The Knights of the Cross/Volume 1/Chapter 28

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Daylight had just begun to whiten the trees, the bushes, and the large blocks of limestone scattered here and there on the field, when a hired guide walking at the side of Yurand's horse stopped, and said,—

"Permit me to rest, lord knight, for I am out of breath. There is dampness and fog, but it is not far now."

"Lead me to the road, and return," said Yurand.

"The road is to the right beyond the pine wood, and from the hill you will see the castle directly."

The peasant fell now to slapping his hands crosswise under his arm-pits, for he was chilled from the morning dampness; then he sat on a stone, for he was still more out of breath after this exercise.

"And knowest thou if the comtur is in the castle?" asked Yurand.

"Where should he be, since he is sick?"

"What is the matter with him?"

"People say that the Polish knights gave him a dressing," answered the old peasant. And in his voice could be felt a certain satisfaction. He was a subject of the Order, but his Mazovian heart was delighted at the superiority of Polish knights. Indeed, he added after a while,—

"Hei! our lords are strong, though they have hard work with the others. But he glanced quickly at the knight, as if to be sure that nothing evil would meet him for his words, which had shot out incautiously.

"You speak in our way, lord," said he; "you are not a German?"

"No," answered Yurand; "but lead on.*'

The peasant rose, and walked again near the horse.

Along the road he thrust his hand from time to time into his pouch, took out a handful of unground wheat, and turned it into his mouth. When he had appeased his first hunger in this way, he explained why grain was unground, though Yurand, occupied with his own misfortune and his own thoughts, had not noticed what he was doing.

"Glory to God even for this?" said he. "A grievous life under our German lords. They have put such taxes on grinding that a poor man mast chew unskinned grain, like a beast; for if they find a mill in the house they punish the man, take away his cattle, and, more than that, do not spare even women or children. They fear neither God nor priest, as they did not when they carried off the parish priest of Velbor in chains because he blamed them. Oh, it is hard to live under the Germans! Whatever grain a man grinds between two stones he keeps the handful of flour from it for Easter week, and even on Friday people eat grain as birds do. But glory to God even for grain, because two months before harvest we have no grain. It is not permitted to fish or to kill wild beasts—not as in Mazovia."

Thus did the peasant subject of the knights complain, speaking partly to himself, partly to Yurand; meanwhile they had passed the open space, which was covered with fragments of limestone sheltered under the snow, and entered the forest, which in the early light seemed gray, and from which came a damp, severe cold. It had dawned completely, otherwise it would have been difficult for Yurand to pass along the forest road, which was rather steep, and so narrow that in places his immense war-horse was barely able to push past between the tree-trunks. But the wood ended soon, and a few "Our Fathers" later they found themselves on the summit of White Hill, through the middle of which passed a beaten highway.

"This is the road," said the peasant; "you will be able to go on alone now."

"I shall be able," answered Yurand. "Go back to thy house, man."

And reaching to a leather bag which was fastened to the front of his saddle, he drew out a silver coin and gave it to the guide.

The man, more accustomed to blows than to gifts from Knights of the Cross in that district, was almost unwilling to believe his own eyes, and, seizing the money, he dropped his head toward Yurand's stirrup, and embraced it.

"O Jesus and Mary!" cried he; "God reward your great mightiness."

"Be with God."

"May the might of God conduct you. Schytno is before you."

He inclined once more toward the stirrup and vanished. Yurand remained alone on the hill, and looked in the direction indicated by the villager; he looked at the gray, damp barrier of mist which screened the world before him. Behind the mist was concealed the castle, that evil enemy toward which ill fate and superior force were impelling him. It was near now, near! hence, what had to happen and be accomplished would happen and be accomplished soon. At thought of this, in addition to his fear and anxiety about Danusia, in addition to his readiness to ransom her, even with his blood, from the hands of the enemy, an unheard-of bitter feeling of humiliation was born in his heart, a feeling never felt by him up to that moment. He (Yurand), at the remembrance of whom the comturs of the boundary had trembled, was going now at their command with a penitent head. He, who had overcome and trampled so many of them, felt conquered and trampled at that moment. They had conquered him, not in the field, it is true, not with courage and knightly strength, but still he felt conquered. And for him, that was something so unheard-of that the whole order of the world seemed to him inverted. He was going to humiliate himself before the Knights of the Cross,—he, who, had it not been for Danusia, would have preferred to meet all the power of the Order single-handed. Had it not happened that a single knight, having the choice between shame and death, had struck on whole armies? But he felt that shame might meet him also, and at that thought his heart howled from pain, as a wolf howls when he feels the shaft in his body.

