The Knights of the Cross/Volume 1/Chapter 26

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

CHAPTER XXVI.

Zbyshko, riding behind, was unable to restrain himself long, and said in his soul, "I would rather see him burst out in anger than become stubborn."

So he rode up and said, touching Yurand's stirrup with his own,—

"Listen and hear how it was. You know what Danusia did for me in Cracow, but you do not know that in Bogdanets they wished me to marry Yagenka, the daughter of Zyh of Zgorzelitse. My uncle, Matsko, and her father wished the marriage, and the Abbot of Tulcha, our relative, a rich man, wished it also. But why talk long of this? She is an honest maiden, beautiful as a deer, and has a proper dowry. But it could not take place. I wanted Yagenka, but I wanted Danusia more, and I went to her in Mazovia; for I tell you sincerely I could not live longer without her. You remember how you yourself loved remember that!—and you will not wonder at me."

Here Zbyshko stopped while waiting for some word from Yurand, but, as he remained silent, the young man continued,—

"At the hunting-lodge God granted me to save the princess and Danusia from a wild bull, and the princess said immediately after: 'Now Yurand will not be opposed; for how could he refuse reward for such a deed?' But even then I had not thought of taking her without your parental permission. Besides, I had no chance of doing so; for the savage beast had so crushed me that he almost squeezed out my soul. But afterward, you know, those people came for Danusia, as if to take her to Spyhov, and I had not risen from my bed yet. I thought that I should never see her again; I thought that you would take her to Spyhov and give her to some other man. In Cracow you were opposed to me, you know. I thought that I should die. Hei, mighty God, what a night that was! Nothing but suffering; nothing but sorrow! I thought when she went away from me that even the sun would not rise again. You understand people's love and their sorrow."

For a moment tears quivered in Zbyshko's voice, but he had a brave heart, so he mastered himself, and continued,—

"Men came for her in the evening, and wanted to take her immediately, but the princess commanded them to wait till morning. Now, the Lord Jesus inspired me to implore the princess and beg of her Danusia. I thought that if I were to die I should have even that consolation. Remember that the girl was to go, and I was to remain there sick, almost dying. There was no time to beg for your permission. The prince was not at the hunting-lodge, so the princess hesitated; she had no one with whom to advise. At last she and Father Vyshonek took pity on me, and Father Vyshonek married us. God's might, God's justice."

"God's punishment," added Yurand, in a deep voice.

"Why punishment?" asked Zbyshko. "Only notice, they sent for her before the marriage, and whether it took place or not they would have carried her away."

Yurand said nothing, and rode on shut up in himself, gloomy and with such a stony face that Zbyshko, though he felt immediately that consolation which the confession of a long-hidden secret always produces, was frightened at last, and said to himself with increasing alarm, that the old knight had grown stubborn in his anger, and that thenceforth they would be as strangers to each other and enemies.

And a moment of great affliction came on him. Never had he been in such a plight since the day of leaving Bogdanets. It seemed to him that there was no hope of reconciling Yurand, and, what was worse, no hope of saving Danusia; it seemed that all was useless; that in future there would fall on him only increasing misfortune and increasing misery. But this oppression was brief, or rather, in accordance with his nature, it turned quickly into anger and a desire for quarrel and battle.

"He wants no agreement," thought Zbyshko, in reference to Yurand; "let there be disagreement, let come what may!" And he was ready to spring at the eyes of Yurand himself. He was seized with a desire for battle with some one about some question; he wished to do something if he could give escape to his regret, his bitterness and anger; if he could find some relief.

Meanwhile they halted on the cross-road at an inn called Svetlik, where Yurand, when on journeys from the prince's castle to Spyhov, usually gave rest to his men and horses. He stopped now unconsciously. After a time Yurand and Zbyshko found themselves in a room apart. On a sudden Yurand halted before the young knight, and fixing a glance on him inquired,—

"And hast thou wandered in here for her?"

Zbyshko answered almost rudely,—

"Do you think that I shall hesitate to answer?"

And he looked straight into Yurand's eyes, ready to burst out with anger against anger. But in the old warrior's face there was no stubbornness; there was only sadness almost without limit.

"And didst thou save my child?" asked he after a while, "and dig me out of the snow?"

