The Knights of the Cross/Volume 1/Chapter 17

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

CHAPTER XVII.

But it was not to come this time either to a battle, for Pan Mikolai, learning from Yendrek of the question between them, took his word from each that he would not do battle without knowledge of the prince and the comturs; in case of opposition he threatened to close the gates. Zbyshko desired to see Danusia at the earliest, hence he dared not oppose; and De Lorche, who fought willingly when there was need, was not bloodthirsty, and took an oath readily on his knightly honor, that he would wait for permission from the prince, all the more that acting otherwise he might fear to offend him. The Knight of Lorraine, who had heard many songs about tournaments, liked brilliant assemblies and showy solemnities; he wished to combat in presence of court dignitaries and ladies, for he thought that his victory would thus obtain greater fame, and that thus he would win golden spurs the more easily. Moreover, the country and the people roused his curiosity; hence delay pleased him, especially as Mikolai, who had passed whole years in captivity among Germans and was able to talk easily with foreigners, told wonders of the prince's hunts, and of various beasts unknown in western regions. So De Lorche started with Zbyshko about midnight for Prasnysh, having his own numerous retinue and people, with torches as a defence against wolves, which during winter collected in countless numbers, and might show themselves terrible, even for more than ten horsemen, though armed in the best manner possible. At the south side of Tsehanov there was no lack of forests, either, which not far beyond Prasnysh were lost in the giant Kurpie wilderness, which joined on the east with the impenetrable forests of Podlasie and Farther Lithuania. Somewhat previous to that time the wild Lithuanians, avoiding, however, the terrible Kurpie, came out by those forests, usually to Mazovia. In 1337 they came to Tsehanov and destroyed it. De Lorche listened with the utmost curiosity to narratives of this event told by the old guide, Matsko of Turoboy, for he was burning in soul with desire to measure himself with Lithuanians, whom he, like other knights of the West, considered Saracens. He had come to those regions for an expedition with the Knights of the Cross, wishing to win glory, and also salvation for his soul. While on the road he thought that war, even with the Mazovians, as a people half pagan, would secure him a plenary indulgence. He hardly believed his eyes, therefore, when on his arrival in Mazovia he saw churches in the towns, crosses on the towers, priests, knights with sacred emblems on their armor, and a people turbulent, it is true, passionate, ready for quarrel and battle, but Christian, and in no way more given to robbery than the Germans through whose country the young knight had passed. When they told him, therefore, that those people had confessed Christ for generations, he knew not what to think of the Knights of the Cross; when he learned that Lithuania too had been baptized by the late queen, his astonishment, and at the same time his sorrow, had no bounds.

He asked Matsko then if in those forests to which they were going there were not dragons to which people were forced to offer maidens, and with which it was possible to fight. But Matsko's reply in this regard too caused complete disappointment.

"In the forests live various good beasts, such as wolves, bisons, wild bulls, and bears; against these there is plenty of work," answered the Mazovian. "It may be too that foul spirits dwell in the swamps, but I have not heard of dragons; even if there were some, surely we should not give them maidens, but should go in a crowd against them. And even had there been dragons here long ago, the Kurpie would be wearing girdles of their skin now."

"What kind of people are the Kurpie, and cannot one fight with them?"

"Yes, that is possible, but it is not healthy," answered Matsko; "and finally it does not become a knight, since the Kurpie are peasants."

"The Swiss also are peasants. Do they recognize Christ?"

"There are none in Mazovia who do not, and they are our people, subject to the prince. But you have seen the bowmen at the castle. Those are Kurpie; there are no better bowmen on earth."

"The English and Scotch whom I saw at the Burgundian court—"

"I saw them also in Malborg," interrupted the Mazovian. "Sturdy fellows, but may God never let them stand against the Kurpie! Among the Kurpie a boy of seven years gets nothing to eat till he shoots down his food from the top of a pine-tree."

"Of what are ye talking?" asked on a sudden Zbyshko, whose ears had been struck frequently by the word "Kurpie."

"We are talking of the Kurpie and the English bowmen. This knight says that the English, and therefore the Scotch, surpass all."

"I, too, saw them at Vilno. Oh, pshaw! I heard their arrows around my ears. There, too, from all countries were knights who declared that they would eat us without salt; but when they had tried us once and a second time they lost desire for the food."

Matsko laughed, and repeated Zbyshko's words to De Lorche.

"That was mentioned at various courts," replied the Knight of Lorraine; "the bravery of your knights was praised, but they were blamed because they defend pagans against the cross."

"We defended against invasion and injustice a people who wanted baptism. The Germans wished to hide them behind paganism, so as to have an excuse for war."

"God will judge them," said De Lorche.

"And He may judge them soon," replied Matsko.

But the Knight of Lorraine, hearing that Zbyshko had fought at Vilno made inquiries of Matsko, because tidings of knightly battles and duels fought there had gone about the world widely. The imagination of Western warriors was roused, especially by that duel in which four French and four Polish knights had engaged. So De Lorche began now to look with more esteem on Zbyshko as a man who had taken part in such famous battles; and he rejoiced in heart that he would have to meet no common person.