But this was a man who had not only a body, but also a soul of iron. He was able to break others; he was able to break himself also.

"I will not move," said he, "till I have chained this anger which might ruin my child instead of saving her."

And immediately he seized, as it were by the shoulder, his proud heart, with its stubbornness and desire for battle. Whoso might have seen on that hill the man in armor motionless, on that immense horse, would have thought him some giant cast out of iron, and would not have suspected that that motionless knight there was fighting at that moment the hardest battle that ever he had fought in his life. But he wrestled with himself till he conquered and till he felt that his will would not fail him.

Meanwhile the mist grew thin, and, though it had not vanished entirely, there appeared dimly at the end of it something of deeper color. Yurand divined that that was the walls of the castle of Schytno. At sight of this he did not move from his place, but he began to pray as ardently and fervently as a man prays for whom there is nothing left in this world but God's mercy.

And when he moved forward at last, he felt that solace of some kind was entering his heart. He was ready now to endure everything that might meet him. He called to mind that Saint George, a descendant of the greatest family in Cappadocia, had endured various humiliating tortures, and still he not only did not lose his honor, but is seated on the right hand of God, and is named patron of all earthly knighthood. Yurand had heard frequent narratives of his adventures from pilgrims who had come from distant lands, and with the remembrance of them he strengthened his heart at that moment.

Gradually even hope itself was roused in him. The Knights of the Cross had, it is true, been noted for vengefulness; hence, he doubted not that they would work revenge on him for all the defeats which he had inflicted, for the shame which had fallen on them at every meeting, and for the terror in which they had lived so many years.

But it was this very thing which gave him courage. He thought that they had carried off Danusia only to get him; so when they had him what would they care for her? That was it! They would put him in chains, beyond doubt, and, not wishing to keep him in the neighborhood of Mazovia, would send him to some remote castle, where he would groan to the end of his life in a dungeon, but Danusia they would free. Even should it appear that they had taken him by deceit and were tormenting him, the Grand Master would not take it very ill of them, nor would the Chapter; for he (Yurand) had been really grievous to the Germans, and had squeezed more blood out of them than any other knight then alive. But that same Grand Master would punish them, perhaps, for imprisoning an innocent maiden, and, moreover, a ward of the prince of Mazovia, whose good-will he was trying diligently to win, in view of the threatening war with the King of Poland.

And hope was taking possession of Yurand with increasing force. At moments it seemed to him almost certain that Danusia would return to Spyhov under Zbyshko's strong protection. "He is a firm fellow," thought Yurand; "he will not let any man harm her." And he recalled with a certain emotion all that he knew of Zbyshko. "He had fought with the Germans at Vilno; he had met them in duels; the Frisians he and his uncle challenged to a battle of four, and he attacked Lichtenstein, also; he saved my child from the wild bull, and surely he will not spare those four Germans whom he challenged." Here Yurand raised his eyes, and said,—

"I give her to Thee, O God, and do Thou give her to Zbyshko!"

And he became still fresher, for he judged that if God gave her to the young man, he would not permit the Germans to trifle with him, and would wrest her from their hands, even though the whole power of the Order were detaining her. Then he thought of Zbyshko again: "Indeed, he is not only a firm fellow, but he is as true as gold. He will guard her, he will love her, and grant the child, O Jesus, what Thou mayest of the best. But it seems to me that with him she will regret neither the prince's court nor her father's love." At this thought Yurand's lids became moist on a sudden, and in his heart there sprang up immense yearning. He would like, of course, to see his child in life again, and sometime or another to die in Spyhov near them, and not in the dark dungeons of the Order. But God's will! Schytno was visible now. The walls were outlined with increasing clearness in the mist; the hour of sacrifice was near, hence he strengthened himself more, and said to himself,—

"Surely it is the will of God! The evening of life is near. A few years more, a few less, will come out all the same. Hei! I should like to look at the two children again, but in justice I have lived my time. What I had to experience I have experienced, what I had to avenge I have avenged. And now what? Rather to God than to the world, but since there is need to suffer, I must suffer. Danusia and Zbyshko, though in the greatest enjoyment, will not forget me. Surely, they will mention me more than once, and take counsel: "Where is he? Is he alive, or is he with God in the heavenly host?" They will inquire everywhere and learn where I am. The Knights are eager for vengeance, but they are eager also for ransom. And Zbyshko would not spare anything to ransom even my bones. And for a mass Danusia and Zbyshko will surely give money many a time. Both have honest and loving hearts, for which do Thou, O God, and Thou, O most Holy Mother, bless them."

The highroad not only increased in width, but numbers of people appeared on it. Peasants were drawing loads of wood and straw toward the town. Herdsmen were driving cattle. Men were drawing on sleighs frozen fish from the lakes. In one place four bowmen were leading a chained peasant to judgment, evidently for an offence, since his hands were bound behind his back and on his feet were fetters, which, dragging on the snow, hardly let him move forward. From his distended nostrils and open month the breath came forth as rolls of steam, but the bowmen sang as they urged him. When they saw Yurand they looked at him curiously, evidently amazed at the size of the knight and his horse, but at sight of his golden spurs and girdle they lowered their crossbows in sign of salutation and honor. In the town there were more people still, and it was noisier; they gave way to an armed man, however, hurriedly. He passed the main street and turned toward the castle, which, sheltered in the fog, seemed to be sleeping.

But not all were asleep round about; at least crows and rooks were not sleeping; whole flocks of them were whirling above the elevation which formed the approach to the castle, flapping their wings and cawing. When Yurand had ridden up nearer, he understood why those birds were circling there. At the side of the road leading to the castle gate stood a large gibbet; on it were hanging four bodies of Mazovian peasants, subjects of the Knights of the Cross. There was not the least breeze, so that the bodies, the faces of which seemed to be looking at the feet, did not swing, except when the dark birds perched on their shoulders and on their heads, quarrelling with each other, pulling at the ropes, and pecking the drooping heads. Some of the four must have hung for a long time, for their skulls were entirely bare, and their legs had stretched out beyond proportion. At the approach of Yurand the flock flew away with great noise, but soon made a turn in the air and alighted again on the crossbeam of the gibbet. Yurand passing by made the sign of the cross, approached the moat, and stopping in the place where the drawbridge was raised near the gate, blew the horn.

Then he sounded a second, a third, and a fourth time. There was not a living soul on the walls, and from inside the gate came no voice. But after a while a heavy slide, inside the grating evidently, was raised with a gritting sound in a loophole near the gate.

"Wer da (who is there)?" inquired a harsh voice.

"Yurand of Spyhov!" answered the knight.

After these words the slide was dropped again, and deep silence followed.

Time passed. Inside the gate not a movement was audible, but from the direction of the gibbet came the croaking of birds.

Yurand stood a long while yet before he raised the horn and blew in it a second series of times.

But he was answered by silence again.

He understood now that they were detaining him before the gate through the pride of the Knights, which knew no bounds in presence of the conquered. They desired to humiliate him, as if he had been a beggar. He understood, too, that he would have to wait perhaps till evening, or even longer. At the first moment the blood boiled in Yurand; the desire seized him all at once to come down from his horse, raise one of the large stones that lay before the moat, and hurl it against the gate. He would have acted thus at another time, and every other Mazovian or Polish knight also, and let them rush out afterward from behind the gate and fight with him. But recollecting why he had come, he recovered his mind and restrained himself.

"Have I not offered myself for my child?" said he in his soul.

And he waited.

Meanwhile something began to grow dark on the wall. Fur-covered heads showed themselves, dark cowls, and even iron helmets, from under which curious eyes gazed at the master of Spyhov. These figures increased in number every moment, for the terrible Yurand was waiting alone at the gate,—this for the garrison was an uncommon spectacle. Those who before that had seen him in front of them saw their own death, but now it was possible to look at him safely. Heads rose higher and higher till at last all the battlement near the gate was covered with serving-men. Yurand thought that surely those higher in rank must be looking at him through the grating of windows in the gate-tower, and he raised his glance upward, but the windows there were cut in deep walls, and through them one could see only distant objects. But the crowd on the battlement, which had looked first at him in silence, began to call out. This and that man repeated his name, here and there was heard laughter, hoarse voices called to him as to a wolf, more and more loudly, more and more insolently; and when evidently no one from inside forbade, they began at last to hurl lumps of snow at the knight without motion.

He, as if unconsciously, moved forward with his horse, then in one instant the lumps of snow ceased to fly, the voices stopped, and even some heads disappeared behind the wall. Terrible indeed must have been Yurand's name. But even the most cowardly recollected that a moat and a wall divided them from the terrible Mazovian, so the rude soldiery began again to hurl not only balls of snow, but ice, rubbish, and small stones, which rebounded with a noise from his armor and the horse-trappings.

"I have sacrificed myself for my child," repeated Yurand to himself.

And he waited. Then noon came; the walls were deserted; the soldiers were summoned to dinner. Not many were those whose duty it was to stand guard, but they ate on the wall, and after eating amused themselves again by throwing bare bones at the hungry knight. They began also to talk among themselves, and inquire one of the other who would undertake to go down and give the knight a blow on the neck with a fist or the shaft of a lance. Others, after returning from dinner, called to him, saying that if disgusted with waiting, he might hang himself; for there was one unoccupied hook on the gibbet and a rope with it. Amid such ridicule, cries, outbursts of laughter, and curses, the afternoon hours passed away. The short winter day inclined to its close gradually, but the bridge was ever in the air, and the gate remained fastened.

Toward evening the wind rose, blew away the fog, cleared the sky, and disclosed the brightness of evening. The snow became blue, and afterward violet. There was no frost, but the night promised clear skies. The people went down from the walls again, except the guards; the crows and rooks flew away from the gibbet to the forest. At last the sky became dark, and complete silence followed.

"They will not open the gate till sometime about night," thought Yurand. And for a while it passed through his head to return to the town, but immediately he rejected the idea. "They want me here," said he. "If I turn back they will not let me go to a house, but will surround me, seize me, and then say that they are not bound to me in anything; for they took me by force; and, though I should ride through them, I should have to return."

That immense power of Polish knights in enduring cold, hunger, and toil, admired by foreign chroniclers, allowed them frequently to perform deeds which more effeminate people in the West could not accomplish. Yurand possessed this endurance in a greater degree than others; so, though hunger had begun to twist him internally, and the cold of evening penetrated his coat covered with armor, he resolved to stay, though he were to die at that gate. But suddenly, before night had set in completely, he heard steps behind him on the snow.

He looked around; six men were coming from the side of the town. They were armed with spears and halberds. In the middle of them went a seventh, supporting himself with a sword.

"Perhaps the gate will be opened, and I shall enter with them," thought Yurand. "They will not try to take me by force or kill me; for they are too few; but were they to strike me, that would be a sign that they do not wish to keep faith, and then woe to them!"

Thus thinking, he raised the steel axe hanging at his saddle, an axe so large that it was even too heavy for both hands of a common man; and moved with his horse toward them. But they had no thought of attacking him. On the contrary, the soldiers planted the ends of their spear-shafts and halberds in the snow, and, since the night was not dark altogether yet, Yurand noticed that the shafts trembled in their hands somewhat.

The seventh man, who seemed to be an officer, stretched forward his left arm hurriedly, and turning his fingers upward, inquired,—

"Are you the knight Yurand of Spyhov?"

"I am."

"Do you wish to hear why I have been sent here?"

"I am listening."

"The mighty and pious comtur Danveld commands me to declare that till you dismount the gate will not be opened to you."

Yurand remained a while motionless; then he came down from his horse, onto which one of the spearmen sprang immediately.

"And your arms are to be delivered to us," said the man with the sword.

The lord of Spyhov hesitated. "Will they fall on me while unarmed and thrust me through, like a wild beast? Will they seize me and throw me into a dungeon?" But then he thought that if that had been their intention, a greater number of men would have been sent. For were they to rush at him, they would not be able to pierce his armor at once, while he might wrest a weapon from the nearest German and destroy them all before help could come. Moreover, they knew what manner of man he was.

"And even," said he to himself, "if they wish to let my blood out, I have not come here for another purpose."

With this thought, he threw down his axe, then his sword; next his misericordia, and waited.

They seized all these; then that man who had spoken to him withdrew a few tens of paces, halted, and said in a voice loud and insolent,—

"For all the wrongs which thou hast done the Order, thou art, at command of the comtur, to put on thyself this hempen bag which I leave thee, tie to thy neck on a rope the scabbard of thy sword, and wait humbly at the gate till the grace of the comtur gives command to open it."

And after a little Yurand was alone in darkness and silence. On the snow lay black before him the penitential bag and the rope, but he stood there long, feeling that something in his soul was unhinging, something breaking, something coming to an end, something dying, and that soon he would be no longer a knight, no longer Yurand of Spyhov, but a wretch, a slave without name, without fame, without honor.

So much time passed before he approached the penitential bag, and said,—

"How can I act differently? Thou, O Christ, knowest that they will kill my innocent child unless I do what they command. And thou knowest also that I would not do this to save my own life. Shame is a bitter thing! Oh, bitter! but before Thy death men put shame on Thee. Well, then, in the name of the Father and the Son."

He stooped down, put on the bag, in which there were holes for his head and arms, then on the rope around his neck he hung the sheath of his sword, and dragged himself to the gate.

He did not find it open, but it was all one to him at that moment whether they opened it earlier or later. The castle sank into the silence of night; the guards called to each other now and then at the corners. There was light in one little window high up in the gate tower; the others were in darkness.

The night hours passed one after another; on the sky rose the sickle of the moon and lighted the castle walls gloomily. There was such silence that Yurand might have heard the beating of his own heart, but he had grown benumbed and altogether stony, just as if the soul had been taken out of him, and he gave no account to himself of anything. Only one idea remained to the man, that he had ceased to be Yurand of Spyhov, but what he had become he knew not. At moments something quivered before him, it seemed, in the night; that Death was coming to him stealthily over the snow from those corpses on the gibbet which he had seen in the morning.

All at once he quivered and recovered completely.

"O merciful Christ, what is that?"

Out of the lofty little window in the gate tower came certain sounds of a lute, at first barely audible. Yurand, when going to Schytno, felt sure that Danusia was not in the castle, but those sounds of a lute in the night roused his heart. In one instant it seemed to him that he knew them, and that no one else was playing but his child, his love. So he fell on his knees, joined his hands in prayer, and listened, while trembling as in a fever.

With that a half-childish and immensely sad voice began:

"Oh, had I wings like a wild goose,
I would fly after Yasek;
I would fly after him to Silesia!"

Yurand wanted to answer, to cry out the dear name, but the words stuck in his throat as if an iron hoop had squeezed them down. A sudden wave of pain, tears, sadness, misfortune rose in his breast; he threw himself on his face in the snow, and began with ecstasy to cry to heaven in his soul, as if in a thanksgiving prayer,—

"O Jesus! I hear my child yet! O Jesus!"

And sobbing rent his gigantic body. Above him the yearning voice sang on in the undisturbed silence of night:

"I would sit on a fence in Silesia;
Look at me, Yasek dear,
Look at the poor little orphan."

Next morning a bearded, burly man at arms kicked the side of the knight who was lying before the gate.

"To thy feet, dog! The gate is open, and the comtur commands thee to stand before his face."

Yurand woke as if from sleep. He did not seize the man by the throat; he did not crush him in his iron hand; Yurand's face was calm and almost submissive. He rose, and without saying one word followed the German through the gate.

He had barely passed it when he heard behind him the bite of chains; the drawbridge rose, and in the gateway itself dropped the heavy iron grating.