Zbyshko looked at him with wonder and fear lest his brain might have become unsettled; for Yurand repeated exactly the same questions which he had asked already.

"Sit down," said he; "for it seems to me that you are weak yet."

But Yurand raised his hands, placed them on Zbyshko's shoulders, and all at once he drew him with what strength he had to his heart. Zbyshko, when he recovered from momentary astonishment, seized him around the waist, and they held each other long; for common suffering and misfortune had bound them together.

When they let go of each other, Zbyshko grasped the old knight's knees, and then kissed his hand, with tears in his eyes.

"Then you will not be offended with me?" asked he.

To which Yurand answered,—

"I was opposed to you; for in my soul I had devoted her to God."

"You devoted her to God, and God to me. It is His will."

"His will!" repeated Yurand; "but now we need mercy."

"Whom should God aid if not a father looking for his child, or a husband seeking his wife? He will not assist bandits, be sure."

"Still they carried her away," answered Yurand.

"Then give them De Bergov for her."

"I will give them everything they ask."

But at thoughts of the Knights of the Cross old hatred was roused in him at once, and embraced him like a flame; for after a while he added through his set teeth,—

"And I will give that which they do not want."

"I, too, have made a vow," said Zbyshko; "but now we must be off to Spyhov!"

And be urged the saddling of the horses. In fact, when the horses had eaten oats and the people had warmed themselves in the rooms somewhat, they moved on, though it had grown dark out of doors. Since the road before them was long, and there were severe frosts at night, Yurand and Zbyshko, who had not regained all their strength yet, rode in a sleigh. Zbyshko told of his uncle, Matsko, for whom he was yearning in spirit. He grieved, too, that that uncle was not present; for his cunning might be of equal use with his valor, cunning which against such enemies was even more needed than valor. At last he turned to Yurand, and asked,—

"But are you cunning? For I am not able in any way to succeed in that."

"Neither am I," answered Yurand. "It was not with cunning that I warred against them, but with this hand and with the grief that is in me."

"Ah, that I can understand," said the young knight. "I understand because I love Danusia, and they carried her away. If they should—but God preserve—"

And he did not finish; for at the very thought he felt in his breast, not his own, but a wolf's heart. For some time they went forward in silence over the white road filled with moonlight, and then Yurand said as it were to himself,—

"Had they reason for revenge, I should not say anything. But, by the dear God, they have none. I fought with them in the field when I was going on an embassy from our prince to Vitold, but here I lived with them as neighbor with neighbor. Bartosh Nalench seized forty knights who were going to Malborg; he put them in chains and confined them underground in Kozmin. The Knights of the Cross had to pay half a wagon-load of money for them. As to me, when a German guest happened along who was going to the Knights of the Cross, I entertained him as one knight another, and gave him presents. More than once Knights of the Cross came across the swamp to me. I was not harsh to them in those days, and still they did to me that which even to-day I would not do to my greatest enemy."

And terrible recollections rent him with increasing force; the voice died in his breast for a time, then he continued, half groaning,—

"I had one dear lamb, the same to me as the single heart in my breast; they bound her with a rope as they might bind a dog, and she grew pale and died on that rope of theirs. Now they have taken my child—Jesus! O Jesus!"

Again there was silence. Zbyshko raised toward the moon his youthful face, in which was depicted amazement; then he looked at Yurand.

"Father," said he, "it would be better for the Knights to win the love of men and not their vengeance. Why do they work so much harm on all people and all nations?"

Yurand spread out his arms as if in despair, and said in a dull voice,—

"I know not."

Zbyshko meditated a time over his own question, but after a while his mind turned to Yurand,—

"People say that you have wreaked on them a praiseworthy vengeance."

Yurand choked down his pain, recovered, and said,—

"Yes, for I vowed it to them and I vowed to God that if He would let me wreak that vengeance I would devote to Him the child which was left to me. For this reason I was opposed to thee. But now I know not if that was done by His will or if thou hast roused His anger by thy act."

"No," said Zbyshko. "Just now I have told you that if the marriage had not taken place, the dog brothers would have seized her anyhow. God accepted your wish, but Danusia He gave to me; for without His will we should not have done anything."

"Every sin is against the will of God."

"A sin is, but not a sacrament. A sacrament is a thing of God."

"For this reason there is no cure in thy case."