They went on in apparent concord, showing politeness to each other at halting-places and entertaining each other with wine, of which De Lorche had considerable supplies in his wagons. When, from conversation between him and Matsko, it turned out that Ulrica de Elner was not a maiden, but a matron forty years old, with six children, Zbyshko's pride was the more indignant that that strange foreigner not only dared to compare an "old woman" to Danusia, but to exact superiority. He thought, however, that perhaps the man was not in full mind, that he was one for whom a dark chamber and whips would be better than a journey through the world, and this thought restrained in him an outburst of immediate anger.

"Think you not," said he to Matsko, "that the evil spirit has disturbed his reason? The devil may be sitting in his head, like a worm in a nut kernel, and may be ready in the night to jump out of him and into one of us. We ought to be careful."

Matsko opposed this, it is true, but still began to look with a certain dread at the Knight of Lorraine.

"Sometimes it happens," said he at last, "that a hundred and more of them are sitting in a possessed man, and if crowded they are glad to seek residence in another. The worst devil also is one sent in by a woman." Then he turned to the knight on a sudden. "Praised be Jesus Christ!" said he.

"I, too, praise Him," answered De Lorche, with astonishment.

Matsko was set at rest perfectly.

"Well, you see," said he, "if the evil one had been in him he would have foamed at the mouth right away, or the devil would have thrown him to the earth, for I broke out to him on a sudden. We may travel on."

So they moved forward without fear. From Tsehanov to Prasnysh was not very far; in summer a courier on a good horse might in two hours pass over the road between the two places. But they went much more slowly because of the night, the halts, and the snowdrifts in the forest; and since they had set out considerably after midnight, they arrived about daybreak at the prince's hunting house, which was beyond Prasnysh, on the brink of the forest. The house stood almost resting on the wilderness, strong, low, built of wood, but having glass panes in its windows. Before the house were two sheds for horses, and a well-sweep; around the house was a crowd of huts, made hastily from pine branches, and tents formed of skins. In the gray of dawn fires glittered brightly; in front of the tents, and around them, were huntsmen in sheepskin coats, the wool outside, in fox, wolf, and bear skin mantles. To De Lorche it seemed as if he were looking at savage beasts on two legs before the fire, for the greater number of those people wore caps made of skins from the heads of wild animals. Some were leaning on spears, others on crossbows; some were occupied in making enormous rope nets, others were turning over the coals immense quarters of bisons and elks, intended evidently for the morning meal. The glitter of the flame fell on the snow, lighting up also those wild forms, veiled somewhat by the smoke of the fires, the cloud of breaths, and the steam which rose from roasting meat. Beyond them were visible the ruddy-colored trunks of giant pines, and new crowds of people, the number of which astonished the Knight of Lorraine, unaccustomed to the sight of such hunting multitudes.

"Your princes go to a hunt as to a war," said he.

"As you see," answered Matsko of Turoboy, "they lack neither hunting gear nor people. These are the prince's beaters, but there are others also who come from the depth of the wilderness to trade."

"What shall we do?" interrupted Zbyshko; "they are asleep in the house yet."

"Wait till they wake," answered Matsko. "We will not strike the doors and wake our lord the prince."

So saying, he conducted them to a fire near which the Kurpie threw down bison and bear skins, and then began promptly to entertain them with steaming meat. Hearing foreign speech, they crowded to look at the German. Soon it was spread about by Zbyshko's retinue that the stranger was a knight "from beyond the sea," and then they so crowded about that Matsko had to use his authority to save the foreigner from overmuch curiosity. In the crowd De Lorche noticed women dressed in skins also, but ruddy as apples and uncommonly good-looking; so he inquired if they took part in hunts also.

Matsko explained that they did not belong to the hunts, but that they came with the beaters through female curiosity, or as to a fair to buy local products and sell the wealth of the forest. Such was the case in reality. That house of the prince was a centre around which, even during his absence, two elements met, those of the town and the forest. The Kurpie did not like to go forth from their wilderness, for they felt strange without the sound of trees above their heads; so the people of Prasnysh took to that edge of the forest their renowned beer; flour ground in local windmills or in watermills on the Vengerka; salt, rare in the forest and sought for with eagerness; iron implements, straps, and similar products of industry. In return they received skins, costly furs, dried mushrooms, nuts, healing herbs, or pieces of amber found without too much trouble among the Kurpie. So a continual market was active around the house of Prince Yanush. The activity was intensified during the prince's hunts, when duty and curiosity brought out people who dwelt in the depths of the forests.

De Lorche listened to Matsko's narrations, looking with interest at the forms of the beaters, who, living in wholesome air and nourished mainly on flesh, as were most peasants for that matter in those days, astonished foreign travellers more than once by their strength and great stature. But Zbyshko, sitting near the fire, looked unceasingly at the doors and windows of the house, barely able to stay in one place. One window was lighted, evidently that of the kitchen, for smoke came out through cracks between panes not sufficiently fastened. Other windows were dark, gleaming only from daylight, which grew whiter every instant, and silvered with growing intensity the snowy wilderness behind the hunting-house. In small doors, cut in the side walls of the building, appeared in time servants in the prince's colors, who with pails or pots on their shoulders ran to the wells for water. When inquiry was made of these servants if all were sleeping yet, they answered that the court, wearied by yesterday's hunt, was still resting, but that food for the early meal to be eaten before they started was cooking.

