The Knights of the Cross/Volume 1/Chapter 21
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CHAPTER XXI. Three days later came the promised woman with the Hercynian balsam, and with her a captain of bowmen from Schytno bearing a letter signed by the brothers, and furnished with Danveld's seal. In this letter the Knights of the Cross called heaven and earth to witness the wrongs which had met them in Mazovia; and under threat of God's vengeance demanded punishment for the murder of their "guest and dear comrade." Danveld had added to the letter a complaint of his own, demanding, in words both humble and menacing, payment for the grievous maiming of himself, and a sentence of death against Hlava. The prince tore the letter before the eyes of the captain, threw it under his feet, and said,— "The Master sent them, oh, their crusading mothers, to gain my good-will, but they have brought me to anger. Tell them from me that they slew the guest themselves, and tried to slay the Cheh; of this I shall write to the Master, and I shall add also that he is to choose other envoys if he wishes me to be neutral when war comes between the Order and the king at Cracow." "Gracious lord," replied the captain, "is that the only answer that I am to take to the pious and mighty brotherhood?" "If that is not enough, say that I look on them as dog brothers, and not as real knights." This ended the audience. The captain rode away, for the prince went that day to Tsehanov. But the "sister" remained with the balsam, which the suspicious Father Vyshonek would not use, especially as the sick man had slept soundly the night before, and woke in the morning weakened greatly, it is true, but without fever. After the prince's departure the sister sent back one of her servants immediately, as if for a new remedy, a "basilisk's egg," which, as she declared, had power to restore strength even to the dying. She went herself along the court submissively, and without the use of one hand, in a lay dress,—but one resembling that of a religious,—with a rosary, and a small pilgrim gourd at her girdle. Speaking Polish well, she inquired of the servants with great care about Zbyshko and Danusia; when the occasion offered, she made Danusia a present of a rose of Jericho; and the following day, when the maiden was sitting in the dining-hall, she pushed up to her and said,— "God bless you, young lady. Last night, after prayer, I dreamed that two knights came through the snow to you; one arrived first, and wound you in a white mantle, but the other said, 'I see only snow, she is not here;' and he went back again." Danusia, who wished to sleep, opened her blue eyes at once, and inquired,— "But what does that signify?" "This, that the one who loves you most will get you." "That is Zbyshko!" "I cannot tell, for I saw not his face; I saw only a white mantle, and I woke then immediately, for every night the Lord Jesus sends me pain in my feet; and one arm He has taken from me altogether." "But has the balsam not helped you?" "Even the balsam will not help me, young lady, because of my sin, which is too great; if you wish to know what it is, I will tell you." Danusia nodded, in token that she was willing to know; so the sister continued,— "There are in the Order women also who serve, though they make no vows, for they can marry, still, with respect to the Order they are bound to serve the Brotherhood; and whoever of them is met by such a favor and honor receives a pious kiss from a brother knight in sign that henceforth in deed and speech she is to serve the Order. Oh, young lady, such a great favor was to visit me; but I, in my sinful stubbornness, instead of receiving it gratefully, committed much sin, and drew down on myself punishment." "What did you do?" "Brother Danveld came and gave me the kiss of the Order. I thought it given through frivolousness, and raised my godless hand on him." Then she beat her breast, and repeated a number of times,— "O God, be merciful to me a sinner!" "And what happened?" inquired Danusia. "My hand was taken at once from me, and from that hour I have been maimed. I was young and foolish; I was ignorant! Still, I was punished. For though it might seem to a woman that a brother of the Order wished to do something evil, she must leave judgment to God; she is not to oppose, for should she oppose a Knight of the Cross, or a Brother, God's anger would blast her." Danusia listened to those words with disgust and with fear; the sister, however, sighed, and continued,— "I am not old even to-day, barely thirty; but God, when He took the use of my hand from me, took my youth also and beauty." "If your hand had not been taken," said Danusia, "you might live without complaint." After that, followed silence. Then the sister, as if calling something to mind, said,— "But I dreamt that some knight wrapped you in a white mantle on the snow; he was a Knight of the Cross, perhaps, they wear white mantles." "I want neither the Knights of the Cross nor their mantles," answered the maiden. Further conversation