"Glory to God that there is not! Complain not, moreover; for no man could help you against these bandits as I shall. Look here! I will pay them for Danusia in my own way, but if there is even one of those alive who carried off your dead one, give him to me, and you will see!"

Yurand shook his head.

"No," answered he gloomily. "Of those, not a man is alive."

For some time nothing was audible but the snorting of horses and the dull tread of hoofs as they struck the beaten snow.

"Once, one night," continued Yurand, "I heard some voice, as if coming out of the wall, and it said to me, ' Vengeance enough!' but I did not obey; for that was not her voice."

"And what voice might it have been?" inquired Zbyshko, with alarm.

"I know not. Often in Spyhov some one speaks in the wall to me, and groans sometimes; for many of them have died in chains in the cellar."

"But what does the priest say?"

"The priest blessed the castle, and told me to stop taking vengeance; but that cannot be. I became too grievous to the Germans, and then they set out to take vengeance themselves. They formed ambushes and challenged me to the field. That was the case lately. Meinegger and De Bergov challenged me first."

"Have you ever taken ransom?"

"No. Of those whom I seized captive, De Bergov will be the first to go out alive."

The conversation stopped; for they turned from the broad highway to a narrow road, along which they advanced slowly; for it was steep, and in places changed into forest hollows full of snow-drifts difficult to cross. In spring or summer, in time of rains, this road must have been almost impassable.

"Are we near Spyhov now?" inquired Zbyshko.

"Yes," answered Yurand. "There is a large strip of pine wood yet, and then a swamp; in the midst of that swamp is my castle. Beyond are meadows and dry fields, but to the castle it is impossible to go except by a dam. More than once the Germans wanted to reach me, but they could not, and of their bones a great many are decaying along the forest edges."

"Then it is not easy to go there," said Zbyshko. "If the knights send people with letters, how will they find the way to you?"

"They send often; they have people who know the way."

"God grant us to meet them in Spyhov."

The wish was to be realized earlier than the young knight imagined; for when they had driven out of the wood to an open plain, on which stood Spyhov in the midst of a swamp, they saw two men on horseback, and a low sleigh, in which were sitting three dark figures. The night was very clear, so that on the white cover of snow they could see the whole company distinctly. The hearts of Yurand and Zbyshko beat more quickly at sight of it; for who would go to Spyhov at night except messengers from the Order?

Zbyshko directed the driver to go with more speed, and soon they approached so considerably that the people heard them, and the two horsemen, who were watching evidently over the safety of the sleigh, turned toward them, and raising crossbows from their shoulders, cried,—

"Wer da (who is there)?"

"Germans," whispered Yurand to Zbyshko.

"Then he raised his voice, and said,—

"It is my right to inquire, thine to answer. Who are ye?"

"Wayfarers."

"What kind of wayfarers?"

"Pilgrims."

"Whence?"

"From Schytno."

"They are the persons!" whispered Yurand again.

The sleighs were now near each other, and at the same time in front of both appeared six horsemen. These were guards from Spyhov, who night and day watched the dam leading to the castle. In front of the horses ran dogs, dangerous and large, quite like wolves.

The guards, on recognizing Yuraud, called out in his honor, but in the calls was heard wonder that the heir was returning so soon and unexpectedly; but he, occupied entirely with the messengers, turned to them a second time.

"Whither are ye going?" asked he.

"To Spyhov."

"What do ye wish?"

"We can only tell that to the master himself."

The words, "I am the master of Spyhov," were on Yurand's lips, but he restrained himself, understanding that the conversation could not take place before people. He gave command to go almost as fast as the horses could gallop.

Zbyshko was so impatient also for news from Danusia that he could turn attention to no other thing. He was all impatience when the guards stopped his way twice on the dam, impatient when they let down the bridge beyond which was an enormous palisade on the wall, and though formerly a desire had seized him often to see what sort of a look that castle of ominous repute had, at sight of which Germans made the sign of the cross on themselves, he saw nothing now save those messengers of the Order, from whom he might learn where Danusia was and when freedom would be restored to her. But he did not foresee that grievous disappointment was waiting for him in a moment.

