X.
Jurand died a few days later. For a full week, Father Kaleb held services over his body, which did not decay at all—everyone saw this as a miracle of God—and for that entire week, Spychow was crowded with guests.
Then came a time of silence, as always happens after a funeral. Zbyszko would go down to the crypt, and sometimes also go to the forest with a crossbow, from which he never shot at any game, but instead walked in deep thought, until finally one evening he came into the room where the girls were sitting with Macko and Hlawa—and unexpectedly said:
“Listen to what I have to say! Grief serves no one, and therefore it’s better for you to return to Bogdaniec and to Zgorzelice than to sit here in sorrow.”
Silence fell, for everyone guessed this would be a conversation of great importance—and only after a moment did Macko speak:
“Better for us, but also better for you.”
But Zbyszko shook his fair hair. “No!” he said. “I too will return to Bogdaniec, God willing, but now I must take a different path.”
“Hey!” cried Macko. “I said it was the end, but here there is no end! Fear God, Zbyszko.”
“But you know that I made a vow.”
“So that’s the reason? You don’t have Danushka, you don’t have a vow either. Death released you from your oath.”
“Mine would release me, but not hers. I swore to God on my knightly honor. What do you want? On my knightly honor!”
Every word about knightly honor seemed to cast a magical spell on Macko. In life, apart from God’s commandments and the Church’s, he followed few other rules, but those few he followed unwaveringly.
“I’m not telling you not to keep your oath,” he said.
“Only what?”
“Only that you’re young and you have time for everything. Ride with us now; you’ll rest—shake off your grief and pain—and then go wherever you wish.”
“Then I’ll tell you as honestly as in confession,” said Zbyszko. “I go where I must, I talk with you, I eat and drink like anyone else, but truly I say, inside my heart and soul, I cannot manage at all. Nothing but grief within me, nothing but pain, nothing but these bitter tears that flow from my eyes on their own.”
“That’s precisely when it will be worst for you among strangers.”
“No,” said Zbyszko. “God knows that I would completely waste away in Bogdaniec. When I tell you I cannot, I cannot! I need war, because in the field it’s easier to forget. I feel that when I fulfill my vow, when I can say to that saved soul: I have done everything I promised—then perhaps it will let me go. But not before! You couldn’t hold me even with a rope in Bogdaniec.”
After these words, it became so quiet in the room that you could hear flies buzzing under the ceiling.
“If he’s going to waste away in Bogdaniec, then let him go,” Jagienka finally spoke up.
Macko clasped both hands behind his neck, as he was wont to do in moments of great worry, then sighed heavily.
“Ah, mighty God!...”
Jagienka continued:
“Zbyszko, but swear that if God spares you, you won’t stay here, but will return to us.”
“Why wouldn’t I return? Of course I won’t pass by Spychow, but I won’t stay here.”
“Because,” the girl continued in a slightly quieter voice, “if it’s about that little coffin, we’ll take it to Krześnia for you...”
“Jaguś!” Zbyszko cried out. And in the first moment of emotion and gratitude, he fell at her feet.