Meanwhile, "foolish Zbyszko" had indeed left Bogdaniec with a heavy heart. First, he felt strange and ill at ease without his uncle, from whom he had never been parted for years and to whom he had grown so accustomed that even now he could not well imagine how he would manage without him, both on the journey and in war. Second, he missed Jagienka too, for although he told himself he was going to Danusia, whom he loved with all his soul, he had felt so happy with Jagienka that only now did he realize what joy she had brought him and what sorrow might await him without her. He was even surprised at his own grief, and it troubled him, because if he had merely longed for Jagienka as a brother longs for a sister, that would have been nothing. But he noticed that he yearned to take her by the waist and set her on a horse, or lift her from the saddle, to carry her across streams, wring water from her braid, to walk with her through the forests, to look at her, and to confer with her. He had grown so used to all this and it was so dear to him that when he now began to think about it, he became lost in thought and completely forgot that he was setting out on a long journey all the way to Masuria. Instead, before his eyes appeared that moment when Jagienka helped him in the forest as he wrestled with a bear.
And it seemed to him that it was only yesterday, just as yesterday they had gone beaver-hunting to Odstajane Pond. He had not seen her then when she swam after the beaver, but now he fancied he could see her — and at once he felt the same stirrings that had seized him a couple of weeks ago when the wind had played too freely with Jagienka’s skirt. Then he recalled how she had ridden to church in Krześnia magnificently dressed, and how he had marveled that such a simple girl suddenly looked like a high-born young lady riding elegantly. All this made his heart grow restless, at once blissful and sad and full of longing, and when he thought how she had been drawn to him, how she had looked into his eyes and nestled close to him, he could hardly stay in the saddle. "If only I had caught her somewhere and at least said goodbye, hugged her for the journey," he told himself, "maybe it would have passed." But he soon felt that was not true and that it would not have passed, for at the very thought of such a farewell, sparks began to run over his skin, even though there was a frost on the ground.
At last he grew frightened of those memories, too akin to lust, and shook them from his soul like dry snow from his cloak.
"I am going to Danushka, to my dearest!" he said to himself.
And he realized at once that this was a different kind of love, more devout, as it were. Gradually, as his feet grew cold in the stirrups and the chilly wind cooled his blood, all his thoughts flew toward Danuta Jurandówna. To her he truly owed everything. If not for her, his head would have fallen long ago on the market square of Krakow. After all, when she had said before the knights and burghers, "He is mine," she had taken him from the hands of the executioners — and from then on, he belonged to her like a slave to his master. He had not taken her; she had taken him. No opposition from Jurand could change that. She alone could drive him away, as a lady may dismiss a servant, though even then he would not go far, for his own vow bound him. Yet he thought that she would not drive him away, that she would rather follow him from the Mazovian court even to the ends of the earth — and thinking that, he began to praise himself in his soul at Jagienka's expense, as if it were entirely her fault that temptations assailed him and that his heart was divided. It did not occur to him now that Jagienka had healed old Macko, and besides, that without her help the bear might have torn the skin from his head that night. He deliberately stirred himself against Jagienka, believing that in this way he would earn merit with Danusia and justify himself in his own eyes.
Just then Czech Hlawa rode up, sent by Jagienka, leading a packhorse.
"Praised be!" he said, bowing low.
Zbyszko had seen him once or twice at Zgorzelice, but did not recognize him, so he said: "Praised be forever and ever. Who are you?"
"Your servant, gracious lord."
"How my servant? Those are my servants," he said, pointing to two young Turks given to him by Zawisza, and to two sturdy lads who, sitting on ponies, led the knightly stallions. "Those are mine — but who sent you?"
"Lady Jagienka, daughter of Zych of Zgorzelice."
"Lady Jagienka?"
Zbyszko had just been stirring himself against her, and his heart was still full of resentment, so he said: "Go back home and thank the lady for her kindness, because I do not want you."
But the Czech shook his head. "I will not go back, lord. They sent me to you, and besides, I have sworn to serve you until death."
"If they sent you to me, then you are my servant." "Yours, lord." "Then I command you to return." "I have sworn, and though I am a prisoner from Bolesławiec and a poor servant, I am a squire..."
And Zbyszko became angry: "Be off with you! Will you serve me against my will or what? Go, or I will have a crossbow drawn."
The Czech calmly unbuckled a cloth cloak lined with wolf fur, handed it to Zbyszko, and said: "Lady Jagienka sent this to you as well, lord."
"Do you want me to break your bones?" asked Zbyszko, taking the lance from the hands of the servant.
"And there is also a little purse at your command," replied the Czech.
Zbyszko raised the lance, but remembered that the servant, though a prisoner, was nonetheless of squirely birth, who had evidently remained with Zych only because he had no means to ransom himself, so he lowered the spear.
The Czech leaned toward his stirrup and said: "Do not be angry, lord. If you do not let me ride with you, I will follow a furlong or two behind, but I will follow, for I have sworn it on the salvation of my soul."
"And if I order you killed or bound?" "If you order me killed, that will be no sin; if you order me bound, I will stay until good people free me, or wolves devour me."
Zbyszko did not answer — he only spurred his horse forward, and his men followed. The Czech, with a crossbow on his back and a hatchet on his shoulder, trudged behind, wrapping himself in a shaggy aurochs hide, for a sharp wind had begun to blow, carrying grains of snow.
