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, 'Ven-