was stopped by the priest, who entered the hall, nodded at Danusia, and said,— "Praise God, and go to Zbyshko. He is awake, and wishes to eat. He is much better." Such was the case in reality. Zbyshko's health had improved, and Father Vyshonek felt almost certain that he would recover, when all at once an unexpected event disturbed all combinations and hopes. Messengers from Yurand came to the princess with a letter which contained the worst and most terrible tidings. A part of Yurand's castle in Spyhov had caught fire. He himself, while trying to save the building, had been crushed by a burning beam. Father Kaleb, who had written the letter in Yurand's name, declared, it is true, that Yurand might recover, but that the sparks and coals had so burnt his sound eye, that not much sight was left in it, and inevitable blindness threatened him. For this reason Yurand summoned his daughter to come quickly to Spyhov; he wished to see her once more before blindness seized him. He said, too, that she would remain thenceforth with him; for if even blind men who go out to beg bread have each of them a child to lead him and show the way, why should he be deprived of this last consolation, and die among strangers? The letter contained also profound thanks to the princess, who had reared the girl as if she had been her mother, and at the end Yurand promised that, though blind, he would visit Warsaw again to fall at the feet of the lady, and implore her favor for Danusia in the future. When Father Vyshonek read this letter to her, the princess was hardly able to utter a word for some time. She had hoped that when Yurand, who visited his child five or six times every year, came at the approaching holidays, she would, by her authority and that of Prince Yanush, win him over to Zbyshko, and gain his consent to an early wedding. This letter not only destroyed all her plans, but deprived her of Danusia, whom she loved as if she had been her own daughter. It occurred to her also that Yurand might give the girl immediately to one of his neighbors, so as to pass the rest of his days among his own kindred. A visit by Zbyshko to Spyhov was out of the question, for his ribs had only just begun to knit, and besides, who could tell how Yurand would receive him? The princess knew that Yurand had refused him outright, and told her that for mysterious reasons he would never permit the marriage. In her grievous vexation, Princess Anna gave command to summon the elder among the messengers so as to inquire of him touching the misfortune at Spyhov, and learn something of Yurand's plans also. She was astonished when a man entirely unknown answered her summons, not old Tolima, Yurand's shield-bearer, who came with him usually. The stranger explained that Tolima had been terribly wounded in the last battle with the Germans; that he was wrestling with death in Spyhov; that Yurand, brought down with great pain, begged for the speedy return of his daughter, for he saw less and less, and in a couple of days might be blind altogether. The messenger begged, therefore, earnestly for permission to take the girl the moment his horses had rested, but as it was evening the princess opposed decisively. She would not break the hearts of Zbyshko and Danusia and herself utterly by such a sudden parting. Zbyshko knew of everything already, and was lying in his room as if struck on the head with the poll of a hatchet; and when the princess entered, wringing her hands and saying at the threshold, "There is no help, for this is a father," he repeated after her, like an echo, "There is no help," and closed his eyes like a man who thinks that death will come to him straightway. But death did not come, though increasing grief rose in his breast, and through his head darker and darker thoughts flew, like clouds which, driven by a storm one after another, hide the light of day and extinguish all earthly pleasure. Zbyshko understood, as well as the princess, that if Danusia went to Spyhov she would be the same as lost to him. "Here," thought he, "all wish me well; there Yurand may not even receive me, or listen to me, especially if a vow or some unknown reason binds him. Besides, how can I go to Spyhov when I am sick and barely able to move on this bed." A few days before, by the favor of the prince, golden spurs with the belt of a knight had been given him. He thought on receiving them that joy would overcome sickness, and he prayed with his whole soul to rise quickly and measure himself with the Knights of the Order, but now he lost every hope, for he felt that if Danusia were absent from his bedside, desire to live would be absent and the strength to struggle with death would be absent also. To-morrow would come, and the day after, and the eves of festivals, and the festivals themselves; his bones would pain him in just the same way, and in just the same way would faintness seize him, and that brightness would not be near him, which spread through the whole room from Danusia, nor would that delight for the eyes which looked at