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CHAPTER LIII. The knight Arnold, on hearing next morning of the flight of the serving-woman, smiled, but said the same as Matsko, that either the wolves would devour her or the Lithuanians would kill the wretch. In fact this was likely, for villagers of Lithuanian origin hated the Order and all who had relations with it. The peasants had fled in part to Skirvoillo, in part they had revolted, here and there they had slain Germans and then concealed themselves quickly, with their families and cattle, in deep inaccessible forests. Matsko and Zbyshko sent out to search for the serving-woman next day, but without result, for the search was not over earnest, since the two men had their heads filled with other things, and had not given orders with sufficient sternness. They were in haste to set out for Mazovia, and wished to move at once after sunrise, but could not do so, for Danusia had fallen into deep slumber before daylight, and Zbyshko would not permit any one to rouse her. He had heard her "whining" in the night, and thought that she was not sleeping, so now he expected much good from this sleep. Twice he stole up to the hut, and twice, by the sunlight coming in between the logs, he saw her closed eyes and open mouth, as well as the deep flush on her face, such as children have when sleeping soundly. The heart melted in him from emotion. "God give thee health and rest, dearest flower!" said he. And then he said again: "Thy misfortune is over, thy weeping is ended, and the merciful Lord Jesus will grant thy happiness to be as the waters of a river which have not flowed past yet." As he had a simple soul and was generous, he raised it to God and asked himself, "With what am I to give thanks; with what can I repay; what can I offer to some church, from my possessions, my grain, my herds, wax, or other things of like nature precious to Divine Power?" He would have promised even then and mentioned exactly what he was offering, but he preferred to wait, since he knew not in what health Danusia would wake, or whether she would wake in her senses; he was not sure yet that he would have anything for which to be thankful. Matsko, though knowing that they would be perfectly safe only in the territories of Prince Yanush, thought that it was not proper to disturb Danusia's rest, as it might be her salvation; so he kept the attendants ready and also the pack-horses, but he waited. Still, when midday had passed and she slept on, they grew frightened. Zbyshko, who looked through the cracks and the door unceasingly, entered the hut for the third time and sat on the log which the serving-woman had drawn to the bedside, and on which she had changed her clothes for Danusia's. He sat there and looked at her; she had not opened her eyes yet, but after as much time had passed as would have been needed to say without haste one "Our Father" and "Hail, Mary," her lips quivered a little and she whispered, as if she beheld him through her closed eyelids,— "Zbyshko!" In an instant he threw himself on his knees before her, seized her thin hands, and kissed them with ecstasy. "Thanks to God!" said he, in a broken voice; "Danusia, thou hast recognized me." His voice roused her; she sat up on the bed and with eyes now open repeated,— "Zbyshko!" Then she muttered and stared around as if in wonder. "Thou art not in captivity," said he; "I have torn thee away from them, and we are going to Spyhov." But she drew her hand away from his grasp, and said, "All this happened because father's leave was not given. Where is the princess?" "Wake, oh, my berry! The princess is far from here, but we have taken thee from the Germans." "They have taken my lute too and broken it against a wall," continued she, as if talking to herself without hearing him. "By the dear God!" exclaimed Zbyshko. Now he noted for the first time that her eyes were gleaming and vacant, her cheeks on fire. At that moment the idea flashed through his head that perhaps she was grievously ill and mentioned his name twice only because it occurred to her in the fever; his heart quivered from dread, and cold sweat came out on his forehead. "Danusia!" said he, "dost thou see me and understand?" But she answered in a voice of humble entreaty: "Water—Drink!" "Merciful Jesus!" He sprang out of the hut, and at the door struck against Matsko; he threw at him the one word "Water," and rushed toward the brook which was flowing near by through forest moss and a thicket. He returned soon with water, which he gave to Danusia, who drank eagerly. Matsko had entered the hut, for he had come to learn how things were, and was looking with a frown at the sick woman. "She is in a fever," said he. "Yes," groaned Zbyshko. "Does she understand what thou sayest?" "No." The old man frowned again, then raised his hand and rubbed the back of his head and his neck with it. "What is to be done?" "I know not." "There is only one thing," said Matsko. But Danusia interrupted him at that moment. When she had finished drinking she fixed on him eyes widely open from fever, and said,— "I have not offended thee; forgive." "I forgive, child; I wish only thy good," answered the old knight, with some emotion. "Listen," said he to Zbyshko. "There is no reason why she should stay here. When the wind blows around her, and