They parted without resistance. The halberdiers entered first, followed by Zbyszko with the priest and the scribe. But then came something no one had expected. Suddenly, from among the knights, Powala stepped out with Danusia in his arms and shouted, "Halt!" in such a booming voice that the whole procession stopped dead, as if rooted to the ground. Neither the captain nor any of the soldiers dared oppose a lord and a belted knight, one seen daily at the castle and often in private conversation with the king. Other equally eminent men began to call out in commanding voices: "Halt! Halt!" And the lord of Taczew approached Zbyszko and handed him Danusia, dressed all in white.
Zbyszko, thinking this was a farewell, seized her, hugged her, and pressed her to his chest. But Danusia, instead of nestling against him and throwing her little arms around his neck, quickly snatched the white veil from her bright hair, from beneath the rue wreath, and wrapped it completely around Zbyszko's head. At the same time she began to cry out with all her might, in a tearful, childish voice:
"He's mine! He's mine!"
"He's hers!" repeated the powerful voices of the knights. "To the castellan!"
A roar like thunder from the crowd answered them: "To the castellan! To the castellan!"
The confessor raised his eyes upward, the court scribe was flustered, the captain and halberdiers lowered their weapons—for everyone understood what had happened.
It was an old Polish and Slavic custom, strong as law, known in the Podhale region, in the Kraków region, and even further. If an innocent maiden threw her veil over a boy being led to his death, as a sign that she wanted to marry him, that act saved him from death and punishment. The knights knew this custom, the peasants knew it, the common folk knew it—and even the Niemcy, who had lived in Polish towns and cities from earlier times, had heard of its power.
Old Macko grew weak from emotion at the sight. The knights immediately pushed the crossbowmen aside and surrounded Zbyszko and Danusia. The moved and delighted crowd shouted louder and louder: "To the castellan! To the castellan!" The throngs suddenly surged like enormous sea waves. The executioner and his helpers quickly fled the platform. Confusion broke out. It became clear to everyone that if Jaśko of Tenczyn now tried to resist the sacred custom, a dangerous riot would erupt in the city. And so the common folk rushed at the scaffold. In the blink of an eye, the cloth was pulled down and torn to pieces. Then the beams and planks, tugged by strong hands or hacked with axes, began to bend, creak, and crack. Within a few Our Fathers, not a trace of the platform remained in the square.
And Zbyszko, still holding Danusia in his arms, returned to the castle—but this time as a true victor, a triumphant hero. For the foremost knights of the kingdom walked around him with joyful faces, and from the sides, front, and rear, thousands of women, men, and children pressed in, shouting at the top of their lungs, singing, reaching out their hands toward Danusia, and praising the courage and beauty of them both. From the windows, the white hands of wealthy burgher women applauded them. Everywhere eyes were filled with tears of joy. A rain of rose and lily wreaths, a rain of ribbons, even of golden headbands and hair fasteners, fell at the feet of the happy young man. And he, radiant as the sun, with a heart full of gratitude, lifted his little white lady up from time to time, and sometimes, in his rapture, kissed her dress. This sight moved the burgher women so deeply that some threw themselves into the arms of their fiancés, declaring that if they deserved death in a similar way, they too would be freed. Zbyszko and Danusia became like beloved children to the knights, townspeople, and common folk. Old Macko, whom Florian of Korytnica and Marcin of Wrocimowice were still leading by the arms, was almost beside himself with joy—and also with astonishment that such a means of saving his nephew had never even occurred to him. Powala of Taczew, amidst the general uproar, told the knights in his powerful voice how that method had been devised—or rather recalled—in councils with the Duchess by Wojciech Jastrzębiec and Stanisław of Skarbimierz, both learned in written and customary law. The knights marveled at its simplicity, saying among themselves that perhaps no one else remembered that custom because it had long ceased to be practiced in the city, which was inhabited by the Niemcy.
But everything still depended on the castellan. The knights and the common folk streamed toward the castle, where, in the king's absence, the Lord of Kraków resided. The court scribe, Father Stanisław of Skarbimierz, Zawisza, Farurej, Zyndram of Maszkowice, and Powala of Taczew immediately went to him to present the power of the custom and to remind him, as he himself had said, that if he found "a law or a pretext," he would soon free the condemned. And could there be a better law than the ancient custom, which had never been broken? The lord of Tenczyn replied, it is true, that that custom applied more to common people and to bandits from the Podhale region than to nobles. But he himself was too learned in all sorts of law not to acknowledge its force. He covered his silver beard with his hand and smiled beneath his fingers, for he was clearly pleased. Finally, he came out onto a low gallery, accompanied by Duchess Anna Danuta, a few clergymen, and knights.
When Zbyszko saw him, he lifted Danusia up again. The castellan laid his aged hand on her golden hair, held it there a moment, and then nodded his venerable head gravely and benevolently.
Everyone understood that sign. The very castle walls trembled from the shouts.
"May God help you! Long life to you, righteous lord! Live and judge us!" they called from all sides.
Then new cheers arose for Danusia and Zbyszko. A moment later, both entered the gallery and fell at the feet of the good Duchess Anna Danuta, to whom Zbyszko owed his life—for it was she who, with the learned men, had devised the plan and taught Danusia what to do.
"Long live the young couple!" cried Powala of Taczew at the sight of the kneeling pair.
"Long live!" repeated the others.
And the aged castellan turned to the Duchess and said:
"Now, gracious Duchess, the betrothal must take place at once, for that custom so requires."
"I will perform the betrothal immediately," replied the good lady, her face radiant. "But I will not permit the marriage settlement without the consent of Jurand of Spychów, the father."
End of Part One.
The text is public domain. License details at the author's website: Henryk Sienkiewicz.