Zbyshko fell his whole length at the feet of the princess, then once more he vowed true knightly service to Danusia, promised to go soon to Tsehanov, or Warsaw; finally he seized her in his strong arms, and raising her said with a voice of emotion,—
"Think of me, dearest flower; remember me, my golden fish!"
And Danusia, embracing him with her arms, just as a younger sister embraces a dear brother, put her little upturned nose to his cheek and cried, with tears each as big as a pea,—
"I will not go to Tsehanov without Zbyshko ! I will not go to Tsehanov!"
Yurand saw this, but he did not burst out in anger; on the contrary, he took farewell of the youth very kindly, and when he had mounted his horse he turned once again to him, and added,—
"Be with God, and cherish no feeling of offence toward me."
"How should I have a feeling of offence against you, Danusia's father?" said Zbyshko, sincerely. And he inclined before him to the stirrup. Yurand pressed his hand firmly, and said,—
"God give thee luck in all undertakings. Dost understand?"
And he rode away. Zbyshko understood the great goodwill in those final words, and turning to the wagon in which Matsko was lying, he said,
"Do you know, he too would be glad, but something prevents him. You were in Spyhov, and you have quick reason; try to understand what this means."
But Matsko was too ill. The fever which he had in the morning increased toward evening to the degree that he began to lose consciousness; hence, instead of answering Zbyshko, he looked at him as if in astonishment, and asked,—
"But where are the bells ringing here?"
Zbyshko was frightened, for it occurred to him that if the sick man heard bells it was evident that death was approaching. He thought too that the old man might die without a priest, without confession, and thus put himself, if not entirely in hell, at least for long ages in purgatory—hence he resolved to take him farther, so as to bring him to some parish where he might receive the last sacraments.
