec. Ah! It would be quite another thing if he were married to

Jagienka!... Moczydoly was not to be scorned; it was spacious and well

stocked. Such a girl, like an apple-tree in the orchard, would bring

forth every year without fail. Thus Macko's regret was greater than his

joy at the prospect of the possession of the new estate. His regret and

agitation caused him to renew his questions, and he again inquired of the

Bohemian how and when the marriage had taken place.

But the Bohemian replied:

"I have told you already, honored sir, that I do not know when it

happened, and what I conjecture I cannot confirm with an oath."

"What do you conjecture?"

"I have never left my young master and we slept together. On one evening

only, he ordered me to leave him when I saw them all visit him: the

princess accompanied by the lady Jurandowna, (Danusia,) Lord de Lorche

and Father Wyszoniek. I was even surprised to see the young lady with a

wreath on her head; but I thought they had come to administer the

sacrament to my master.... It may be that the marriage took place

then.... I recollect that the master commanded me to attire myself as for

a wedding ceremony, but then I also thought that that was to receive the

eucharist."

"And after that, did they remain by themselves?"

"They did not remain alone; and even if they had remained by themselves

the master was then so feeble that he could not even eat without

assistance. And there were already people sent by Jurand waiting for the

young lady, and she left the following morning...."

"Then Zbyszko has not seen her since?"

"No human eye has seen her."

Then silence reigned for a while.

"What do you think?" asked Macko, presently. "Will the Knights of the

Cross give her up, or not?"

The Bohemian shook his head, then he waved his hand discouragingly.

"I think," he said, slowly, "she is lost forever."

"Why?" asked Macko in terror.

"Because, when they said they had her there was yet hope, one could yet

contend with them, either to ransom her, or take her from them by force.

'But,' they said, 'we had a girl retaken from robbers and we notified

Jurand; he did not recognize her, and he killed of our people, in our

very presence, more than fall in one good fight in war.'"

"Then they showed Jurand some other girl."

"So it is said. God knows the truth. It may not be true, and it may be

that they showed him some other girl. But it is a fact that he killed

people, and the Knights of the Cross are ready to swear that they never

abducted Panna Jurandowna, and that is an exceedingly difficult affair.

Even should the grand master order an investigation, they would reply

that she was not in their hands; especially since the courtiers of

Ciechanow spoke of Jurand's letter in which he said that she was not with

the Knights of the Cross."

"It may be she is not with them."

"I beg your pardon, sir!... If they had recaptured her from the robbers,

it would have been for no other motive than for ransom. The robbers,

before that happened could neither write a letter nor imitate the

signature of the lord of Spychow, nor send an honorable messenger."

"That is true; but what do the Knights of the Cross want her for?"

"Revenge on Jurand's race. They prefer vengeance to mead and wine; and if

they want a pretext, they have one. The lord of Spychow was terrible to

them, and his last deed completely finished them.... My master, I also

heard, had lifted up his hand against Lichtenstein; he killed Rotgier....

God helped me, too, to shatter that dog-brother's arm. Wait, I pray, let

us consider. There were four of them to be exterminated; now hardly one

is alive, and that one is an old man, and your grace must bear in mind

that we yet have our teeth."

There was again silence for a moment.

"You are a discreet armor-bearer," said Macko, at last; "but what do you

think they are going to do with her?"

"Prince Witold, they say, is a powerful prince, even the German emperor

bows to him; and what did they do to his children? Have they but few

castles? Few underground prisons? Few wells? Few ropes and halters for

the neck?"

"For the living God's sake!" exclaimed Macko.

"God grant that they may not also detain the young lord, although he went

there with a letter from the prince, and accompanied by de Lorche who is

a powerful lord and related to the prince. Ah, I did not want to set out

for this place. But he commanded me to go. I heard him once say to the

old lord of Spychow: 'It is to be regretted that you are not cunning, for

I shall get nothing by craft, and with them that is a necessary thing. O

Uncle Macko! he would be useful here;' and for that reason he dispatched

me. But as for Jurandowna, even you, sir, will not find her, for probably

she is already in the other world, and where death is concerned, even the

greatest cunning cannot prevail."