In fact, through the kitchen windows the odor of meat and saffron began to issue and spread far about among the fires. At last the main door squeaked and opened, discovering the interior of a hall brightly lighted, and out to the porch came a man in whom at first glance Zbyshko recognized a chorister whom he had seen among Princess Anna's servants in Cracow. At that sight, without waiting for De Lorche or Matsko, he sprang toward the house with such impetus that the Knight of Lorraine was astounded.

"What has happened to that youthful knight?" inquired he.

"Nothing," answered Matsko; "but he loves a damsel of the princess and would like to see her at the earliest."

"Ah!" answered De Lorche, putting both hands to his heart. And raising his eyes he sighed time after time, so sadly that Matsko shrugged his shoulders and said inwardly,—

"Is he sighing in that way to his old woman? Is he not really unsound in mind?"

Meanwhile he conducted him to the house, and both found themselves in a spacious hall adorned with great horns of bisons, elks, wild bulls and deer, and illuminated by dry logs blazing on an immense fireplace. In the centre stood a table covered with matting and plates ready for food. Barely a few courtiers were present, with whom Zbyshko was talking. Matsko made them acquainted immediately with De Lorche, but as they had no knowledge of German, he had himself to entertain the knight further. But every moment new courtiers came,—for the greater part splendid fellows, untrained yet, but large, broad-shouldered, yellow-haired, dressed as if for the wilderness.

Those who were acquainted with Zbyshko and knew of his Cracow adventure greeted him as an old friend, and it was evident that he enjoyed consideration among them. Some looked on him with that wonder with which people look on a man over whose neck the axe of the executioner has been lifted. Round about were heard voices: "Yes, the princess is here! Yurand's daughter is here, thou wilt see her at once, my dear fellow." "And thou wilt go to the hunt with us?" With that entered two guests, Knights of the Cross,—Brother Hugo von Danveld, starosta in Ortelsburg, or in Schytno, whose relative had in his time been Marshal; and Siegfried von Löwe, whose family had rendered service in the Order,—he was bailiff of Yansbork. The first was rather young yet, but fat,—he had the face of a crafty beer-guzzler, with moist and thick lips; the other was tall, with stern though noble features.

It seemed to Zbyshko that he had seen Danveld somewhere with Prince Vitold,—that Henry, Bishop of Plotsk, had unhorsed him in a tournament; but this recollection was disturbed by the entrance of Prince Yanush, to whom courtiers and Knights of the Cross made obeisance. De Lorche and the comturs and Zbyshko approached him; he greeted them affably, but with dignity on his beardless, rustic face, surrounded with hair cut evenly on the forehead, but hanging to the shoulders on both sides.

Soon trumpets thundered outside in sign that the prince was ready to take his seat at the table: they thundered once, twice, thrice. The third time the heavy door on the right of the dining-hall opened, and in it appeared Princess Anna, having at her side a marvellous golden-haired maiden with a lute hanging from her shoulder.

Seeing her, Zbyshko pushed forward, and putting his joined hands to his lips, dropped on both knees in a posture full of respect and homage.

At this sight a murmur rose in the hall, for Zbyshko's act had astonished the Mazovians, and some of them were even offended.

"By my faith," said some of the older men," he has learned that custom surely from knights beyond the sea, and perhaps from real pagans, for it does not. exist even among Germans." "That is not strange," thought the younger ones, "for he owes his life to the maiden." The princess and Danusia did not recognize Zbyshko immediately, for he had knelt with his back toward the fire and his face was shaded. Princess Anna thought at the first moment that he was a courtier who had failed in duty to the prince and was begging her intercession; but Danusia, who had a quicker glance, pushed forth a step, and inclining her bright head, cried suddenly in a voice thin and piercing,—

"Zbyshko!"

Then, without thinking that the whole court and the foreign guests were looking at her, she sprang like a deer toward the young knight, and seizing him with her arms fell to kissing his eyes, his lips, his cheeks, nestling up to him and piping meanwhile with great delight, till the Mazovians thundered forth in one great burst of laughter, and the princess drew her to herself by the collar. Danusia looked then at the people, and, confused terribly, hid behind the princess with equal swiftness, covering herself with the folds of her robe so that barely the tip of her head remained visible.

Zbyshko embraced Princess Anna's feet; she raised him, greeted him, and at the same time inquired about Matsko,—was he dead, or was he alive yet; if alive, had he come to Mazovia? Zbyshko answered those questions with no very great presence of mind, for, bending to one side and the other, he tried to see behind the princess Danusia, who thrust her head out from that lady's robe and then dived into its folds again. The Mazovians seized their sides at sight of this, even the prince himself laughed, till at last the hot dishes were brought and the delighted lady turned to Zbyshko with these words,—

"Serve us, dear attendant, and God grant not only at this table, but forever."

