The Knights of the Cross/Volume 2/Chapter 51
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CHAPTER LI. To the battlefield on which Skirvoillo had cut down the Germans the road was easy, because it was known; they reached it, therefore, quickly, but rode on in haste because of the unendurable odor given out from unburied corpses. The passing knights dispersed wolves, immense flocks of crows, daws, and ravens. Soon after, they began to search for tracks along the way. Though a whole detachment had passed that road earlier, the experienced Matsko found on the trodden earth gigantic hoof-prints going in a direction opposite to that by which the expedition had come, and explained as follows to the young men less acquainted with military questions,— "It is lucky that there has been no rain since the battle. Just look! Arnold's horse, as carrying a man bulky beyond others, must have been immense also, and it is easy to note that galloping in escape, he struck the earth more forcibly with his feet than if he had been going slowly, and so he dug deeper holes in it. Look, whoever of you has eyes, how the horseshoes have left their marks in damp places! With God's help we will track on the dog brothers worthily, unless they have found refuge behind walls by this time." "Sanderus said," answered Zbyshko, "that there are no castles in the neighborhood; and this is true, for the country has been occupied freshly by the Knights of the Order, and they have not been able to build themselves up in it. Where are they to hide? The common men, who live here, are in the camp with Skirvoillo, for they are the same people as the Jmud men. The villages, as Sanderus has told us, have been burnt by the Germans, the women and children are hidden in secret parts of the forest. We shall overtake unless we spare our horses." "We need to spare them, for even if we should overtake those men our salvation is in the horses afterward," said Matsko. "Knight Arnold," put in Sanderus, "was struck during the battle on his shoulders with a club. He paid no attention at first to this; he fought on; but afterward it must have affected him, for it is always so; at first such a wound is not much, but it pains later on. For this reason he cannot flee quickly, and may be forced to take rest." "But the people, hast thou said that with the knight Arnold and the old comtur there are no people?" inquired Matsko. "There are two men with the cradle, which is borne between two saddles. There was a good sized party of others, but those the Jmud men overtook and cut to pieces." "It must be this way," said Zbyshko; "the men at the cradle will be tied by our attendants, you, uncle, seize Siegfried, and I will strike on Arnold." "Indeed," answered Matsko, "I am able to handle Siegfried, for through the love of the Lord Jesus there is strength in my bones yet. But do not trust overmuch in thyself, for that man must be a giant." "Oh, we shall see," answered Zbyshko. "Thou art strong, I do not deny that, but there are stronger. Hast thou forgotten those knights of ours whom we saw in Cracow? Couldst thou manage Povala of Tachev, or Pashko Zlodye, or still more, Zavisha Charny? Do not vaunt too much, think of the issue." "Rotgier was no piece of a man," muttered Zbyshko. "But will there be no work for me?" inquired Hlava. He received no answer, for Matsko's mind was occupied with another thing. "If God bless us," said he, "we must reach Mazovian forests somehow. There we shall be safest, and finish everything at one blow." But after a while he sighed, thinking surely that even then not everything would be finished, for they would have to do something for Yagenka. "He!!" muttered he, "wonderful are God's dispensations! I think often of this: why did it not happen thee to marry quietly, and me to sit near thee in peace? For that is the way it happens oftenest among nobles in our kingdom; we alone are dragging our way along through various lands and pathless places, instead of keeping house at home in Christian fashion." "Well, that is true, but God's will!" answered Zbyshko. And they rode on for a time in silence; then the old knight turned again to his nephew. "Dost thou believe in that vagabond? What sort of man is he?" "He is frivolous and a rogue, perhaps, but to me he is very well-wishing, and I fear no treachery on his part." "In that case let him ride ahead, for if he overtakes them they will not be frightened. He will say that he has fled from captivity, which they will believe easily. It will be better so; for if they see us from a distance, they will be able either to hide somewhere or make ready to defend themselves." "At night he will not advance alone, for he is timid," answered Zbyshko; "but in the daytime it would be better as you say. I will tell him to halt three times in the day and wait for us; if we do not find him at the halting-place it will mean that he is with them, then we can follow on his trail and strike unexpectedly." "But will he not forewarn them?" "No. He is more well-wishing to me than to them. I will tell him, too, that when we attack we will bind him also, so that he need not fear their revenge afterward. Let him not know us at all." "Then dost thou think to leave them among the living?" "Well, how is it to be?" answered Zbyshko, with vexation. "If this were in Mazovia, or somewhere in our country, we could challenge them, as I challenged Rotgier, and fight to the death with them; but here in their land this cannot be. Here it is a question of Danusia, and of speed. Here we must act in a breath and quietly, so as not to call peril on our heads by inquiring; after that, as you have said, we are to rush with what breath is in our horses to Mazovia. If we strike unexpectedly, we may find them without weapons, nay, without swords even! How kill them then? It would be a shame. We are both belted knights, and so are they." "That is true," answered Matsko. "But it may not come to fighting." Zbyshko wrinkled his brows and on his face was expressed deep resolution, evidently innate in all men from Bogdanets; at that moment he had become, especially in his looks, as much like Matsko as if he had been his uncle's own son. "How I should like," said he, in a deep voice, "to throw that bloody cur Siegfried under Yurand's feet! God grant me to do so!" "Oh, may He grant it!" repeated Matsko, immediately. Thus conversing, they rode over a good piece of road. Night had fallen,—a pleasant night, indeed, but without moonlight. They had to halt to rest the horses and strengthen the men with food and sleep. Before resting, however, Zbyshko told Sanderus that he was to go ahead, and alone, on the morrow. To this he agreed willingly, stipulating only, that in case of peril from wild beasts, or people of the country, he should have the right to return to them. He begged also that he might stop, not three, but four times in the day, for some alarm always seized him in a lonely country, even where there were provisions; but what must it be in a forest as wild and ugly as that in which they found themselves! The night camp was pitched, and having strengthened their bodies, they lay down on skins before a small fire made at a bend and distant from the road about half a furlong. The attendants took turns in watching the horses, which, when unsaddled, dozed after they had eaten oats, one putting its head on the neck of another. But barely had dawn silvered the treetops when Zbyshko sprang up, roused the others, and they moved on their further journey at daylight. The tracks left by the immense hoofs of Arnold's stallion were found again without difficulty, for stamped in the low, muddy earth, common there, they remained without drying. Sanderus went ahead and vanished from sight, but half-way between sunrise and mid-day they found him at the resting-place, and he told them that he had not seen a living thing except a bison, before which he had not fled, however, for the beast stepped out of the road first. At mid-day, at the first meal, he declared that he had seen a bee-keeper with a ladder; that he did not stop him, simply out of fear that in the forest depth there might be others like him. He asked the man about this and that, but they could not understand each other. During the next march Zbyshko began to be alarmed. What would happen should they come to more elevated and drier places, where on a hard road tracks would fail? Also if pursuit should continue too long and bring them to a more inhabited country, where, among people accustomed from of old to obey the Order, an attack and the rescue of Danusia would be almost impossible; where Siegfried and Arnold, though unprotected by the walls of any castle, would be safe, for the local people would take their part surely. But luckily those fears proved vain, for at the next halt they did not find Sanderus at the time appointed, but discovered on a pine-tree, standing at the roadside, a large cut in the form of a cross, made freshly as was evident. Then they looked at each other, their faces grew serious and their hearts beat more quickly. Matsko and Zbyshko sprang from their saddles to examine the tracks, and sought carefully, but not long, for the same thing was evident to both men. Sanderus had left the road for the forest, following the tracks of the great horse, not so deeply made as on the road, but with sufficient clearness; for the ground was turfy, and the great beast pressed down at every step the needle-like pine leaves, on which were left dark depressions at the edges of the hoof-prints. Before the quick eyes of Zbyshko were not hidden other tracks; hence he mounted his horse, Matsko mounted his also, and they counselled with Hlava in voices which were as low as if the enemy had been right there before them. Hlava advised to advance on foot at once, but they were unwilling to do so, for they knew not how far they might have to go through that forest. Foot attendants, however, were to go before, and send back word if they saw anything. They moved into the forest soon. The next cut on a pine-tree assured them that they had not lost the traces of Sanderus. Soon, too, they discovered that they were on a road, or at least on a forest trail over which people must have gone more than one time. So now they felt sure that they would find some settlement, and in it those for whom they were searching. The sun had sunk already toward its setting and was shining with golden light among the pine-trees. The evening promised to be clear. The forest was quiet, for birds and animals were inclining toward their night rest. Only here and there among branches still in sunlight jumped squirrels all red from evening sunshine. Zbyshko, Matsko, Hlava, and the attendants rode one behind another, in goose line. Knowing that the foot attendants were in advance considerably, and would forewarn in season, the old knight was speaking to his nephew and did not restrain his voice excessively. "Let us count with the sun," said he. "From the last resting-place to the point where the cross was cut we passed a big piece of road. On the clock of Cracow it would be about three. That being the case, Sanderus is a good while among them, and has had time enough to tell his adventures. If only he does not betray us." "He will not betray us." "And if they believe him," said Matsko; "for if they do not believe him it will go ill with us." "But why should they not believe him? Or do they know us? But him they know. It happens frequently that prisoners escape." "This is important: if he tells them that he is escaping from captivity, perhaps they will fear pursuit of him, and move on immediately." "No. He will be able to explain that. And they will understand that such a pursuit could not happen." For a while they were silent; then it seemed to Matsko as if Zbyshko were whispering something to him, so he turned and asked,— "What dost thou say?" But Zbyshko had his eyes raised and was not whispering to Matsko; he was committing to God Danusia and his bold undertaking. Matsko himself was beginning to make the sign of the cross, but he had hardly made the first move in it when one of the attendants in front turned back suddenly from the depth of the forest. "A tarpit!" said he. "They are there!" "Stop!" whispered Zbyshko, and that instant he sprang from his horse. After him Matsko, Hlava, and the attendants, three of whom received the command to hold themselves with their horses in readiness, and see, God defend, that none of the horses neighed. To the five others Matsko said,— "There are two horseboys there and Sanderus; these you will bind in one flash for me, and if any one who is armed tries to defend himself, strike his head." And they moved forward immediately. On the road Zbyshko whispered yet to his uncle,— "You take old Siegfried, and I will take Arnold." "Only be careful," answered the old man. And then he beckoned to Hlava, letting him know that at every instant he must be ready to give aid to his master. Hlava nodded, meaning that he would; then he drew breath into his breast, and felt to find if the sword would leave its scabbard easily. But Zbyshko saw that and said,— "No! To thee I give command to rush to the cradle straightway, and not leave it for the space of a hand's breadth during battle." They went on quickly and in silence, always amidst dense hazel-brush; but they had not gone far, at the most two furlongs, when the brush ceased on a sudden and formed the border of a small plain, on which were evident the extinguished remnants of a tarpit, and two earthen huts, or "numis," in which, beyond doubt, had dwelt tarburners till war expelled them. The rays of the setting sun lighted with immense gleam the plain, the pit, and the two huts standing at some distance from each other. On a log before one of them two knights were sitting; before the other a broad-shouldered, red-haired man, and Sanderus. These two were occupied with cleaning armor with cloth, but at Sanderus' feet were lying in addition two swords which he had the intention of cleaning later. "Look," said Matsko, pressing Zbyshko's arm with all his force, so as to restrain him. "He has taken their swords and armor from them purposely. Well done! He with the gray head must be—" "Forward!" cried Zbyshko, suddenly. And they shot out to that plain like a whirlwind. Men there sprang up also, but before they could run to Sanderus the terrible Matsko had seized Siegfried by the breast, bent him onto his back in one instant and was above him. Zbyshko and Arnold closed like two falcons, wound their arms around each other, and began to wrestle desperately. The broad-shouldered German, who before that had been sitting near Sanderus, rushed with his sword, it is true; but before he could wield it, Matsko's man, Vit, had struck him with the back of an axe on his red head and stretched him. They hurried then, at command of the old man, to bind Sanderus. He, though knowing that the thing was agreed on, roared from fright, as a year-old calf does when a man is cutting its throat. But Zbyshko, though so strong that he had pressed sap from the limb of a young tree, felt that he had come, as it were, not into the arms of a man, but a bear. He felt this, too, that were it not for the armor, which he wore, not knowing but he might meet with sword points, the gigantic German would crush his ribs or break the backbone in him. It is true that the young man raised Arnold from the ground somewhat, but the German then raised him still higher, and summoning all his strength, strove to strike the earth once with him in such fashion that he would never rise from it. But Zbyshko also pressed him with such fierce effort that the German's eyes were bloodshot; then he drove his leg between Arnold's knees, struck him behind one knee-joint and whirled him to the earth. More correctly, both fell, and Zbyshko fell under; but that moment the observant Matsko, throwing the half-crushed Siegfried into the hands of his attendants, rushed himself to his prostrate nephew, and in one twinkle bound Arnold's legs with his belt; then he sprang up and sat on him, as on a slaughtered wild boar, and put the point of his misericordia to the man's throat. The German screamed piercingly, his arms dropped without strength at both sides of Zbyshko, and he groaned, not alone from the prick of the weapon, but because he felt pain inexpressible from the blow on his shoulders received in the battle with Skirvoillo. Matsko grasped him by the neck with both hands and dragged him off Zbyshko; Zbyshko rose from the earth into a sitting posture, then tried to rise to his feet, but had not the strength for it; he sat down again and for a long time was motionless, his face pale and sweat-covered, his eyes bloody, his lips blue, and he gazed forward fixedly, as if not completely conscious. "What is this?" inquired Matsko, frightened. "Nothing; but I am terribly wearied. Help me to stand on my feet again." Matsko put his hands under Zbyshko's armpits and raised him. "Canst thou stand now?" "I can stand." "Art in pain?" "I am not, but breath fails me." Meanwhile Hlava, who noticed that evidently on the open place everything was over, appeared before the hut, holding by her shoulder the serving-woman of the Order. At sight of her Zbyshko forgot his struggle; his strength returned to him, and he sprang to the hut in one instant as though he had never fought with the dreadful Arnold. "Danusia! Dannsia!" cried he. But to that cry there was no answer. "Danusia! Danusia!" repeated Zbyshko. And he was silent. It was dark in the hut, so at the first moment he could see nothing. But from beyond the stones, which were piled around the fireplace, a quick and loud breathing came, which was like that of a beast driven into a corner. "Danusia! by the living God! It is I! I am Zbyshko!" And then he saw her eyes in the gloom; they were opened widely, filled with dread, and no gleam of mind in them. So he sprang to her and caught her in his arms; but she did not know him, and tearing herself from his grasp, she repeated in a panting whisper,— "I'm afraid! I'm afraid! I'm afraid!"
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