The storm increased with every moment. The young Turks, despite their fur coats, grew numb from it; Zbyszko's servants began to "kill" their hands, and he himself, being also not warmly enough dressed, cast his eyes once or twice at the wolf-fur cloak brought by Hlawa, and after a moment told one of the Turks to hand it to him.
And wrapping himself tightly in it, he soon felt warmth spreading through his whole body. The hood was especially comfortable, covering his eyes and a good part of his face, so that the wind almost stopped bothering him. Then he involuntarily thought that Jagienka was indeed a thoroughly good-hearted girl — and he slowed his horse a little, for he felt a desire to question the Czech about her and about everything that had been happening at Zgorzelice.
So he beckoned to the servant and said: "Does old Zych know that the lady sent you to me?" "He knows," answered Hlawa. "And did he not object?" "He did object." "Tell me how it was."
"The master walked about the room, and the lady followed him. He shouted, but the young lady said nothing — only every time he turned to her, she fell at his knees. Not a word. Finally the old lord said: 'Have you gone deaf that you say nothing to my arguments? Speak, or I will finally allow it; and if I allow it, the abbot will tear my head off!' Then the lady realized she had her way, and she began to thank him with tears. He reproached her that she had robbed him, and complained that in everything her will must be done, and at last he said: 'Promise me you will not sneak out to say goodbye to him, then I will allow it, otherwise not.' Then the young lady was troubled, but she promised — and the master was glad, because both he and the abbot were terribly afraid that she might take it into her head to see Your Grace... But that is not the end, because later the lady wanted two horses, and the master forbade it; the lady wanted the wolf-fur and the purse, and the master forbade it. But what good are such prohibitions! If she took it into her head to burn down the house, the old lord would agree to that too. That is why there is a second horse, the wolf-fur, and the purse."
"A good-hearted girl!" thought Zbyszko to himself.
After a moment he asked aloud: "And was there no trouble with the abbot?..."
The Czech smiled, like a clever servant who is aware of everything happening around him, and replied: "They did it in secret from the abbot, and I do not know what happened when he found out, because I left earlier. The abbot is the abbot! Sometimes he roars at the young lady, but afterward he only looks to see if he has not wronged her too much. I myself saw him scold her once, and then he went to his chest and brought a chain such that a finer one could not be had even in Krakow — and he said to her: 'Here!' She will manage with the abbot as well, for her own father does not love her more."
"Surely that is so." "As God is in heaven..."
Here they fell silent and rode on amid the wind and snow grains; suddenly, however, Zbyszko reined in his horse, for from the forest roadside there came a plaintive voice, half-drowned by the roar of the woods: "Christians, save a servant of God in misfortune!"
And at the same time a man ran out onto the road, dressed in clothing half clerical, half secular, and stopping before Zbyszko, began to shout: "Whoever you are, lord, give aid to a man and neighbor in dire need!"
"What has happened to you and who are you?" asked the young knight.
"I am a servant of God, though without holy orders, and it happened that this morning a horse carrying chests of relics ran away from me. I was left alone, unarmed, and evening is drawing near, and soon the fierce beasts in the forest will make themselves heard. I will perish if you do not help me."
"If you were to die because of me," replied Zbyszko, "I would have to answer for your sins. But how am I to know that you are telling the truth and that you are not some vagabond or robber, such as many roam the roads?"
"You will know by the chests, lord. Many a man would give a purse full of ducats just to possess what is in them, but I will share with you freely, if only you will take me and my chests."
"You say you are a servant of God, yet you do not know that help should be rewarded not with earthly things but with heavenly ones. But how did you save the chests if the horse carrying them ran away?"
"Because the horse, before I found him, was killed by wolves in a forest clearing, but the chests remained, and I dragged them to the road to await mercy and help from good people."
Having said this, and wanting to give proof that he spoke the truth, he pointed to two caskets made of lime wood lying under a pine tree. Zbyszko looked at him rather distrustfully, for the man did not seem very respectable, and his speech, though pure, betrayed origins from distant parts. However, he did not want to refuse him help and allowed him to climb onto a spare horse, along with the chests, which turned out to be oddly light, led by the Czech.
"May God multiply your victories, brave knight!" said the stranger.
Then, seeing Zbyszko's youthful face, he added in an undertone: "And also the hair on your beard."
And after a moment he rode alongside the Czech. For a while they could not talk, for a strong wind was blowing and the forest roared terribly, but when it quieted down a little, Zbyszko heard the following conversation behind him: "I do not deny that you were in Rome, but you look like a beer-guzzler," said the Czech.
"Beware of damnation," replied the stranger, "for you speak to a man who ate hard-boiled eggs with the Holy Father last Easter. Do not talk to me about beer in such cold, unless it is mulled beer, but if you have a flask of wine somewhere on you, give me two or three sips, and I will remit a month of purgatory for you."
"You have no holy orders, for I heard you say so yourself, so how can you remit a month of purgatory for me?" "I have no orders, but I have a shaved head, for which I received permission, and besides, I carry relics."
"In those boxes?" asked the Czech. "In those boxes, and if you saw everything I have, you would fall on your face, not only you, but all the pines in the forest together with the wild beasts."