Besides the horsemen given for defence and the driver, the embassy from Schytno was composed of two persons, one of whom was that same woman who had brought the healing balsam to the hunting-lodge; the other a young pilgrim. Zbyshko did not know the woman, for he had not seen her; the pilgrim seemed at once to him a disguised attendant. Yurand conducted both to the corner chamber. He stood before them, immense in size and almost terrible in the light which fell on him from the fire blazing in the chimney.

"Where is my child?" asked he.

They were frightened when they stood eye to eye with the terrible Yurand. The pilgrim, though his face was insolent, simply trembled like a leaf, and the woman shook in every limb. Her glance passed from Yurand's face to Zbyshko, then to the shining, bald head of Father Kaleb, and again returned to Yurand, as if with the question, What are those two doing here?

"Lord," said she at last, "we know not what your question means; but we are sent here to you on important business. He who sent commanded us expressly to talk to you without witnesses."

"I have no secrets before them,'* said Yurand.

"If you command them to remain, we shall pray you for nothing save permission to leave here to-morrow."

On the face of Yurand, who was unaccustomed to resistance, anger was evident. For a time his yellow moustache moved ominously, but he remembered that Danusia was in peril, and restrained himself. Zbyshko, for whom the first question was that the conversation should take place at the earliest, and who was certain that Yurand would repeat it to him, said,—

"Since it is to be so, remain alone."

And he went out with Father Kaleb, but he had hardly found himself in the main chamber, the walls of which were covered with shields and armor won by Yurand, when the Cheh approached him.

"Lord," said he, "this is the same woman."

"What woman?"

"From the Knights of the Cross, who brought the Hercynian balsam; I recognized her right away, and so did Sanderus, She has come evidently to spy, and she knows surely where the young lady is."

"And we shall know," said Zbyshko. "Dost thou recognize the pilgrim too?"

"No," replied Sanderus. "But buy no indulgences from that man; for he is a false pilgrim. If he were put to torture, one might learn much from him."

"Wait," answered Zbyshko.

"Barely had the door of the corner room closed behind Zbyshko and the priest, when the woman pushed up quickly to Yurand, and whispered,—

"Bandits carried off your daughter."

"Bandits with crosses on their mantles?"

"No. But God blessed the pious brothers; so they rescued her, and now she is in their possession."

"Where is she?" I ask.

"She is under the protection of the pious brother, Schaumberg," answered the woman, crossing her hands on her breast and bowing with humility.

Yurand, when he heard the terrible name of the executioner of Vitold's children, grew as pale as linen. After a while he sat on a bench, closed his eyes, and began to wipe away the cold sweat which was in drops on his forehead.

Seeing this, the pilgrim, though unable just before to restrain his terror, put his hand on his hip, threw himself on a bench, stretched out his feet, and looked at Yurand with eyes full of pride and contempt. A long silence followed.

"Brother Markwart helps Brother Schaumberg to care for her," said the woman. "It is a diligent attention, and no harm will happen to the young lady."

"What am I to do to induce them to give her up to me?" asked Yurand.

"To become humble before the Order," answered the pilgrim, with pride.

Hearing this, Yurand rose, went to the man, and, bending over him, said, with a restrained and terrible voice,—

"Silence!"

The pilgrim was frightened again. He knew that he might threaten and might say something which would restrain and break Yurand, but he was afraid that before he could utter the word something terrible might happen him; so he was as silent, and turned on the terrible face of the master of Spyhov eyes as round as if petrified from fear, and sat motionless, but his chin began to quiver.

Yurand turned to the sister of the Order.

"Have you a letter?"

"I have no letter. What we have to convey, we must, by command, convey through word of mouth."

"Then speak!"

She repeated once more, as if wishing that Yurand should beat it well into his memory,—

"Brothers Schaumberg and Markwart are guarding the young lady; therefore restrain your anger; for, though you have wronged the Order during many years, the brothers wish to pay you with good for evil, if you will satisfy their just wishes."

"What do they wish?"

"That you free Pan de Bergov."

Yurand drew a deep breath of relief.

"I will give them De Bergov."

"And other prisoners which you have in Spyhov?"

"There are two attendants of Meinegger and De Bergov, besides their servants."

"You must free them, and reward them for their captivity."

"May God not permit me to haggle over the freedom of my daughter."