Then she said,—

"But thou, tortured fly, crawl out from behind my robe, or thou wilt tear it to pieces."

Danusia came out flushed, confused, raising from moment to moment on Zbyshko eyes that were frightened, put to shame, and curious, and so marvellous that the heart was not only melting in him but in other men. Hugo von Danveld put his hand to his thick moist lips repeatedly; De Lorche was astonished, raised both hands, and inquired,—

"By Saint lago of Compostello, who is that maiden?"

To this Danveld, who with his fatness was of low stature, rose a finger's length, and said in the ear of the Knight of Lorraine,—

"The devil's daughter."

De Lorche looked at him, blinked, then frowned, and said with nasal accent,—

"He is not a true knight who calumniates beauty."

"I wear golden spurs, and I am a monk," replied Hugo, with haughtiness.

So great was the respect for belted knights that De Lorche dropped his head; but after a while he replied,—

"I am a blood relative of the princes of Brabant."

"Pax! Pax! (Peace! Peace!)," said the Knight of the Cross. "Honor to the powerful princes and friends of the Order, from whose hands you will receive golden spurs shortly. I do not deny beauty to that maiden, but hear who her father is."

He was not able, however, to tell, for at that moment Prince Yanush took his seat, and learning previously from the Starosta of Yansbork of the great connections of De Lorche, he gave a sign to him to sit near. Opposite Prince Yanush sat the princess with Danusia. Zbyshko took his place, as in Cracow, behind their chairs, at their service. Danusia held her head over the dish as low as possible, for she felt shame in the presence of people, but a little to one side, so that Zbyshko might see her face. He looked eagerly and with rapture at her small bright head, at her rosy cheeks, at her shoulders dressed in a closely fitting garment,—shoulders which had ceased to be those of a child,—and he felt rising in him, as it were, a river of new love which would inundate his whole being. He felt also on his eyes, on his lips, on his face her recent kisses. She had given them before as a sister to a brother, and he had received them as from a dear child. Now at the fresh remembrance of them this happened which happened when he was with Yagenka,—shivers seized him, and a faintness possessed him beneath which was hidden a warmth, like a fire covered with ashes. Danusia seemed to him an entirely grown lady, for she had bloomed in reality and matured. Besides, so much had been said in her presence of love, and so frequently, that as a bunch of flowers warmed with sun rays grows beautiful and opens more and more, so her eyes were opened to love, and in consequence there was something in her then which had not been there previously,—a certain beauty no longer a child's beauty, a certain mighty attraction, intoxicating, issuing from her as heat from a flame or as odor from a rose.

Zbyshko felt this, but did not give himself account of it, for he forgot himself. He forgot even that he had to serve at the table. He did not see that the courtiers were looking at him, nudging each other with their elbows, showing Danusia and him to one another, and laughing; neither did he notice De Lorche's face, as it were petrified by amazement, nor the staring eyes of Danveld, which were fixed on Danusia, and reflecting the flame of the chimney seemed as red and as flashing as the eyes of a wolf. He recovered only when the trumpet sounded again in sign that it was time for the wilderness, and when Princess Anna turned to him and said,—

"Thou wilt go with us, so as to be able to have pleasure, and speak to the maiden of love; to this I shall be glad to listen."

She left the table then with Danusia, so as to be ready to mount. Zbyshko sprang to the yard where men were holding horses covered with hoar frost, and snorting. These were for the prince and princess, guests, and courtiers. In the yard there were not so many people as before, for the beaters had gone out in advance with snares, and had vanished in the wilderness. The fires had died down; day had appeared, bright, frosty, the snow squeaked under foot; and the trees, moved by a light breeze, scattered dry, glittering frost flakes.

The prince came out promptly and mounted; he was followed by an attendant with a crossbow, and a spear so heavy and long that few men could wield it. Prince Yanush wielded it, however, with ease, for he, like other Mazovian Piasts, possessed uncommon strength. There were even women of that stock, who in marrying foreign princes wound around on their fingers at the wedding feast broad plates of iron. Near the prince were two other attendants ready to aid in emergency; these were chosen from all heirs in the lands of Tsehanov and Warsaw, and they were tremendous to look at, with shoulders like forest trees. De Lorche, who had come from afar, looked on these men with amazement.

Now the princess and Danusia came out, both wearing hoods of white weasel-skin. The undegenerate daughter of Keistut knew better how to "sew" with an arrow than a needle. So behind her was borne a crossbow a little lighter than others, and adorned. Zbyshko, kneeling on the snow, held out his hand, on which the lady rested her foot when mounting; Danusia he raised to the saddle as he had Yagenka in Bogdanets; and they rode on.

The retinue stretched out like a long snake, turned to the right from the house, varied and shining on the border of the wilderness, like a colored selvage on the edge of black cloth, and then began to sink into it slowly.

They were rather deep in the forest when the princess said, turning to Zbyshko,—

"Why dost thou not talk? Now talk to her."

Zbyshko, though thus encouraged, was silent awhile yet, since a certain irresolution had mastered him; and only after the length of one or two Hail Marys did he say,—

"Danusia!"

