The Knights of the Cross/Volume 2/Chapter 56

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

CHAPTER LVI.

Only on the ninth day after Yagenka had gone did Zbyshko appear on the boundary of Spyhov, but Danusia was so near death then that he had lost every hope of bringing her alive to her father. Next day, when she answered disconnectedly, he saw at once that not merely was her mind shattered, but that her body was seized by sickness of some kind, against which there was no more strength in that child exhausted by captivity, confinement, torment, and continual terror. It may be that the noise of the desperate encounter between Zbyshko, Matsko, and the Germans had overfilled the measure of her fear, and that the sickness had come in that moment. It is enough that fever had not left her from that day till almost the end of the journey. This had been a favoring circumstance thus far, for Zbyshko had brought her like a dead person, without consciousness or knowledge, through the terrible wilderness by means of immense efforts.

After they had passed the wilderness and entered a grain country where there were land-tillers and nobles, toils and dangers were over. When people learned that he was bringing a child of their own race rescued from the Knights of the Order, and moreover a daughter of the famed Yurand, of whom minstrels sang so many songs, in castles, houses, and cottages they outstripped one another in services and assistance. They furnished provisions and horses. All doors stood open. Zbyshko had no further need to carry her in the cradle between horses, for sturdy youths bore her in a litter from village to village with as much care and reverence as if they were bearing a sacred object. Women surrounded her with the tenderest attention. Men, while listening to the narrative of the wrongs wrought on her, gritted their teeth, and more than one of them put his iron armor on straightway and seized his sword, axe, or lance to set out with Zbyshko and avenge "with addition," for it did not seem enough to that stern generation to avenge one wrong by another evenly.

Zbyshko was not thinking at that moment of vengeance, but only of Danusia. He lived amid glimpses of hope when the sick woman seemed better for a moment, and in dull despair when her condition grew worse to appearance. As to the last, he could not deceive himself longer. At the beginning of the journey the superstitious thought flew through his head frequently, that perhaps somewhere in those long, roadless places through which they were passing, Death was following step by step after them, just lurking for the moment to rush at Danusia and suck the remnant of life from her. This vision, or rather this feeling, was so distinct, especially in dark nights, that the desperate wish seized him often to turn back, challenge that vision, as a knight may be challenged, and fight to the last breath with it. But at the end of the road the case was still worse, for he felt Death, not behind, but in the midst of the company; not visible, it is true, but so near that its freezing breath blew around them; and he understood that against such an enemy bravery was of no avail, a strong hand of no use, a weapon of no use,—that he must surrender to that enemy the dearest life as booty, supinely, without a struggle.

And that feeling was of all the most dreadful, for with it was connected a sorrow as irresistible as a whirlwind, as deep as the sea. How was his soul not to groan in Zbyshko, how was it not to be rent with pain when, looking at his beloved, he said to her, as if with involuntary reproach: "Have I loved thee for this, have I sought thee for this, and fought thee free, just to cover thee with earth the day after, and never see thee a second time?" And while speaking thus he gazed at her cheeks blooming with fever, at her dull, wandering eyes, and again he asked: "Wilt thou leave me? Dost thou not grieve? Dost thou prefer to be away from me rather than with me?" And then he thought that there might be disorder in his own head; his breast rose with immensely great weeping, which rose but could not burst forth, since a certain rage was barring the way to it, and a certain anger at the merciless, cold, and blind power which had unfolded itself above that guiltless woman. Had that evil Knight of the Cross been present there then, Zbyshko would have torn him asunder in the manner of a wild beast.

When they reached the hunting-lodge he wished to halt there, but it was deserted during autumn. From the guards he learned, moreover, that Prince Yanush had gone to his brother at Plotsk and taken the princess; he abandoned his plan, therefore, of visiting Warsaw, where the court physician might save the sick woman. He must go to Spyhov, and to him this was terrible, for he thought that all was ending, and that he would take only a corpse home to Yurand.

But just a few hours of road before Spyhov a brighter ray of hope struck his heart again. Danusia's cheeks grew pale, her eyes became less dull, her breath, not so loud, was less hurried. Zbyshko saw this at once and soon commanded the last halt so that she might rest the more quietly. They were about five miles from Spyhov, far from human dwellings, on a narrow road between a field and a meadow. But a wild pear-tree standing near-by offered shelter from the sunrays; they halted, therefore, under its branches. The attendants dismounted and unbridled their horses, so that the beasts might eat grass more easily. Two women occupied in serving Danusia, and the youths who carried her, wearied by the road and by heat, lay down in the shade and fell asleep quickly. Zbyshko alone watched at the litter, and sitting on the roots of the pear-tree did not take his eyes from the sick woman.

She lay there in the afternoon silence, motionless, with closed eyelids. But to Zbyshko it seemed that she was not sleeping. Indeed, when at the other end of the broad meadow a man who was mowing stopped and began to sharpen his scythe with a whetstone, she quivered slightly, opened her eyes for an instant, and closed them; her breast rose as if with a deeper breathing, and from her lips came a barely audible whisper,—

"Sweet flowers."

Those were the first words not feverish and not wandering which she had uttered since the beginning of the journey; indeed from the meadow warmed by the sun the breeze brought a really strong perfume, in which were felt hay and honey with various fragrant plants. So Zbyshko's heart trembled from delight at the thought that consciousness was returning to the sick woman.

In his first rapture he wished to cast himself at her feet, but fear that he might frighten her restrained him, and he only knelt at the litter, bent over her, and said quietly,—

"Danusia! Danusia!"

She opened her eyes, looked at him some time, then a smile brightened her features, and she said "Zbyshko," just as she had in the tarburners' hut, but with far greater consciousness. And she tried to stretch her hands to him, but failed because of surpassing weakness; he put his arms around her with a heart as full as if he were thanking her for some immense favor.

"Thou hast come to thyself," said he. "Oh, praise to God—to God—"

Then his voice failed him, and for some time they looked at each other in silence. The silence of the field was broken only by the fragrant meadow-breeze which murmured among the leaves of the pear-tree, the chirping of crickets in the grass, and the distant, indistinct singing of the mower.

Danusia gazed with growing consciousness and did not cease smiling, just like a child that in its sleep sees an angel. But in her eyes began now to appear a certain wonder.

"Where am I?" asked she.

Then a whole swarm of brief answers, interrupted through delight, broke from Zbyshko's lips,—

"Thou art with me! Near Spyhov. We are going to thy father. Thy misfortune is ended. Oi! my Danusia! Danusia! I sought thee and redeemed thee in battle. Thou art not in German power now. Have no fear of that! We shall soon be in Spyhov. Thou hast been ill, but the Lord Jesus had mercy. How much pain there was, how much weeping! Danusia!—Now it is well!—There is nothing before thee but happiness. Ei, how I have searched, how I have wandered!—Ei, mighty God!—Ei!"

And he drew a deep breath, but almost with a groan, as if he had thrown the last weight of pain from his heart.

Danusia lay quietly, recalling to herself something, pondering something, till at last she asked,—

"Then thou didst not forget me?"

And two tears which had gathered in her eyes rolled down her face slowly to the pillow.

"I forget thee!" exclaimed Zbyshko.

There was in that restrained exclamation more force than in the greatest vows and declarations, for he had loved her with his whole soul at all times, and from the moment when he had found her she was dearer than the whole world to him.

Meanwhile silence came again; only, in the distance the mower stopped singing and began to whet his scythe a second time.

Danusia's lips moved again, but with a whisper so low that Zbyshko could not hear it; so, bending down, he inquired,—

"What dost thou say, berry?"

And she repeated,—

"Sweet flowers."

"We are at a meadow," answered he, "but soon we shall go to thy father, who is freed from captivity also. And thou wilt be mine till death. Dost hear me well, dost understand?"

With that, great alarm racked him, for he noted that her face was growing paler, and that small drops of sweat were coming out on it thickly.

"What is the matter?" asked he, in desperate fear.

He felt the hair rising on his head, and cold passing through his bones.

"What troubles thee? Tell!" repeated he.

"Darkness!" whispered she.

"Darkness? The sun is shining, and does it seem dark to thee?" asked he, with panting voice. "Just now thou wert speaking reasonably. In God's name, say one word even!"

She moved her lips again, but could not even whisper. Zbyshko divined only that she was uttering his name, that she was calling him. Immediately after that her emaciated hands began to tremble, and hop on the rug with which she was covered. That lasted a moment. There was no cause for mistake then—she was dying!

But terrified and in despair, Zbyshko fell to imploring her, as if a prayer could do anything,—

"Danusia! O merciful Jesus!—Wait even to Spyhov! Wait! wait! O Jesus! Jesus! O Jesus!"

While he implored thus the women woke, and the attendants ran up; they had been at a distance near the horses in the meadow. But understanding with the first cast of the eye what was happening, they knelt and began to repeat aloud the Litany.

The breeze stopped, the leaves ceased to rustle on the pear-tree, and only words of prayer were heard amid the great silence of the meadow.

Danusia, before the very end of the Litany, opened her eyes once more, as if wishing to look for the last time on Zbyshko and the world of the sun; next moment she dropped into the sleep of eternity.

The women closed her eyelids and then went to the meadow for flowers. The attendants followed; and they moved in sunshine, among abundant grass, like spirits of the field, bending down from moment to moment and weeping, for in their hearts they had pity. Zbyshko knelt in the shadow at the litter, with his head on Danusia's knees, without a movement or a word; he was as if dead himself, but they circled about, now nearer, now more distant, plucking the yellow marigolds, the white pimpernel, the thickly growing rosy sorrel, and white flowers with the odor of honey. In damp depressions they found also lilies of the valley, and broom on the green ridge next the fallow land. When they had each an armful they surrounded the litter in a mournful circle and strewed flowers and plants on the remains of the dead woman, leaving exposed only her face, which amid the lilies looked white, calm, at rest in a sleep that could not be broken; the face was serene and simply angelic.

To Spyhov it was not quite five miles; so after some time, when sadness and pain had passed with their tears, they raised the litter and moved toward the pine forest from which the lands of Spyhov began.

The attendants led the horses after the procession. Zbyshko himself helped to carry the litter in front, and the women, laden with bundles of plants and flowers, preceded, singing pious hymns; they advanced slowly between the green meadow and the level, gray, fallow land, like any procession of mourners.

On the blue sky there was not the slightest cloud, and the whole world was nestling in golden sunlight.