The Knights of the Cross/Volume 1/Chapter 6
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CHAPTER VI. The next day Yurand did not avoid Zbyshko in the least, or hinder him from showing Danusia on the way various services which as a knight it was his duty to show her. On the contrary, Zbyshko, though greatly mortified, noticed that the gloomy lord of Spyhov looked at him in a friendly manner, and, as it were, with sorrow because he had been forced to give such a cruel answer. The young man tried more than once, therefore, to approach him and begin conversation. About an hour's journey from Cracow it was not difficult to find an opportunity, for both accompanied the princess on horseback. Yurand, though usually silent, spoke willingly enough; but when Zbyshko wished to learn something of the secret hindrances separating him from Danusia, conversation stopped on a sudden. Yurand's face became cloudy; he looked unquietly at Zbyshko, as if fearing to betray himself in something. Zbyshko thought that the princess knew facts; so, selecting a favorable moment, he tried to obtain information from her; but neither could she explain much to him. "There is a secret,'* said she. "Yurand himself told me this; but he begged me at the same time not to ask him, for he is not only unwilling but unable to tell it. Doubtless he is bound by some oath, as happens among people. God grant, however, that in time all this will explain itself." "Without Danusia I should be in this world like a dog on a leash, or a bear in a pit. No delight of any kind, no pleasure. Nothing beyond disappointment and sighing. I would go now with Prince Vitold to Tavan, and let the Tartars there kill me. But I must take my uncle home to begin with, and then snatch those peacock-plumes from the heads of the Germans, as I have sworn. Mayhap they will kill me while doing so; I should rather die than see another man taking Danusia." The princess raised her kindly blue eyes on him, and inquired, with a certain astonishment,— "And thou wouldst not permit that?" "That will not be, while there is breath in my nostrils! Unless my hand were to wither, and be without power to hold an axe!" "Well, thou wilt see." "But how could I take her in spite of her father?" To this the princess answered, as if to herself,— "Mighty God! surely that will not be! Is God's will not stronger than the will of a father?" Then she said to Zbyshko: "And what did Yurand himself say? 'If it be the will of God, he will get her.'" "He said that to me," replied Zbyshko. 'If it be the will of God,' said he, 'thou wilt get her.'" "Well, seest thou?" "Yes, in thy favor, gracious lady, is my only solace." "Thou hast my favor, and Danusia will adhere to thee. Only yesterday I said to her, 'Danusia, but wilt thou hold to Zbyshko?' and she answered: 'I shall be Zbyshko's, or no one's.' That is a green berry yet, but whatever she says she will hold to, for she is a noble's child, not some wanderer. And her mother was of the same kind." "May God grant!" replied Zbyshko. "But remember that thou hold to her; for more than one man is giddy; he promises to love faithfully, and directly he rushes to another, so that thou couldst not hold him on a rope! I tell the truth! And you meet a man sometimes who at every girl he sees neighs like a horse fat on oats." "May the Lord Jesus punish me first!" cried Zbyshko with energy. "Well, remember that. And when thou hast taken thy uncle home come to our court. Thou wilt have a chance there to win spurs, and by that time we shall see what God gives. Danusia will have ripened and will feel the will of God, for now she loves thee indeed greatly,—I cannot express it otherwise,—but not yet as mature maidens love. Perhaps too Yurand will incline to thee later, for, as I notice, he would be glad to incline. Thou wilt go to Spyhov too, and with Yurand against the Germans; it may happen that thou wilt serve him in some way and win him completely." "Gracious lady, I intended to act in just that way, but with permission it will be easier." This conversation added much courage to Zbyshko. Meanwhile at the first halt old Matsko grew so ill that there was need to stop and wait till he could regain even a little strength for the farther journey. The kind princess, Anna Danuta, left him medicines and remedies from all that she had brought, but she was forced herself to travel on, and the owners of Bogdanets had to part with the Mazovian court. Zbyshko fell his whole length at the feet of the princess, then once more he vowed true knightly service to Danusia, promised to go soon to Tsehanov, or Warsaw; finally he seized her in his strong arms, and raising her said with a voice of emotion,— "Think of me, dearest flower; remember me, my golden fish!" And Danusia, embracing him with her arms, just as a younger sister embraces a dear brother, put her little upturned nose to his cheek and cried, with tears each as big as a pea,— "I will not go to Tsehanov without Zbyshko ! I will not go to Tsehanov!" Yurand saw this, but he did not burst out in anger; on the contrary, he took farewell of the youth very kindly, and when he had mounted his horse he turned once again to him, and added,— "Be with God, and cherish no feeling of offence toward me." "How should I have a feeling of offence against you, Danusia's father?" said Zbyshko, sincerely. And he inclined before him to the stirrup. Yurand pressed his hand firmly, and said,— "God give thee luck in all undertakings. Dost understand?" And he rode away. Zbyshko understood the great goodwill in those final words, and turning to the wagon in which Matsko was lying, he said, "Do you know, he too would be glad, but something prevents him. You were in Spyhov, and you have quick reason; try to understand what this means." But Matsko was too ill. The fever which he had in the morning increased toward evening to the degree that he began to lose consciousness; hence, instead of answering Zbyshko, he looked at him as if in astonishment, and asked,— "But where are the bells ringing here?" Zbyshko was frightened, for it occurred to him that if the sick man heard bells it was evident that death was approaching. He thought too that the old man might die without a priest, without confession, and thus put himself, if not entirely in hell, at least for long ages in purgatory—hence he resolved to take him farther, so as to bring him to some parish where he might receive the last sacraments. With this object they moved on during the whole night. Zbyshko sat in the wagon on the hay where the sick man was lying, and watched him till daybreak. From time to time he gave him wine, which the merchant Amyley had furnished for the road, and which the thirsty Matsko drank eagerly, for it brought him evident relief. When he had drunk a second quart he even recovered consciousness; after the third quart he fell asleep, so deeply that Zbyshko bent over him at moments to be sure that he was not dead. At thought of this, great sorrow seized Zbyshko. Till the time of his imprisonment in Cracow he had not understood how he loved that "uncle," who in life had been to him father and mother. But now he knew well, and also he felt that after the death of that "uncle" he would be terribly alone in the world—without blood relations; save only the abbot who had Bogdanets in pledge, he would be without friends, without aid. At the same time it occurred to him that if Matsko died his death would come through Germans, through whom he himself had lacked little of losing his life, through whom all his family had perished, and Danusia's mother, and many, many blameless people whom he had known, or of whom he had heard from acquaintances; and at last wonder seized hold of him. "Is there," said he to himself, "in this whole kingdom a man who has not suffered injustice from Germans, and who is not thirsting for vengeance?" Here he remembered those with whom he had fought at Vilno, and he thought: "Even Tartars are surely not more cruel in war than the Germans, and of a certainty there is not another such nation on earth." The dawn interrupted his meditation. The day rose clear, but cool. Matsko was evidently better, for he breathed evenly and quietly. He woke only when the sun had warmed the world well; he opened his eyes and said,— "I feel better. Where are we?" "We are entering Olkush. You know the place where they dig silver, and pay taxes to the treasury." "Oh, to have what there is in the ground! Then we might build up Bogdanets." "It is evident that you are better," said Zbyshko, smiling. "Hei! it would be enough to build a walled castle. But let us go to the priest's house, for there they will give us entertainment, and you will be able to confess. All is in God's hands, but it is better to have the conscience in order." "I am a sinful man; I am glad to be penitent," said Matsko. "I dreamed in the night that devils were pulling the boots from my feet, and were gabbling to one another in German. God was gracious, relief came. But thou didst sleep like a log?" "How sleep when I was watching you?" "Then lie down a little. When we arrive I will wake thee." "What time have I to sleep?" "But what hinders thee?" "What unless love?" said Zbyshko, looking at his uncle with the eyes of a child. "Pains have collected in my breast from sighing, but I will sit on horseback a little, and that will relieve me." He crawled out of the wagon and mounted a horse, which one of the Turks given by Zavisha held carefully. Matsko meanwhile held his side because of pain, but clearly he had something else besides his own sickness in mind, for he shook his head, smacked his lips, and said at last,— "I wonder, and I cannot stop wondering, how thou hast become so eager for that love, for neither thy father nor I were of that kind." Zbyshko, instead of answering, straightened himself quickly in the saddle, put his hand on his hips, threw up his head, and thundered with all the power in his breast:— "I wept all the night, I wept in the morning. And that "Hei!" rushed through the forest, struck the trees by the roadside, was heard at last in a distant echo, and grew still in the thickets. But Matsko put his hand again on his side where the German arrow-point had stuck, and said, groaning slightly,— "Formerly people were wiser—dost understand?" But after a while he grew thoughtful, as if remembering some of the old times, and added: "Though even in old times an odd man was foolish." Meanwhile they issued from the forest, after which they beheld sheds for miners, and farther on the indented walls of Olkush, reared by King Kazimir, and the tower of the church built by Vladislav Lokietek.
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