"What, Zbyshko?"

"I love thee so."

Here he stopped to seek words which were difficult to find, for though he had knelt like a foreign knight before Danusia, though he showed her honor in every way, and strove to avoid common expressions, he strove in vain for courtliness, since his soul being full he could only speak simply. Hence he said, after a while,—

"I love thee so that my breath stops!"

She raised on him from beneath her weasel hood blue eyes, and a face which the cold forest breeze had made rosy.

"And I, Zbyshko!" said she, as if in haste. And she covered her eyes with their lids, for she knew then what love was.

"Hei, thou my little one! hei, thou my maiden!" said Zbyshko.

And again he was silent from emotion and happiness; but the kind and also curious princess came to aid him a second time.

"Tell her," said she, how dreary it was for thee without her, and when there is a thicket, thou mightst even kiss her on the lips. I shall not be angry, for that is the best way to give witness of thy love."

So he began to tell her how dreary his life had been without her in Bogdanets while he was caring for Matsko, and while be was among the "neighbors." Of Yagenka the cunning avoider uttered no word. As to the rest he spoke truly, for at that moment he so loved the fair Danusia that he would have seized her, taken her over on to his horse, kept her before him, and held her at his breast.

He did not dare to do this; but when the next thicket separated them from the courtiers and the guests riding behind, he bent toward her, put his arm around her waist, and hid his face in the weasel-skin hood, testifying to his love by that act.

But as in winter there are no leaves on hazel nut bushes, Danveld and De Lorche saw him; courtiers saw him also, and began to talk among themselves.

"He kissed her in presence of the princess! I believe that the lady will soon have the wedding."

"He is a gallant fellow, but Yurand's blood is sulphurous."

"Flint and steel, though the girl seems like a dove. Sparks will fly from them, never fear! He has fastened a claw to the quick in her."

So they conversed, laughing; but Hugo turned to De Lorche his goatish, malignant, lustful face.

"Could you wish that some Merlin would change you by magic into that young knight?" asked he.

"And you?" inquired De Lorche.

At this the Knight of the Cross, in whom evidently envy and desire were now boiling, jerked his horse with impatient hand, and answered,—

"On my soul!"—

In that moment, however, he recollected himself, and inclining added—

"I am a monk who has vowed chastity."

And he looked quickly at De Lorche, fearing lest he might see a smile on his face; for the Order had an evil fame in the world on that point, and Danveld among monks had the worst. Some years before, when assistant starosta in Sambria, complaints had become so loud against him that in spite of every condescension with which such things were regarded in Malborg they had to transfer him to the post of commander in Schytno. Having arrived some days before with a secret commission to the court of Prince Yanush, and seeing the charming daughter of Yurand, he was inflamed with desire for her, against which Danusia's age was no curb, for in those days girls younger than she were given in marriage. But since at the same time Hugo knew of what stock she was, and since in his mind the name of Yurand connected her with dreadful reminiscences, his desire rose on the basis of savage hatred.

De Lorche fell to inquiring about those events.

"You have called this beautiful maiden 'devil's daughter;' why have you called her thus?"

Hugo narrated then the history of Zlotoria, how at the building of the castle they had seized the prince and his court, how in that affair the girl's mother had perished, and how Yurand had avenged her since that time on all Knights of the Cross in a fearful manner. During the narrative Hugo's hatred burst forth like a flame, since for this feeling he had personal reasons also. He had met Yurand two years before, but at sight of the terrible "Wild boar of Spyhov" the heart fell in him, for the first time in life, so contemptibly that he deserted two relatives, deserted his attendants, left his plunder, and fled a whole day like a madman, till he reached Schytno, where he was sick a long time from fright. When he returned to health the Grand Marshal of the Order brought him to trial. The sentence of the knightly court released him, it is true, for Hugo swore, on the cross and his honor, that an enraged horse had borne him away from the field of battle; but it closed his path to higher dignities in the Order. In presence of De Lorche the Knight of the Cross was silent about these events; but he made so many complaints against the cruelty of Yurand and the insolence of the whole Polish nation, that what he said could hardly find place in the head of the Knight of Lorraine.

"But," said De Lorche, after a while, "we are with Mazovians, not Poles."

"The principality is separate, but the people are the same," answered Hugo; "their vileness and hatred of the Order are equal. God grant the German sword to destroy the whole race!"

"You speak truly, lord; for, just think, this prince, apparently honorable, dared to build a hostile castle on your land; I have never heard of such lawlessness, even among pagans."

"The castle was hostile, but Zlotoria is on his land, not ours."

"Then, glory to Christ who gave you the victory. How did that war end?"

"There was no war at the time."

"And did you gain a victory at Zlotoria?"

"Just in this did God bless us, that the prince was without an army; he had only a court and women."

"How was that?" asked De Lorche, looking at the knight with astonishment. "Then you fell upon women in time of peace, and upon the prince who was building a castle on his own land?"

"When the glory of the Order and Christianity are in question no deeds are dishonorable."

"And that terrible knight is only avenging his young wife killed in time of peace by you?"