Macko was absorbed in thought for a long while, after which he said:

"Ha! Then there is no counsel. Cunning cannot prevail against death. But

if I were to go there and only get assurance that she has been removed,

then in that case Spychow as well as Zbyszko remain. He will be able to

return here and marry another maiden."

Here Macko breathed freely, as though a burden were removed from his

heart, and Glowacz asked in a bashful, subdued voice:

"Do you mean the young lady of Zgorzelice?"

"Well!" replied Macko, "especially as she is an orphan, and Cztan of

Rogow and Wilk of Brzozowa continually press their court to her."

At that the Bohemian straightened himself up.

"Is the young lady an orphan?... The knight Zych?..."

"Then you do not know."

"For the love of God! What has happened?"

"Well you are right. How could you know, since you have just arrived; and

our only conversation has been about Zbyszko. She is an orphan. Unless he

had guests, Zych of Zgorzelice never remained at home; otherwise he

avoided Zgorzelice. He wrote about you to his abbot that he was going to

visit Prince Przemka of Oswiecemia and ask him to give you to him. Zych

did it because he was well acquainted with the prince and they have often

frolicked together. Consequently Zych called upon me and said as follows:

'I am going to Oswiecemia, then to Glewic; keep your eye on Zgorzelice.'

I at once suspected something wrong and said: 'Don't go! I will keep good

watch over Jagienka and the estate,' for I know that Cztan and Wilk

intend to do you some wrong, and you ought to know that the abbot out of

spite against Zbyszko, preferred Cztan or Wilk for the girl. But he

subsequently learned to know them better and rejected both of them, and

turned them out of Zgorzelice; but not effectually, for they obstinately

persisted. Now they have quieted down for a while, for they have wounded

each other and are laid up, but before that occurred there was not a

moment of security. Everything is upon my head, protection and

guardianship. Now Zbyszko wishes me to come.... What will happen here to

Jagienka--I don't know, but now I will tell you about Zych; he did not

follow my advice--he went. Well, they feasted and frolicked together.

From Glewic they went to see old Nosak, Prince Przemka's father, who

rules in Cieszyn; till Jasko, the prince of Racibor, out of hatred for

Prince Przemka, set upon them the robber band under the leadership of the

Bohemian Chrzan; Prince Przemka and Zych of Zgorzelice perished in the

affray. The robbers stunned the abbot with an iron flail, so that even

now his head shakes and he knows nothing of what is going on in the world

and has lost his speech, God help him, forever! Now old Prince Nosak

bought Chrzan from the owner of Zampach, and tortured him so much that

even the oldest inhabitants never heard of such cruelty,--but the cruelty

did not lessen the sorrow of the old man for his son; neither did it

resuscitate Zych, nor wipe away the tears of Jagienka. This is the result

of the frolic.... Six weeks ago they brought Zych here and buried him."

"Such a hard master!..." sorrowfully said the Bohemian. "Under Boleslaw I

was comfortably situated when he took me into captivity. But such was the

captivity that I would not have exchanged it for freedom.... He was a

good and worthy master! May God grant him eternal glory. Ah, I am very

sorry! But I must grieve for the helpless young lady."

"Because the poor thing is a good girl, she loved her father more than a

man loves his mother. Then too she is not safe in Zgorzelice. After the

funeral, scarcely had the snow covered Zych's grave, when Cztan and Wilk

stepped into the mansion of Zgorzelice. My people were informed of it

beforehand. Then I, with the farm hands went to the rescue; we arrived in

good time and with God's help we gave them a good thrashing. Immediately

after the fight, the girl fell on her knees and begged me to save her.

'If I cannot belong to Zbyszko,' she said, 'I will belong to nobody else;

only save me from those torturers, I prefer death to them....' I tell you

that I made a real castle out of Zgorzelice. After that, they appeared

twice on the premises, but believe me, they could not succeed. Now there

will be peace for some time, for as I told you: they hurt each other

badly, so much so, that neither is able to move head or foot."