"The pious Knights of the Cross expected this," said the woman; "but this is not all that they commanded me to say to you. People of some sort, undoubtedly bandits, stole away your daughter. They did so of course to receive a rich ransom. God permitted the brothers to rescue her for you, and now they ask nothing but that you render up their guest and comrade. But the brothers know, and you know, what a hatred there is toward them in this country, and how unjustly all suspect their most pious acts even. For this cause they are sure that if people here should learn that your daughter is among them, they would suspect that it was they who stole her, and in this way, in return for their virtue, they would receive nothing but complaints and slander. Oh, what I say is true! evil and malicious people of this country have paid them often in that way, by which the fame of the pious Order has suffered greatly, fame which the brothers must protect; and, therefore, they lay down one more condition, that you inform the prince of this country and all the stern knighthood how the truth is; that not the Knights of the Cross, but bandits, carried off your daughter, and that you had to ransom her from robbers."

"It is true," said Yurand, "that robbers stole my child, and that I must ransom her from robbers."

"And you must not speak otherwise to any one; for if even one man should learn that you had negotiations with the brothers, if even one living soul, or even one complaint should go to the Master or the Chapter, serious difficulties would follow."

Alarm appeared on Yurand's face. At the very first it had seemed to him quite natural that the comturs wished secrecy because they feared responsibility and ill repute; now the suspicion rose in him that there might be some other cause; but since he was unable to understand this cause, such fear seized him as seizes the most daring men when danger threatens, not themselves, but those who are near and dear to them. He resolved, however, to learn something further from the woman.

"The comturs wish secrecy," said he, "but what secret is there to keep when I release De Bergov and those others in ransom for my daughter?"

"You will say that you took a ransom for De Bergov so as to have something with which to pay the bandits."

"People will not believe; for I have never taken ransom," answered Yurand, gloomily.

"Well, it has never been a question of your child," hissed back the woman.

Again came silence, after which the pilgrim, who had summoned boldness now, and judged that Yurand needed still more curbing, said,—

"Such is the will of Brothers Schaumberg and Markwart."

"You will say that this pilgrim, who has come with me, brought you a ransom," continued the woman. "We will go from here with the noble De Bergov and the other captives."

"How is that?" asked Yurand, frowning. "Do you suppose that I will yield up captives before you return me my daughter?"

"Then choose another way. You can go to Schytno for your daughter; the brothers will take her there to meet you."

"I? To Schytno?"

"Yes; for should bandits seize her on the road again, your suspicion and that of people here would fall upon the pious knights a second time; therefore they prefer to give your child into your own hands."

"But who will guarantee me a return after I have crawled into the wolf's throat?"

"The virtue of the brothers, their piety and justice."

Yurand walked up and down in the room; he began to foresee treason, and he feared it, but he felt at the same time that the Knights of the Cross had power to impose such conditions as pleased them, and that in presence of them he was powerless.

But evidently some plan came to his head; for stopping before the pilgrim on a sudden, he examined him quickly; then he turned to the woman, and said,—

"Well, I will go to Schytno. You and this man, who has on him the dress of a pilgrim, will await my return, after that you will go from here with De Bergov and the captives."

"You do not wish, lord, to believe the knights," replied the pilgrim; "how, then, are they to believe that when you return you will release us with De Bergov and the others?"

Yurand's face grew pale from indignation, and a terrible moment came, in which it seemed that he was just ready to seize the pilgrim by the breast and put him under his knees, but he throttled the anger in his bosom, drew a deep breath, and spoke slowly with emphasis,—

"Whoever thou be, bend not my patience over much lest it break."

But the pilgrim turned to the sister.

"Tell what is commanded thee."

"Lord," said she, "we would not dare to doubt your oath on the sword and the honor of a knight, but it would not be proper for you to take an oath before people of common position, and we were not sent here for your oath."

"For what did they send you?"

"The brothers told us that you are not to mention to any one that you must be in Schytno with De Bergov and the captives."

At this Yurand's arms began to push backward and his fingers to spread out like the talons of a bird of prey; standing before the woman, he bent, as if he wished to speak into her ear.

"Did they not tell you that I would give command to break you and De Bergov on the wheel in Spyhov?"

"Your daughter is in the power of the knights, and in the care of Schaumberg and Markwart," replied the sister, with emphasis.

"Bandits, poisoners, hangmen!" burst out Yurand.

"Who will be able to avenge us, and who told us at parting: 'If all our commands are not complied with, it would be better that the girl died as did the children of Vitold.' Take your choice!"