"Whoso raises a hand against a Knight of the Cross is a son of darkness."

De Lorche was amazed when he heard this, but he had no time to answer Danveld, for they had ridden out onto a broad, snowy, weed-covered plain, on which the prince had alighted from his horse, and after him others began to dismount.

Skilled foresters under the lead of the chief huntsman disposed guests and the court in a long row at the edge of the plain, so that being in concealment themselves they had in front of them an empty space which facilitated shooting from crossbows and bows. The two shorter sides of the plain were beset with snares, behind which were woodmen, whose duty it was to turn a beast toward the hunters, or if it would not be frightened it became entangled in the snares and they killed it with spears.

Innumerable crowds of Kurpie, disposed skilfully in a so-called circle, were to drive out every living creature to the plain from the depth of the forest.

Beyond the hunters was a net, so that any beast which succeeded in passing the line might be caught in its meshes, and killed.

The prince stood in the centre of the line, in a slight depression which passed through the whole width of the plain. The chief huntsman, Mrokota of Motsarzev, chose this position for him, knowing that just there the largest beasts would seek escape from the circle. The prince had a crossbow in his hand, near his side stood against a tree a heavy spear, and a little behind him were two "defenders" with axes on their shoulders, immense fellows, as bulky as trees of the forest, who besides axes had drawn crossbows, to be given to the prince should he need them.

The princess and Danusia did not dismount; the prince never permitted that, because of danger from wild bulls and bisons, before whose rage it was harder in case of attack to escape on foot than on horseback. De Lorche, though invited by the prince to take a place at his right, begged permission to remain on horseback to defend the ladies, and took his position at some distance from the princess, looking like a long bar with a knight's spear, at which the Mazovians smiled jeeringly in silence, as at a weapon of small value in hunting.

Zbyshko planted his spear in the snow, put his crossbow on his shoulder, and standing near Danusia's horse, raised his head and whispered to her; at moments he embraced her feet and kissed her knees, for he did not hide his love now at all from people. He ceased only when Mrokota, who in the wilderness made bold to reprimand the prince even, enjoined silence severely.

Meanwhile far, far away in the depth of the wilderness, were heard the horns of the Kurpie, which were answered briefly from the plain by the shrill sound of winding trumpets; then followed perfect silence. Only, at long intervals, did a grossbeak cry in the top of a pine tree. Sometimes men in the circle croaked like ravens. The hunters strained their eyes over the empty space, on which a breeze moved the frost-covered weeds and the leafless clumps of brush,—each waiting with impatience to see what beast would be first to appear on the snow. In general a rich and splendid hunt was predicted, for the wilderness was swarming with bisons, wild bulls, and wild boars.

The Kurpie had smoked out from their dens a certain number of bears, which thus roused went through the thickets, mad, alert, and hungry, feeling that they would soon have to struggle, not for a quiet winter's sleep, but for life.

There was still a long time of waiting, since the men who were urging the beasts to the clasps of the circle, and to the plain, occupied an enormous extent of forest, and were coming from such a distance that the ears of hunters were not touched even by the barking of dogs, which immediately after the sounding of trumpets were freed from their leashes. One of these dogs, freed evidently too early, or wandering apart after men, appeared on the plain, and having run over all of it with his nose to the ground, passed between the hunters. Again the place was empty and silent; only the woodmen cawed continually like ravens, announcing in this way that work would begin soon.

In fact, after an interval long enough to repeat a few Our Fathers, at the edge appeared wolves, which, as the most wary, tried first to escape from the circle. Of these there were few. After they had come out on the plain and caught the odor of people, they plunged into the forest anew, seeking evidently another escape. Wild boars sprang out next and ran in a long black chain over the snowy expanse, seeming in the distance like a drove of tame pigs, which at the call of a woman hurry homeward with shaking ears. But that chain halted, listened, scented, turned and listened again, bore to one side toward the snares, sniffed the woodmen, moved again toward the hunters, grunting, approaching more and more cautiously, but still nearer, till at last the sound of iron was heard on the crossbows, then the whiz of arrows and the first blood stained the white, snowy surface.

A piercing squeal was heard and the drove scattered, as if struck by lightning; some went at random straight-forward, some rushed toward the snares, some ran either singly or in small groups, mixing among other beasts with which the plain was now swarming. At this time was heard clearly the sound of horns, the barking of dogs, and the distant noise of men advancing along the main line from the depth of the forest. The beasts of the wilderness, driven from both sides by the extended wings of the circle, filled the forest plain more and more densely. No sight like that could be seen in foreign parts, or even in other Polish lands, where there were no such wild forests as in Mazovia. The Knights of the Cross, though they had been in Lithuania, where at times bisons by striking an army produced confusion in it, wondered not a little at the immense number of beasts, but especially did De Lorche wonder. Standing near the princess and the damsels, like a stork on the watch, and unable to speak with any one, he had begun to be annoyed, while freezing in his armor, and thinking that the hunt was a failure. At last he saw before him whole herds of fleet-footed deer, yellow stags, and elks with weighty-horned heads, mingled together, storming over the plain, blinded with fear and seeking in vain for an exit.

The princess, in whom at sight of this the blood of her father Keistut began to play, sent shaft after shaft into that many-colored throng, and screamed with delight when a stricken deer or an elk rose in its career, then fell heavily and dug the snow with its feet. Damsels bent their faces often toward the crossbows, for the ardor of hunting had seized every person.

Zbyshko alone had no thought for hunting, but leaning his elbow on Danusia's knees, and his head on his palm, he gazed into her eyes; and she, half smiling, half abashed, tried to close his eyelids with her fingers, as if unable to endure such a glance.

De Lorche's attention was occupied by a bear, enormous, with gray legs and shoulders, which had come out of the weeds unexpectedly near the hunters. The prince sent a bolt from his crossbow, and then attacked the beast with a spear. When the bear, roaring awfully, rose on his hind legs the prince pierced him before the eyes of the whole court, so quickly and surely that neither of the two "defenders" had need of an axe.

The young Knight of Lorraine thought then that there were not many lords in the castles at which he had stopped on his journey who would have had courage for amusement like that, and that with such princes and such people the Order might have a difficult adventure, and pass through grievous hours sometime. But farther on he saw pierced in that same way by other men terrible, immense, white-tusked boars, far larger and more savage than any in Lower Lorraine or the forests of Germany. Never had he seen such trained hunters, nor any so confident in the strength of their hands, nor such spear-thrusts. As a man of experience, he concluded that all those people living in boundless forests were accustomed from years of childhood to the crossbow and spear, hence they attained greater skill in the use of them than others.

At last the plain was strewn thickly with bodies of all kinds of beasts, but it was far to the end of the hunt yet. The most interesting and also the most dangerous moment was coming, for the circle had just pressed to the open space a number of tens of wild bulls and bisons. Though in the forest these lived apart usually, they went now mixed together, but not at all headlong from fear; they were rather threatening than terrified. They advanced not very quickly, as if confident, in the feeling of immense power, that they would break every obstacle and pass; the earth resounded beneath the weight of them. Bearded bulls, going in crowds with their heads close to the ground, halted at moments as if considering in what direction to strike. From their monstrous lungs went forth deep roars which were like underground thunder. From their nostrils issued steam, and digging the snow with their fore feet they seemed to be looking with bloody eyes from beneath their shaggy manes for a hidden enemy.

Meanwhile the woodmen raised a mighty shout, to which answer was given from the main line and from the wings of the circle by hundreds of loud voices; horns and whistles made an uproar; the wilderness quivered to its remotest depths, and at the same moment the dogs of the Kurpie rushed out to the plain with a fearful tumult, and chased along on the trail. The sight of them roused rage in the twinkle of an eye among female beasts which had their young with them. The herd of animals, going hitherto slowly, scattered over the whole plain in mad haste. A wild bull, tawny, gigantic, almost monstrous, surpassing bisons in size, rushed with great springs toward the line of hunters; he turned toward the right side of the plain, then, seeing horses some tens of yards distant, among the trees, he halted, and roaring, began to plough the earth with his horns, as if rousing himself to spring forward and fight.

At this sight the woodmen raised a still greater shout. In the line of hunters were heard piercing voices,—

"The princess! the princess! Save the princess!"

Zbyshko grasped his spear planted in the snow and sprang to the edge of the forest; after him went a number of Lithuanians ready to die in defence of the daughter of Keistut; meanwhile a crossbow sounded in the hands of the lady, a shaft whistled, and, flying over the inclined head of the bull, it fastened in his neck.

"He has got it!" cried the princess; "he will come no nearer!"

But a roar so dreadful that horses rose on their haunches drowned further words of hers. The bull hurled himself like a storm straight against the princess. But suddenly, and with no less impetus, the manful De Lorche rushed forth, from among the trees; bent forward on his horse, with lance lowered as in a knightly tournament, he bore straight on the animal. In one twinkle of an eye those present saw buried in the neck of the bull a lance which bent like a reed and broke into small splinters, then the immense horned head disappeared altogether under the belly of De Lorche's horse, and before any one present could utter a cry, the steed and the rider flew through the air as if sent from a sling.

The horse, falling on his side, began in mortal agony to struggle with his feet, entangling them in his own intestines, which had dropped from the body. De Lorche lay near by motionless, looking like an iron wedge on the snow. The wild bull seemed for an instant to hesitate whether to pass them and strike other horses; but having his first victims there before him, he turned again and began to gloat over the hapless steed, crushing him with his head, and tearing in rage the open belly with his horns.

People rushed out from the forest, however, to save the foreign knight. Zbyshko, concerned for the safety of the princess and Danusia, came first, and thrust in his sharp spear behind the foreleg of the beast. But he struck with such force that the handle, when the bull turned suddenly, broke in his hand, and he himself fell face forward on the snow.

"He is lost! he is lost!" cried Mazovians, rushing to aid him.

Meanwhile the bull's head had covered Zbyshko and was pressing him to the earth. From the prince's side two powerful "defenders" rushed up; but help would have been late had not Hlava, the man given by Yagenka, preceded them luckily. He ran ahead, and raising a broad-axe with both hands cut the bent neck of the bull right behind his horns.

