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