"And remember that you are in the power of the comturs," added the pilgrim. "They have no wish to wrong you, and the starosta of Schytno sends word by us that you will be free to go from his castle; but they wish you to come to bow down before the mantle of the knights, and beg the favor of the conquerors in return for what you have done to them. They wish to forgive you, but they wish first to bend your proud neck. You have denounced them as traitors and oath-breakers, so they wish you to give yourself up on faith in them. They will return freedom to you and your daughter, but you must beg for it. You have trampled them; you must swear that your hand will never rise again in hostility to the white mantle."

"So wish the comturs," added the woman, "and with them Schaumberg and Markwart."

A moment of deathlike silence followed. It seemed only that somewhere among the beams of the ceiling some muffled echo repeated, as if in terror: "Schaumberg, Markwart." From outside the window came also the cries of Yurand's archers watching on the bastions of the wall.

The pilgrim and the sister of the Order looked for a long time, now at each other, now at Yurand, who sat leaning against the wall motionless, and with face sunk in the shadow falling on it from a bundle of skins hung at the side of the window. In his head there remained one thought alone, that if he would not do the knights' will, they would strangle his daughter; if he should do their will, even then, perhaps, he would not save either himself or Danusia. And he saw no help, no escape. He felt above him a merciless superiority of power which was crushing him. He saw in spirit already the iron hands of the knights on the neck of Danusia; for, knowing them, he doubted not for an instant that they would kill her, cover her up in the ditch of the castle, and then deny, swear themselves out of it. Who would be able then to prove that they had kidnapped her? Yurand had, it is true, the messengers in his hands; he might take them to the prince to obtain a confession through torture, but the knights had Danusia, and on their part might spare no torture on her. And for a time it seemed to him that his child was stretching her hands to him from a distance and imploring rescue. If even he knew certainly that she was in Schytno, he might move that same night to the boundary, fall upon the Germans who expected no attack, seize the castle, cut down the garrison, and free his child; but she, perhaps, was not in the castle, and surely not in the village of Schytno. Again it flashed through his head like lightning that if he should seize the woman and the pilgrim and take them straight to the Grand Master, perhaps the master would obtain from them a confession, and command the release of Danusia; but that lightning flash was quenched as quickly as it shone. Moreover, these people might say to the Master that they went to Spyhov to ransom De Bergov; that they had no knowledge of any girl. No! that road led to nothing—but what road led to anything? For he thought that if he should go to Schytno, they would put him in chains and thrust him into a dungeon; but Danusia they would not release anyhow, even for this reason, lest it be discovered that they had kidnapped her. Meanwhile death was above his only child; death was above the last life that was dear to him. And, finally, his thoughts grew confused, and his pain became so great that it strained itself and passed into numbness. He sat motionless, because his body had grown dead, as dead as if cut out of stone. Had he wished to stand up at that moment, he would not have been able to do so.

Meanwhile the others had grown tired of long waiting; so the woman rose and said,—

"Dawn is not distant, so, lord, permit us to withdraw; for we need rest."

"And refreshment after the long road," added the pilgrim.

Both bowed then to Yurand, and went out. But he continued sitting motionless, as if seized by sleep, or death. After a while, however, the door opened, and in it appeared Zbyshko, behind him the priest.

"Well, where are the messengers? What do they want?" inquired the young knight, approaching Yurand.

Yurand quivered, but did not answer immediately; he merely blinked greatly, like a man roused from sleep.

"Are you not sick, lord?" asked the priest, who, knowing Yurand more intimately, saw that something unusual was happening within him.

"No," answered Yurand.

"But Danusia," continued Zbyshko,—"where is she, and what did they tell you? What did they bring?"

"A ransom," answered Yurand, slowly.

"A ransom for Bergov?"

"For Bergov."

"How for Bergov? What has happened to you?"

"Nothing."

But there was in his voice something so strange and, as it were, imbecile, that both men were seized with sudden fear, especially since Yurand spoke of a ransom, and not of the exchange of De Bergov for Danusia.

"By the dear God!" exclaimed Zbyshko, "where is Danusia?"

"She is not with the Knights of the Cross," answered Yurand, with a sleepy voice.

And he fell from the bench to the floor like a dead man.