the sun warms her, she may feel better. Do not lose thy head, boy, but put her into that same cradle in which they carried her, or on thy saddle, and to the road! Dost understand?" After these words he started to leave the hut and give final orders, but barely had he looked out when he stood as if fixed to the earth. A strong detachment of infantry, armed with spears and halberds, had surrounded on four sides, as with a wall, the hut, the field, and the tarpits. "Germans!" thought Matsko. His soul was filled with a shudder, but he grasped his sword-hilt, gritted his teeth, and stood like a wild beast which, brought to bay by dogs on a sudden, is preparing to defend itself desperately. Meanwhile the giant Arnold with some other knight approached from the tarpits, and when he had come up he said,— "The wheel of fortune changes; I was your prisoner, but now you are ours." He looked then with pride at the old knight, as at some creature beneath him. He was not a bad man at all, nor over-cruel, but he had the defect common to Knights of the Order, who, affable in misfortune, and even yielding, could never restrain their contempt for the conquered, or their limitless pride when they felt superior power behind them. "You are prisoners," repeated he, loftily. The old knight looked around gloomily. In his breast beat a heart that was not timid, it was even bold to excess. Had he been in armor on his war-horse, had Zbyshko been at his side, if both had held in their hands swords, axes, or those terrible "trees" which the Polish knights of that period wielded so skilfully, he might have tried, perhaps, to break through that wall of spears and halberds. It was not without reason that foreign knights called to the Poles at Vilno, "Ye despise death too much," thus reproaching them. But Matsko was on foot before Arnold, alone, without armor; so when he saw that the attendants had laid down their weapons, and remembered that Zbyshko was in the hut with Danusia and unarmed, he understood, as a man of experience and greatly accustomed to warfare, that he was helpless; so he drew his sword from its sheath slowly and cast it at the feet of the knight who was standing near Arnold. That knight spoke with no less pride than Arnold, but in good Polish and affably:— "What is your name, sir? I shall not command to bind you if you give your word, since you, as I see, are a belted knight, and have treated my brother humanely." "I give my word," answered Matsko. And when he had told who he was, he inquired if he might go to the hut and warn his nephew against any unwise act. On receiving permission he vanished in the door, and after a while appeared again bearing in his hand a misericordia. "My nephew," said he, "has not even a sword with him, and begs to remain with his wife till you start from here." "Let him stay," said Arnold's brother. "I will send food and drink to him, for we shall not start immediately; the men are tired, and we need food and rest ourselves. I beg you to join us." They turned then and went toward that same fire at which Matsko had spent the night previous, but whether through rudeness or pride,—the former was common enough among Germans,—they went in advance, letting Matsko follow. But he, having seen very much, and understanding what manners were proper on every occasion, inquired,— "Gentlemen, do you invite me as a guest or as a prisoner?" Arnold's brother was ashamed, for he halted and said,— "Pass on, sir." The old knight went ahead, but not wishing to wound the vanity of a man who to him might be greatly important, he said,— "It is evident, sir, that you know not only various languages, but polite intercourse." Arnold understood only a few words. "Wolfgang," asked he, "what is the question? What is he saying?" "He talks sensibly," answered Wolfgang, who was flattered by Matsko's words, evidently. They sat at the fire, to which food and drink were brought. The lesson given the Germans by Matsko was not lost, for Wolfgang ordered to serve him first. In conversation the old knight learned how he and his nephew had been caught: Wolfgang, a younger brother of Arnold, was leading the Chluhov infantry to Gotteswerder, also against the insurgent Jmud men. As they came from a distant province they had failed to come up with the cavalry. Arnold had no need to wait for them, knowing that on the road he would meet other mounted divisions from towns and castles near the Lithuanian boundary; for this reason the younger brother came somewhat later, and was on the road in the neighborhood of the tarpits when the serving-woman who had fled in the night-time, informed him of the mishap which had met his elder brother. Arnold, listening to that narrative, which was repeated to him in German, laughed with satisfaction, and declared at last that he had hoped things would turn out so; but the experienced Matsko, who in every strait tried to find some relief, thought it useful to win those two Germans; so he said,— "It is always grievous to fall into captivity, but I am grateful that God has not given me into other hands, for, by my faith, you are real knights who observe honor." At this Wolfgang closed his eyes and nodded, rather stiffly, it is true, but with evident satisfaction. "And you know our speech so well," continued Matsko. "God, I see, has given you a mind for