Glowacz made no observation upon this, but when he heard of the conduct

of Cztan and Wilk, he began to gnash his teeth so loudly, that it sounded

like the creaking caused by the opening and closing of a door, then he

began to rub his strong hands upon his thighs as though they were

itching. Finally, he uttered with difficulty only one word:

"Villains!"

But at that moment, a voice was heard in the entrance-hall, the door

suddenly opened and Jagienka rushed into the house, and with her was

Jasko, her oldest brother, who was fourteen years old and looked as like

her, as though they were twins.

She had heard from some peasants at Zgorzelice, that they had seen the

Bohemian Hlawa, at the head of some people, journeying to Bogdaniec, and

like Macko, she also was terrified, and when they informed her that

Zbyszko was not among them she was almost sure that some misfortune had

happened. She therefore lost no time and hastened to Bogdaniec to

ascertain the truth.

"What has happened?... For God's sake tell me," she shouted, when yet

upon the threshold.

"What should happen?" replied Macko. "Zbyszko is alive and well."

The Bohemian hastened toward the young lady, knelt upon one knee and

kissed the hem of her dress, but she paid no attention to it; only when

she heard the reply of the old knight she turned her head from the

fireplace to the darker side of the room, and only after a while, as if

having forgotten that it was necessary to salute the Bohemian, she said:

"The name of Jesus Christ be praised!"

"Forever and ever," replied Macko.

Then she observed the kneeling Bohemian at her feet and bent toward him.

"From my soul I am glad to see you, Hlawa, but why did you leave your

master behind?"

"He sent me away, most gracious lady."

"What were his orders?"

"He ordered me to go to Bogdaniec."

"To Bogdaniec?... What else?"

"He sent me to get counsel.... He also sends his compliments and good

wishes."

"To Bogdaniec? Very well, then. But where is he himself?"

"He left for Malborg, and is now among the Knights of the Cross."

Jagienka's face again assumed an expression of alarm.

"Why, is he tired of life?"

"He is in quest, gracious lady, of that which he will not be able to

find."

"I believe he will not find it," interrupted Macko. "Just as one cannot

drive a nail without a hammer, so are man's wishes without the will of

God."

"What are you talking about?" cried Jagienka. But Macko replied with

another query.

"Did he say to you that Zbyszko went for Jurandowna? It seems to me that

he did."

Jagienka at first did not reply, and only after awhile, catching her

breath, she replied:

"Ay! He said! But what hindered him telling?"

"Well, then, now I can talk freely."

And he began to tell to her all that he had heard from the Bohemian. He

wondered at himself why his words came haltingly and with difficulty, but

being a clever man, he tried to avoid any expression that might irritate

Jagienka, and he dwelt strongly upon what he himself believed, that

Zbyszko was never the husband of Danusia in reality and that she was

already lost to him forever.

The Bohemian confirmed Macko's words now and then, sometimes by nodding

his head in approval, sometimes repeating "By God, true, as I live," or:

"It is so, not otherwise!" The young lady listened, with eyelashes

lowered till they touched her cheeks; she asked no more questions, and

was so quiet that her silence alarmed Macko.

"Now, what do you say to that?" he enquired when he had ended.

But she did not reply, only two tears glistened between her eyelids and

rolled down her cheeks.

After a while she approached Macko, and kissing his hand, said:

"The Lord be praised."

"Forever and ever," replied Macko. "Are you so much needed at home?

Better stay with us."

But she refused to remain, giving as a reason that she had not given out

the provisions for supper. But Macko, although he knew that there was the

old lady, Sieciechowa, at Zgorzelice, who could easily fulfil Jagienka's

duties, did not persuade her to remain, for he knew that sorrow does not

like the light on human tears, and that a man is like a fish, when it

feels the penetrating harpoon in its body it sinks to the depths.