The blow was so terrible that the beast dropped as if struck by lightning, his backbone was severed and his head half chopped away; but in falling he pressed Zbyshko. Both "defenders" pulled off the monstrous body in a twinkle, but meanwhile the princess and Danusia sprang from their horses, and dumb with fright, ran to Zbyshko. Pale, covered with his own blood and the blood of the bull, he raised himself somewhat, tried to stand, but staggered, fell on his knees, and leaning on his hand could utter only one word:

"Danusia!"

Then he threw out blood through his mouth, and darkness embraced his head. Danusia, standing at his back, seized his arms, but unable to hold him, cried for assistance. People surrounded him from all sides, rubbed him with snow, poured wine into his mouth; finally the chief hunter, Mrokota, gave command to put him on a cloak, and stay the blood-flow with soft pine punk.

"He will live if only a rib and not his spine is broken," said he, turning to the princess.

Meanwhile other damsels, assisted by hunters, were saving De Lorche. They turned him on every side, seeking on his armor for dints or holes made by the horns of the bull; but beyond traces of snow, packed in between joints of the armor, they could find nothing. The bull had taken revenge mainly on the horse, now dead, with all his entrails out under him; De Lorche had not been struck. He had only fainted from the fall, and, as appeared later, his right arm was disjointed. When they removed his helmet and poured wine into his mouth, he opened his eyes straightway and regained consciousness. Seeing the anxious faces of young and comely damsels bent over him, he said in German,—

"Surely I am in paradise, and angels are above me."

The damsels did not understand what he said, it is true, but glad that he had recovered and spoken, they smiled at him, and, with the help of hunters, raised him from the snow. Feeling pain in his right arm he groaned; with his left he leaned on the arm of one of the "angels;" for a while he stood motionless, fearing to move a step, for he did not feel firm on his feet. Then he cast a glance, which was dull yet, over the field of struggle. He saw the yellow carcass of the bull, which near by seemed enormous. He saw Danusia wringing her hands over Zbyshko, and Zbyshko himself on a cloak.

"Did that knight come to aid me?" inquired he. "Is he alive?"

"He is hurt seriously," answered one of the courtiers, who knew German.

"From this day forth I shall fight not against him, but for him," said the man of Lorraine.

At that moment Prince Yanush, who had been standing over Zbyshko, approached De Lorche and praised him, saying that by his daring deed he had guarded the princess and other ladies from great peril, and had even saved their lives, perhaps, for which, in addition to knightly rewards, he would be surrounded by fame among people then living, and among their descendants.

"In these effeminate times," said he, "fewer and fewer real knights pass through the world; be my guest, therefore, as long as is possible, or stay in Mazovia altogether, for you have won my favor, and you will win as easily the favor of people by your worthy deeds."

De Lorche's heart, eager for glory, was melted by these words; for when he considered that he had accomplished such a preponderant deed of knighthood, and won such praise in those distant Polish lands of which in the West such marvellous things were related, his delight was such that he hardly felt any pain in his disjointed arm. He understood that a knight who at the court of Brabant or Burgundy could say that he had saved at a hunt the life of Princess Anna of Mazovia, would walk in glory as in sunlight. Under the influence of these thoughts, he wanted even to go directly to the princess and vow, on his knees, faithful service to her; but the lady herself and Danusia were busied with Zbyshko.

Zbyshko had regained consciousness again for a moment; but he only smiled at Danusia, raised his hand to his forehead, now covered with cold sweat, and fainted a second time. Experienced hunters, seeing his closed hands and open mouth, said that he would not recover; but the still more experienced Kurpie, many of whom carried on their persons marks of bears' claws, wild boars' tusks, or wild bulls' horns, gave better hope, asserting that the butt's horn had slipped along the knight's ribs; that one or two ribs might be broken, but that his spine was safe; otherwise he could not have raised himself up for a moment. They showed also a snowdrift on the place where Zbyshko had fallen, that had saved him; for the beast, pressing him between his horns, was unable to crush either his breast or his back.

Unfortunately Father Vyshonek, Princess Anna's doctor, though usually at hunts, was not present; he was occupied at the house in baking wafers. The Cheh, learning this, hurried after him, but meanwhile the Kurpie carried Zbyshko on a cloak to the prince's house. Danusia wished to go on foot with him, but Princess Anna opposed, for the road was long, and in the forest depths was much snow; haste, therefore, was needed.

Danveld helped the girl to mount, and then riding near her, just behind the men who were carrying Zbyshko, spoke in Polish, in a suppressed voice, so that he could be heard by her only:—

"I have in Schytno a wonderful healing balsam, which I got from a hermit in the Hercynian forest, and which I could bring in three days."

"God will reward you," answered Danusia.

"God rewards every deed of mercy, but can I hope for pay from you also?"

"What could I pay you?"

The Knight of the Cross pushed up near her with his horse; evidently he wished to tell something, but hesitated, and only after a while did he say,—

"In the Order, besides brothers, there are sisters; one of them will bring the healing balsam, and then I will mention pay."