everything." "I know your language, for in Chluhov the people talk Polish. My brother and I have served seven years there under the comtur." "And you will receive his office after him; it cannot be otherwise. But your brother does not speak our language as you do." "He understands some, but does not speak. My brother has more strength than I, though I am not a piece of a man, but his wit is duller." "Oh, he is not dull, as it seems to me," said Matsko. "Wolfgang, what does he say?" inquired Arnold again. "He praises thee." "Of course I do," added Matsko, "for he is a true knight, and that is the main thing. I tell you sincerely that I intended to free him to-day on his word, and let him go whithersoever he wished, if he would return in a year even. That is as it should be among belted knights;" and he looked into Wolfgang's face carefully. Wolfgang frowned and said:"I would let you go on your word perhaps, if you had not helped pagan dogs against our people." "We have not," answered Matsko. And now rose the same kind of sharp dispute as on the day previous with Arnold. Though truth was on the old knight's side, he had more trouble now, for Wolfgang was keener than his brother. But from the discussion came this good, that the younger brother too heard of all the crimes of Schytno, its false oaths and treacheries, and also of the fate of the unfortunate Danusia. Touching this and the crimes which Matsko brought before him, he had nothing to answer. He was forced to confess that their revenge was just, and that the Polish knights had the right to act as they had acted. "By the sacred bones of Liborius, I shall not pity Danveld. They say that he practised the black art, but God's power and justice are greater than the black art. As for Siegfried, I have no means of knowing if he served the devil also, but I shall make no pursuit to save him; for, first, I have not the cavalry, and, second, if he tortured that girl, let him not peep even once out of hell." Here he stretched himself and added: "God aid me now and at my death hour." "But with that unfortunate martyr, how will it be?" inquired Matsko. "Will you not give permission to take her home? Is she to die in your dungeons? Think of God's anger." "I have no affair with the woman," answered Wolfgang, abruptly. "Let one of you take her to her father if he will come back, but I will not let off the other." "Not if I were to swear on my honor, and the spear of Saint George?" Wolfgang hesitated somewhat, for the oath was a great one, but at that moment Arnold asked him the third time, "What does he say?" And on learning what the question was he opposed passionately and rudely the liberation of both on their word. In this he found his own reckoning. He had been beaten by Skirvoillo in the greater battle, and in single combat by those Polish knights. As a soldier he knew too that his brother's infantry must return to Malborg, for if they wished to go on to Gotteswerder they would go after the destruction of the previous detachments, as if to be slaughtered. He knew, therefore, that he would have to stand before the Master and the marshal, and he understood that his disgrace would be decreased could he show even one considerable captive. One living knight whom he could present to the eye would mean more than a story stating that he had captured two. Matsko, hearing the hoarse outburst and curses of Arnold, understood straightway that he ought to accept what they gave since he would gain nothing more, and he said, turning to Wolfgang,— "Now I ask you for another thing; I am sure that my nephew will himself understand that he is to be with his wife, and I with you; but in every case permit me to inform him that there is no parleying in this matter, for such is your will." "Very good; it is all one to me," answered Wolfgang; "but let us talk of the ransom which your nephew is to bring for himself and for you, since on this depends all." "Of the ransom?" inquired Matsko, who would have deferred this conversation till another day. "Have we not time enough before us? When one has to do with a belted knight a word is the same as ready money; and as to the amount, we may leave that to conscience. Before Gotteswerder we took captive a considerable knight of yours, a certain Pan de Lorche, and my nephew, he it was who took him, let the knight go on his word, making no mention at all of the amount of the ransom." "Did you capture De Lorche?" asked Wolfgang, quickly. "I know him; he is a wealthy knight. But why have we not met him on the road?" "Because, as is evident, he went not to Malborg, but to Gotteswerder or Ragneta," answered Matsko. "Oh, he is wealthy and of noted family," said Wolfgang. "You have made a rich capture; it is well that you mentioned this, I will not free you now for a trifle." Matsko bit his moustache, but raised his head proudly, and said,— "We know our worth without that." "So much the better," answered the younger Von Baden; but immediately he added, "so much the better, but not for us,—we are humble monks who have vowed poverty,—but better for the Order, which will use your money to the glory of God." Matsko made no answer to this, but he looked at Wolfgang as if to say, "Tell that to some other man," and after a while they began to arrange the terms. This for the old knight was disagreeable and difficult, for on the one hand he was very sensitive to losses, and on the other, he understood that it became neither him nor Zbyshko to put on themselves too small a value. He squirmed therefore like an eel, all the more since Wolfgang, though of smooth and pleasant speech, proved to be immensely greedy, and as hard as stone. The only comfort for Matsko was the thought that De Lorche would pay for all, but he regretted the lost hope of gain. He did not count on the ransom of Siegfried, for he thought that Yurand, and even Zbyshko, would not renounce the old comtur's head for any sum. After long talk he agreed as to the amount of money and the interval, and, having stipulated the number of attendants and horses which Zbyshko was to take, he went to tell him. At the same time he advised his nephew to set out immediately. Evidently he did this through fear lest some new thought might strike the Germans. "Such is the knightly condition," said he, sighing; " yesterday thou hadst them by the head, to-day they have thee. Yes, it is difficult; God grant that our turn come another day. But lose no time; by going quickly thou wilt overtake Hlava, and it will be safer for you both in company; but once out of the forest and in the inhabited part of Mazovia ye will find entertainment, assistance, and care at the house of any noble or land-tiller. With us no one refuses these services to a stranger, much less to our own people; for this poor woman there will be perhaps salvation in the journey." Thus speaking, he looked at Danusia, who, sunk in half lethargy, breathed loudly and quickly. Her transparent hands lying on the dark bearskin trembled feverishly. Matsko made the sign of the cross on her, and said,— "God change this, for she is spinning fine, as it seems to me." "Do not say that," cried Zbyshko, with despairing emphasis. "God is mighty. I will direct to bring the horses here, and do thou go." Matsko went from the hut, and arranged everything for the journey. The Turks given by Zavisha brought the horses with the cradle, which was lined with moss and skins, and Vit, the attendant, brought Zbyshko's saddle-horse. After a while Zbyshko bore Danusia out of the hut on one arm. There was something so touching in this that the brothers Von Baden, whose curiosity had led them to the hut, when they saw the half-childish form of Danusia, her face which resembled the faces of sacred virgins in church pictures, and her weakness so great that she could not move her head which had dropped heavily on Zbyshko's shoulder, looked at each other, and their hearts rose against the authors of such misery. "Siegfried had the heart of an executioner, not of a knight," whispered Wolfgang to his brother;" and though she was the cause of freeing thee, I will have that serpent flogged with rods." They were moved by this too, that Zbyshko was carrying Danusia on his arm as a mother would a child, and they understood his love, for both had the blood of youth in their veins yet. Zbyshko hesitated a while whether to take the sick woman to the saddle, and hold her before him on the road, or put her in the cradle. He decided finally for the cradle, thinking that it would be easier for Danusia to travel lying down. Then approaching his uncle, he bent to kiss his hand in parting. Matsko, who loved him as the apple of his eye, though he had no wish to show emotion before Germans, did not restrain himself, but embraced Zbyshko firmly, pressing his lips to his rich golden hair. "God go with thee," said he; "but think of the old man, for captivity is bitter in every case." "I will not forget," answered Zbyshko. "May the Most Holy Mother give thee solace!" "God reward thee for those words, and for everything." After a while Zbyshko was on his horse, but Matsko thought of something, for he sprang to his nephew, and putting his hand on his knee, said,— "Listen! If thou overtake Hlava, be careful as to Siegfried that thou bring no disgrace on thyself and my gray hairs; Yurand may act, not thou. Swear to me on thy sword and on thy honor!" "Until you are freed I will restrain Yurand also, so that the Germans should not avenge Siegfried on you," answered Zbyshko. "Art thou so concerned about me?" "Thou knowest me, I think," replied Zbyshko, smiling sadly. "To the road! Go in health!" The horses started and soon the bright hazel thickets hid them. All at once Matsko grew terribly sad and lonely; his soul was tearing away with all its force after that dear boy, in whom the whole hope of his race lay. But immediately he shook himself out of his sorrow, for he was a firm man, with self-mastery. "Thank God that I am the captive, not Zbyshko," thought he; and turning to the Germans, he asked, "And, gentlemen, when will you start, and whither will you go?" "We will start when it pleases us," answered "Wolfgang, "and we shall go to Malborg, where first of all you will have to stand before the Grand Master." "Hei, they are ready there to cut my head off for helping the Jmud men," thought Matsko. But he was comforted by this, that De Lorche was in reserve, and that the Von Badens themselves would defend his life if only to save the ransom. "If they take my head, Zbyshko will not need to come himself, and decrease his property; "and this thought brought him a certain solace.
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