Then he only regarded her as a girl, so he led her and the Bohemian into

the courtyard.

But the Bohemian brought the horse from the stable, harnessed him, and

departed with the young lady.

But Macko returned to the house, shook his head, and murmured:

"What a fool that Zbyszko is?... Why, her presence seems to have filled

the whole house with perfume."

The old man lamented to himself. "Had Zbyszko taken her immediately after

he returned, by this time there might have been joy and delight! But what

of it now? If they should speak of him her eyes would immediately be

filled with tears of longing, and the fellow is roaming about the world

and may break the head of some of the knights at Malborg, provided they

do not break his; and now the house is empty, only the arms on the wall

glitter. There is some benefit in husbandry. Running about is nothing,

Spychow and Bogdaniec are nothing. Very soon none will remain to whom

they might be left."

Here Macko became angry.

"Wait, you tramp," he exclaimed, "I will not go with you, you may do as

you like!"

But at that very moment he was seized with an exceeding yearning after

Zbyszko.

"Bah! shall I not go," he thought. "Shall I remain at home? God

forbid!... I wish to see that rascal once more. It must be so. He will

again fight one of those dog-brothers--and take spoil. Others grow old

before they receive the belt of knighthood, but he already has received

the belt from the prince.... And rightly so. There are many valorous

youths among the nobility; but not another like him."

His tender feelings entirely subdued him. First he began to look at the

arms, swords and axes which had become blackened by the smoke, as though

considering which to take with him, and which to leave behind; then he

left the house; first, because he could not stay there; secondly, to give

orders to prepare the carriage and give the horses double provender.

In the courtyard where it was already beginning to grow dark, he

remembered Jagienka, who only a moment ago sat here on horseback, and he

again became uneasy.

"I must go," he said to himself, "but who is going to protect the girl

against Cztan and Wilk. May thunder strike them."

But Jagienka was on the road with her little brother, Jasko, crossing the

woods leading to Zgorzelice, and the Bohemian accompanied them in

silence, with love and grief in his heart. A moment since he saw her

tears, now he looked at her dark form, scarcely visible in the darkness

of the forest, and he guessed her sorrow and pain. It also seemed to him

that at any moment Wilk or Cztan's rapacious hands might dart from the

dark thicket and grasp her, and at that thought, he was carried away by

wild anger and longed for a fight. At times the desire for fight was so

intense that he wanted to grasp his axe or sword and cut down a pine tree

on the road. He felt that a good fight would comfort him. Lastly he would

be glad, even if he could let the horse go at a gallop. But he could not

do it, they rode silently in front of him, and at a very slow gait, foot

by foot, and little Jasko, who was of a talkative disposition, after

several attempts to engage his sister in conversation, seeing that she

was unwilling to speak, desisted, and also sank into deep silence.

But when they were approaching Zgorzelice, the sorrow in the Bohemian's

heart turned to anger against Cztan and Wilk: "I would not spare even my

blood in your behalf," he said to himself, "provided it comforted you.

But what can I, unfortunate, do? What can I tell you? Unless I tell you

that he ordered me to kneel before you. And, God grant that that might be

of some comfort to you."

Thinking thus, he urged his horse close to Jagienka's.

"Gracious lady...."

"Are you riding with us?" enquired Jagienka, as though awaking from

sleep. "What do you say?"

"I forgot to tell you what my master commanded me to say to you. When I

was about to depart from Spychow, he called me and said 'I bow at the

feet of the young lady of Zgorzelice, for whether in good or bad fortune,

I shall never forget her; and for what she did for my uncle and myself,

may God recompense her, and keep her in good health.'"

"May God also recompense him for his good words," replied Jagienka.

Then she added, in such a wonderful tone, that it caused the Bohemian's

heart to melt:

"And you, Hlawa."

The conversation ceased for a while. But the armor-bearer was glad for

himself and for her words. For he said to himself: "At least it shall not

be said that she has been fed with ingratitude." He also began to rack

his brains for something more of the same nature to tell her; and after a

moment he said: