old knight, as at some creature beneath him. He was not a bad man at all, nor over-cruel, but he had the defect common to Knights of the Order, who, affable in misfortune, and even yielding, could never restrain their contempt for the conquered, or their limitless pride when they felt superior power behind them. "You are prisoners," repeated he, loftily.
The old knight looked around gloomily. In his breast beat a heart that was not timid, it was even bold to excess. Had he been in armor on his war-horse, had Zbyshko been at his side, if both had held in their hands swords, axes, or those terrible "trees" which the Polish knights of that period wielded so skilfully, he might have tried, perhaps, to break through that wall of spears and halberds. It was not without reason that foreign knights called to the Poles at Vilno, "Ye despise death too much," thus reproaching them. But Matsko was on foot before Arnold, alone, without armor; so when he saw that the attendants had laid down their weapons, and remembered that Zbyshko was in the hut with Danusia and unarmed, he understood, as a man of experience and greatly accustomed to warfare, that he was helpless; so he drew his sword from its sheath slowly and cast it at the feet of the knight who was standing near Arnold. That knight spoke with no less pride than Arnold, but in good Polish and affably:—
"What is your name, sir? I shall not command to bind you if you give your word, since you, as I see, are a belted knight, and have treated my brother humanely."
"I give my word," answered Matsko. And when he had told who he was, he inquired if he might go to the hut and warn his nephew against any unwise act. On receiving permission he vanished in the door, and after a while appeared again bearing in his hand a misericordia.
"My nephew," said he, "has not even a sword with him, and begs to remain with his wife till you start from here."
"Let him stay," said Arnold's brother. "I will send food and drink to him, for we shall not start immediately; the men are tired, and we need food and rest ourselves. I beg you to join us."
They turned then and went toward that same fire at which Matsko had spent the night previous, but whether through rudeness or pride,—the former was common enough among Germans,—they went in advance, letting Matsko follow. But he, having seen very much, and understanding what manners were proper on every occasion, inquired,—