her. What a consolation, what a solace to ask a number of times every day, "Am I dear to thee?" and to see her as, laughing and confused, she covered her eyes with her hands, or bent down and answered, "Who could be dear if not Zbyshko?" Sickness will stay behind, and pain and grief, happiness will go, and not return to him. Tears gleamed in Zbyshko's eyes and flowed over his cheeks slowly; then he turned to the princess and said,— "Gracious lady, I think that I shall never see Danusia in this life again." "Wert thou to die from grief it would not be a wonder," answered the princess, herself full of sorrow. "But the Lord Jesus is merciful." After a while, wishing to strengthen him even a little, she added,— "Though if Yurand were to die before thee, without giving this as an example, guardianship would come to the prince and to me, and we should give thee the maiden immediately." "If he dies!" answered Zbyshko. But all at once some new thought flashed through his head, for he raised himself, sat up in the bed, and said in changed accents,— "Gracious lady—" At that point he was interrupted by Danusia, who ran in weeping and began to call from the threshold,— "Thou knowest already, Zbyshko! Oi, I am sorry for papa, but I am sorry for thee, poor boy!" Zbyshko, when she came near him, gathered in with his sound arm his darling, and said,— "How am I to live without thee? It was not to lose thee that I made vows and served thee. It was not to lose thee that I have ridden hither through forests and rivers. Hei! grief will not relieve me, tears will not relieve me, death itself will not relieve; for though the green grass were to grow over me, my soul would not forget thee even in the court of the Lord Jesus, and in the chambers of God the Father Himself. I say there is no help, but help must be found; without help there is no escape anyhow! I feel torture in my bones and great pain, but do thou, Danusia, fall at the feet of our lady, for I am not able to do so, and do thou beg a favor for both of us." When Danusia heard this she sprang to the feet of the princess, and embracing them hid her bright face in the folds of her heavy robe; the lady turned her eyes, which were filled with pity but also with astonishment, at Zbyshko. "How can I show favor? If I do not let the child go to her father I shall bring down the anger of God on my head." Zbyshko, who had raised himself previously, dropped again to the pillow, and for a time made no answer because breath was lacking him. But gradually he moved one hand up to the other on his breast till at last he joined both as if in prayer. "Rest," said the princess, "then tell what thy wish is,but do thou, Danusia, rise from my knees." "Do not rise, but join in my prayer," said Zbyshko. Then he began in a weak and broken voice,— "Gracious lady—Yurand was opposed to me in Cracow—he will be opposed to me now, but if Father Vyshonek marries me to Danusia—she may go to Spyhov, for then no human power can take her from me." These words were so unexpected for Princess Anna that she sprang up from the bench, then sat down again, and said, as if not understanding well what the question was,— "God's wounds!—Father Vyshonek?" "Gracious lady! gracious lady!" begged Zbyshko. "Gracious lady!" repeated Danusia after him, embracing the knees of the princess a second time. "How could that be without parental permission?" "The law of God is superior," answered Zbyshko. "But fear God!" "Who is a father, if not the prince? who a mother, if not you, gracious lady?" "Gracious beloved mother!" said Danusia. "True! I have been, and am a mother to her," said the princess, "and besides it was from my hand that Yurand received his wife. True! The moment the marriage takes place all is finished. Yurand may be angry, still he is bound to the prince, as his lord. Moreover we need not tell him immediately unless he wants to give her to another, or make her a nun.—And if he has taken some vow it will not be his fault (that she is married) . Against the will of God no man can do anything.—By the living God! maybe this is Heaven's will." "It must be!" cried Zbyshko. "Wait," said the princess, filled with emotion, "let me think a little! If the prince were here I should go to him now and ask, 'Are we to give Danusia, or not?' But without him I am afraid to act.—My breath just stops, and there is no time for waiting in this case, since the girl must go in the morning.—O dear Jesus! let her go married, if only there is peace. But I cannot come to my mind, and somehow I am afraid. Art thou not afraid, Danusia? Speak!" "If this is not done I shall die!" exclaimed Zbyshko. Danusia rose from the knees of the princess, and because she was really admitted by the kind lady not only to intimacy, but to fondling, she seized her around the neck, and pressed her with all her strength. "Without Father Vyshonek I will say nothing to thee," answered the princess. "Run for him as quickly as possible." Danusia ran for Father Vyshonek; Zbyshko turned his pallid face to the princess, and said,— "What the Lord Jesus has predestined will happen, but for this comfort may God reward you, gracious lady." "Do not bless me yet," said the princess, "for it is unknown what will happen. And thou must swear to me on thy honor that if the marriage takes place thou wilt not prevent Danusia from going at once to her father, so as not to draw his curse on thyself and on her; against that may God guard thee." "I swear on my honor," answered Zbyshko. "Well, remember thy oath. But there is no need for the girl to say anything to Yurand at present. Better keep back the news lest it burn him like fire. We will send for him from Tsehanov, to come with Danusia, and then I will tell him myself; I will beg the prince even to do so. When he sees that there is no help for it he will consent. For that matter, Yurand has not disliked thee." "No, he has not disliked me, so he may even be glad in soul that Danusia will be mine. For if he has made a vow he will not be in fault if I get her." The coming of Father Vyshonek and Danusia interrupted further conversation. The princess called him to counsel that instant, and told him with great excitement of Zbyshko's wish, but he, after barely hearing what the question was, made the sign of the cross on himself, and said,— "In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!—how can I do this? Why, it is Advent!" "As God lives, that is true!" cried the princess. Silence followed. The anxious faces showed what a blow Father Vyshonek's words were to all of them. After a while he added,— "Were there a dispensation I would not oppose, since I sympathize with you. I should not ask absolutely for Yurand's permission; if you permit, gracious lady, and guarantee the consent of the prince, our lord, of course he and you are father and mother of all Mazovia. But without a dispensation from the bishop—I cannot. If Bishop Yakob of Kurdvanov were among us, perhaps he would not refuse a dispensation, though severe,—not like his predecessor, Bishop Mamphiolus, who answered every question with 'Bene! bene!'" (Granted! granted!) "Bishop Yakob loves the prince and me greatly," put in the lady. "Then I say that he would not refuse a dispensation, if there are reasons for it. The girl must go, and this young man is sick, and will die. perhaps—Hm! in articulo mortis. But without a dispensation it is impossible." "I could get a dispensation of Bishop Yakob later,—and though I know how severe he is, he will not refuse me this favor.—Oh, I guarantee that he will not refuse." To this Father Vyshonek, who was a good and mild man, replied,— "The word of an anointed of God like you is great. I am afraid of the bishop, but your word has power. The young man too might promise something to the cathedral in Plotsk—I know not.—Seest thou this is always a sin till dispensation comes, and the sin of no one but me?—Hm! the Lord Jesus is indeed merciful; if any man sins not to his own profit, but out of compassion for the suffering of others He forgives the more readily.—But this is a sin, and should the bishop be stubborn, who would absolve me?" "The bishop will not be stubborn!" cried Princess Anna. "That Sanderus, who came with me has indulgences for everything," said Zbyshko. Father Vyshonek did not believe altogether, perhaps, in Sanderus's indulgences, but he was glad to seize at a pretext even, if only it favored Zbyshko and Danusia, for he had great love for the maiden, whom he had known from her childhood. At last he considered that church penance was the worst that might befall him, so he turned to the princess and said,— "I am a priest, it is true, but also I am the prince's servant. What do you command, gracious lady?" "I do not command, I request," replied she. "But if that Sanderus has indulgences—" "He has. But it is a question of the bishop. He deals strictly with rules there in Plotsk." "Have no fear of the bishop. He has forbidden to priests bows and swords, as I hear, as well as various acts of license, but he has not forbidden good deeds." "Then let it be according to your will," said Father Vyshonek, raising his eyes and his hands. At these words delight possessed their hearts. Zbyshko dropped again to his pillow, but the princess, Danusia, and Father Vyshonek sat around the bed and "counselled" how the affair was to be accomplished. They determined to preserve the secret, so that not a living soul in the house should know of it; they determined also that neither ought Yurand to know till the princess herself should inform him in Tsehanov of everything. The priest was to write a letter immediately from the princess to Yurand, asking him to come at once to Tsehanov, where they could find better cures for his wounds, and he would not be so troubled by loneliness. Finally it was arranged that Zbyshko and Danusia should prepare for confession. The marriage would take place in the night, when all had lain down to sleep. For a moment Zbyshko had thought to take the Cheh as a witness of the marriage, but he rejected the plan when he remembered that Hlava had come from Yagenka. For a while Yagenka stood before him in memory, as if living. She stood in such a way that it seemed to him that he was looking at her ruddy face, and her eyes that had been weeping, and he heard her imploring voice, which said: "Do not do that! do not pay me with evil for good, with misfortune for love!" All at once great compassion for her seized him, because he felt that grievous pain would be inflicted on her, after which she would not find solace either under her father's roof or in the depth of the forest, or in the field, or in the gifts of the abbot, or in the love-making of Stan and Vilk. So he said to her in spirit: "God grant thee, O maiden, everything that is best, but, though I should be glad to bend down the heavens for thee, I cannot." And, in fact, the conviction that that was not in his power brought relief at once and restored peace to him, so that he thought then only of Danusia and the marriage. But he could not dispense with the aid of the Cheh, so, though he had determined to say nothing in his presence of what was to happen, he asked to have him called. "I am going to confession," said he to Hlava, "and to the Table of the Lord; so array me in the best manner possible, as if I were going to royal chambers." The Cheh was alarmed somewhat, and looked at his face. Zbyshko understood what this meant, and said,— "Have no fear; people confess before other events as well as death; but this time is all the more fitting since the holidays are near, when the princess and Father Vyshonek are going to Tsehanov, and there will be no priest nearer than Prasnysh." "But will your Grace not go?" asked the attendant. "I shall go if I recover; but my recovery is in God's hands." Hlava was pacified, and hurrying to the box brought that white, gold-embroidered jacket in which the knight arrayed himself for great solemnities, and also a beautiful rug to cover his feet in the bed. Then, when he had raised Zbyshko, with the aid of the two Turks, he washed him, combed his long hair, around which he put a scarlet head-band. Finally he propped him, thus arrayed, against red pillows, and, pleased with his own work, he added,— "If your Grace were able to dance now, you might go to a wedding." "They would have to do without our dancing," answered Zbyshko, with a smile. Meanwhile, the princess in her chamber was thinking how to array Danusia, since for her womanly nature it was a question of great importance, and she was unwilling that the dear maiden reared by her should stand up to be married in an every-day garment. The maidens to whom information was given that Danusia had arrayed herself in the color of innocence for confession, found white robes easily in the boxes. For the dressing of her head there was trouble. At the thought of this wonderful sadness possessed the princess, so that she fell to complaining,— "O thou my orphan, where shall I find a garland of rue for thee? In this forest there is no little flower of any sort, nor a leaf, unless mosses flourish under the snow." Danusia, standing there with flowing hair, was troubled also, for she, too, wished a garland; but after a while she pointed to strings of immortelles hanging on the walls of the chamber, and said,— "Use those, for I shall find nothing else, and Zbyshko will take me even in such a garland." The princess would not consent at first, fearing a bad omen, but since there were no flowers in that house, to which they came only for hunting, they settled on what they had. Father Vyshonek, who had heard Zbyshko's confession, came, and took Danusia now to confess; after that dark night appeared. When supper was over, the servants went to bed at command of the princess. Yurand's messengers lay down, some in the servants' rooms, others with the horses in the stables. Fires in the servants' rooms were covered with ashes and went down, till at last it was perfectly silent in the hunting-lodge, save that from time to time dogs barked toward the forest at wolves. But in the chambers of the princess, of Father Vyshonek, and of Zbyshko the windows did not cease to give light; they cast ruddy gleams on the snow which covered the courtyard. In these chambers they were watching in silence, listening to the beating of their own hearts, disquieted and filled with the solemnity of that moment which was to come very soon. After midnight the princess took Danusia's hand and conducted her to Zbyshko's chamber, where Father Vyshonek was waiting for them with the Lord God (the Holy Sacrament). In that chamber a great fire was burning in the chimney, and by its abundant but uneven light, Zbyshko beheld Danusia, somewhat pale from lack of sleep, in white, with a garland of immortelles on her temples, dressed in a stiff robe which reached the floor. Her eyelids were closed from emotion, her arms were dropped at her sides, and she looked like a painting on window-panes. There was something church-like about her, so that Zbyshko wondered at the sight; for it seemed to him that that was not an earthly maiden, but some heavenly soul which he was to take in marriage. And he thought so still more when she knelt with folded hands for communion, and with head thrown back closed her eyes altogether. She seemed to him as if dead, so that terror even seized his heart. But this did not last long, for hearing the voice of the priest saying, Ecce Agnus Dei,[1] he became collected in spirit, and his thoughts flew toward God straightway. In the chamber no noise was heard now save the solemn voice of the priest: Domine, non sum dignus,[2] and the crackling of the sparks in the fire, and the crickets singing persistently, and, as it were, with sadness in a cranny of the chimney. Outside the house the wind rose and sounded through the snow-covered forest, but it fell again. Zbyshko and Danusia remained some time in silence. Father Vyshonek took the chalice to the chapel, and returned soon, not alone, however, but with De Lorche, and, noticing astonishment on the faces of those present, he put his finger on his lips as if to prevent an exclamation. "I understood," said he, "that it would be better to have two witnesses of the marriage; hence, I have just instructed this knight, who has sworn to me on his honor and on relics that he will keep the secret as long as may be needed." De Lorche knelt first before the princess then before Danusia. After that he rose and stood in silence, arrayed in ceremonial armor, along the joints of which bright reflections shone from the fire. Tall, motionless, sunk as it were in ecstasy; for to him also that white maiden with a garland of immortelles on her head seemed an angel on the window-panes of a Gothic cathedral. The priest brought her to Zbyshko's bedside, and, putting his stole over their arms, began the usual ceremony. Tears one after another flowed down the honest face of the princess, but in her soul there was no fear at that moment; for she felt that she was doing good by uniting those two wonderful and innocent children. De Lorche knelt a second time, and, leaning with both hands on the hilt of his sword, he looked exactly like a knight who has a vision. The couple repeated the words of the priest in turn: "I—take thee—to myself—" and in accompaniment to these low and pleasant words the crickets chirped again in the crevices of the chimney, and the fire crackled in the billets of hornbeam. When the ceremony was over, Danusia fell at the feet of the princess, who blessed both, and who said as she gave them into the guardianship of the heavenly powers,— "Rejoice now, for she is thine, and thou art hers." Then Zbyshko stretched out his sound arm to Danusia, and she encircled his neck with her arms, and for a while the others heard how they repeated to each other,— "Thou art mine, Danusia!" "Thou art mine, Zbyshko!" But immediately after Zbyshko grew weak, for the emotion was too great for his strength, and dropping on the pillow he breathed heavily. He did not faint, however, and did not cease to smile at Danusia, who wiped his face, bedewed with cold sweat, and he did not cease to repeat even yet, "Thou art mine, Danusia!" at which she bent her blond head each time toward him. This spectacle moved to the utmost De Lorche, who declared that in no land had it happened him to see such tender hearts, wherewith he made a solemn vow to meet on foot or on horseback any knight, magician, or dragon who might dare to stand in the way of their happiness. And, in fact, he took that vow immediately on the cross-formed hilt of a misericordia, or small sword, which served knights in despatching the wounded. The princess and Father Vyshonek were called as witnesses of that vow. The princess, not understanding a marriage without some rejoicement, brought wine, and they drank of it. The hours passed one after another. Zbyshko, overcoming his weakness, drew Danusia toward him a second time, and said,— "Since the Lord Jesus has given thee to me, no one will take thee from me now, dearest berry." "Papa and I will come to Tsehanov," answered Danusia. "If only sickness or something else does not attack thee. God guard thee from evil event. Thou must go to Spyhov, I know. Hei! thanks to the highest God, and the gracious lady that thou art mine, for the power of man cannot unmake a marriage." But since that marriage had taken place in the night and mysteriously, and since immediately afterward a separation was to follow, a certain strange melancholy seized at moments, not only Zbyshko, but all. Conversation was interrupted. From time to time the fire ceased to blaze in the chimney, and peoples' heads sank in obscurity. Father Vyshonek threw new sticks on the coals then, and when a stick crackled with a plaintive sound, as it does sometimes when the wood is fresh, he said,— "What dost thou wish for, O soul doing penance?" The crickets answered him, and the increasing flame, which brought out from the shadow watching faces, was reflected in the armor of De Lorche, illuminating at the same time Danusia's white robe and the garland on her head. The dogs in the yard barked again toward the forest as if at wolves. And as the night passed silence fell more and more on them, till at last the princess said,— "Dear Jesus! is it to be thus after a marriage? Better go to sleep; but since we must wait till morning, play to us on the lute, little flower, play, for the last time before thy going, to me and to Zbyshko." Danusia, who was weary and drowsy, was glad to rouse herself with anything; so she sprang for the lute, and returning after a while with it sat by Zbyshko's bed. "What am I to play?" asked she. "What shouldst thou play," asked the princess, "if not that song which thou didst sing in Tynets, when Zbyshko saw thee the first time?" "Hei! I remember—and till death I shall not forget," said Zbyshko. "After that always the tears came to my eyes when I heard it." "I will sing it in that case," said Danusia. And straightway she began to finger the lute; then throwing her head back as usual she began:— Oh, had I wings like a wild goose, I would fly after him to Silesia! But all at once her voice broke, her lips quivered, and from beneath her closed lids tears came out on her cheeks in spite of her. For a time she tried not to let them come, but she had not power to restrain them, and at last she wept heartily, just as she had when, the time before, she sang that same song to Zbyshko in the prison at Cracow. "Danusia! What is thy grief, Danusia?" asked Zbyshko. "Why art thou weeping? What kind of wedding is this?" cried the princess. "Why dost thou weep?" "I know not," answered Danusia, sobbing. "I feel so much sadness. I grieve so for Zbyshko and the lady." Therefore all were sad, and fell to comforting her, explaining that her absence would not be lasting; that surely she would go with her father at Christmas to Tsehanov. Zbyshko embraced her again with his arm, drew her to his bosom, and kissed the tears from her eyes; but the weight remained on all hearts, and under this weight the remaining hours of the night passed. At last a noise was heard in the yard, so sudden and sharp that all quivered. The princess, springing up from her seat, cried,— "Oh, as God lives! The well-sweeps! They are watering the horses!" Father Vyshonek looked through the window, in which the glass panes were taking on a gray color, and said,— "Night is growing pale, and day is coming. Ave Maria, gratias plena!" (Hail, Mary, full of grace!) Then he went out of the chamber, and returning after a while, said,— "Day is dawning, though the day will be gloomy. Yurand's people are watering the horses. It is time for thee to take the road." At these words the princess and Danusia broke into loud weeping, and they and Zbyshko lamented, as do simple people when they part; that is, in their lament there was something ceremonial, a complaint, half spoken, half chanted, which comes forth from full souls as naturally as tears from the eyes,— "Hei, weeping will help us no longer. Zbyshko drew Danusia to his bosom for the last time, and held her there long, as long as his breath lasted, and until the princess tore her away from him to dress her for the road. Day had dawned now completely. All in the house were awake and moving. Hlava came to Zbyshko to learn about his health and ask for orders. "Draw the bed to the window," said the knight. The Cheh drew the bed easily to the window, but he wondered when Zbyshko commanded him to open it; but he obeyed, covering, however, the lord with his own fur, for it was cold out of doors, though cloudy, and abundant soft snow was falling. Zbyshko looked through the snow-flakes flying from the clouds. In the yard a sleigh was visible; around it, on steaming horses which had hoar frost on them, were Yurand's people. All were armed, and over their sheepskins some wore armor, on which the pale and uncertain light of day was reflected. The forest was covered entirely with snow; the fences and the gate were hardly visible. Danusia rushed into Zbyshko's room once more, wrapped now in her shuba and fur cloak; once more she put her arms around his neck, and once more she said to him in parting: "Though I go, I am thine." He kissed her hands, her cheeks, and her eyes, which he could hardly see under the foxskin hood, and said,— "God guard thee! God go with thee! Thou art mine, mine till death!" And when they drew her away from him again, he raised himself as much as he was able, rested his head against the window, and looked. Through the snow-flakes, as through a kind of veil, he saw Danusia take her place in the sleigh; he saw the princess hold her long in her embrace, and the court damsels kiss her, and Father Vyshonek make the sign of the cross on her for the road. She turned toward him once more at the very parting, and stretched out her arms. "Be with God, Zbyshko!" "God grant me to see thee in Tsehanov—" But the snow fell as thickly as if it wished to benumb and cover everything, hence those last words were so dulled when they reached them that it seemed to both as if they were calling from afar to each other.
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