VIII.
Three days later, the promised woman arrived with the Harz balsam, and with her came the captain of the archers from Szczytno, bearing a letter signed by the Brothers and sealed with Danveld's seal. In it, the Teutonic Knights called heaven and earth to witness the wrongs they had suffered in Masovia, and under threat of divine vengeance, they demanded punishment for the murder of their "beloved companion and guest." Danveld had also dictated a complaint of his own, in words both humble and menacing, demanding recompense for his grievous injury and a death sentence for the Czech servant.
The prince tore the letter in front of the captain, threw it at his feet, and said:
"The Master sent them here, you Teutonic dogs, to win me over, and they only stir me to anger. Tell them from me that they themselves murdered the guest and tried to murder the servant. I'll write to the Master about it, and add this too—that he should choose other envoys if he wants me to stay neutral in case of war with the King of Krakow."
"Gracious lord," replied the captain, "is that the only answer I am to carry back to the powerful and pious Brothers?"
"And if that's not enough, tell them also that I consider them sons of bitches, not true knights."
And with that the audience ended. The captain rode off, for the prince also departed that same day for Ciechanow.
Only the "sister" remained with the balsam, which the suspicious Father Wyszoniek refused to use, especially since the patient had slept well the previous night and awakened the next morning very weak but without fever. After the prince's departure, the sister immediately sent one of her servants back, ostensibly for a new remedy—a "basilisk egg," which she claimed had the power to restore strength even to the dying. She herself walked about the manor, humble, with one hand useless, dressed in secular but monastic-looking clothes, with a rosary and a small pilgrim's gourd at her belt. Speaking Polish well, she inquired with great concern of the servants about both Zbyszko and Danusia, to whom she gave a rose of Jericho on one occasion. The next day, while Zbyszko was sleeping and the girl sat in the dining room, the sister approached her and said:
"God bless you, young lady. Last night after prayers, I dreamed that two knights were walking toward us through falling snow. The first reached us and wrapped you in a snow-white cloak, and the second said, 'I see only snow, and she is not there,' and turned back."
Danusia, who was sleepy, opened her blue eyes at once with curiosity and asked:
"And what does that mean?"
"It means that the one who loves you most will win you."
"Then it's Zbyszko!" the girl replied.
"I don't know—I didn't see his face, only the white cloak. Then I woke up at once, for every night the Lord Jesus sends pains in my legs, and He has taken my hand entirely."
"But didn't that balsam help you?"
"Neither balsam nor anything else will help me, young lady, because my sin is too great. If you want to know what it is, I'll tell you."
Danusia nodded to show she wanted to know, so the sister continued:
"In the Order there are also women servants who, though they take no vows—they can even be married—are still bound to fulfill duties toward the Order as the Brothers command. But because I was disobedient and in my insolence raised my hand against one of the Brothers, I was severely punished and lost the use of my hand."
Then she began to beat her breast and repeated several times:
"God, be merciful to me, a sinner."
Danusia listened to these words with discomfort and fear. The sister began to sigh and continue her lament.
"I am not old yet, even now—barely thirty years old—but God took not only my hand but also my youth and beauty."
"If not for your hand," said Danusia, "you could not complain yet..."
Then silence fell. Suddenly the sister, as if remembering something, said:
"And I dreamed that a knight wrapped you in a white cloak on the snow. Maybe it was a Krzyżak! They too wear white cloaks."
"I want nothing of the Krzyżaks, nor of their cloaks," the girl replied.
But Father Wyszoniek interrupted their talk. Entering the room, he motioned to Danusia and said:
"Praise God and come to Zbyszko. He's woken up and is calling for food. He's much better."
And so it was indeed. Zbyszko was feeling better, and Father Wyszoniek was nearly certain he would recover, when suddenly an unexpected event upset all calculations and hopes. For messengers arrived from Jurand with a letter to the duchess, containing nothing but evil and terrible news. Part of Jurand's stronghold in Spychow had burned down, and he himself had been struck by a burning beam while trying to rescue others. Father Kaleb, who had written the letter in his name, reported that Jurand might still recover, but the sparks and embers had so burned his remaining eye that little sight remained in it, and he faced certain blindness.
For this reason, Jurand summoned his daughter to come quickly to Spychow, for he wanted to see her still before darkness engulfed him. He also said that from then on she was to remain with him, for if even among the blind who go begging among people each has some lad to lead him by the hand and show him the way, why should he be denied that last comfort and die among strangers? There were also humble thanks to the duchess, who had raised the girl like her own mother, and in the end Jurand promised that, even if blind, he would come once more to Warsaw to fall at the lady's feet and beg her favor for Danusia in the years to come.
When Father Wyszoniek read that letter to her, the duchess could not speak for some time. She had hoped that when Jurand came for the upcoming holiday, she would, by her own authority and that of Prince Janusz, win him over for Zbyszko and obtain his consent for an early wedding. But that letter not only thwarted her plans but also deprived her of Danusia, whom she loved as much as her own children. It occurred to her that Jurand might even give the girl away immediately to one of the neighbors, to live out the rest of his days among his own. As for Zbyszko, it was out of the question for him to go to Spychow, for his ribs were only just beginning to knit, and besides, who could know how he would be received there? The lady knew well that Jurand had outright refused him Danusia in his time and had told her herself that for secret reasons he would never consent to their union.
So in deep distress, she summoned the elder of the sent men to question him about the misfortune at Spychow and at the same time learn something of Jurand's intentions. She was even surprised when, at her summons, a completely unknown man entered, not old Tolima, who carried Jurand's shield and usually rode with him. The man told her that Tolima had been grievously wounded in the last skirmish with the Germans and was fighting death in Spychow, while Jurand, afflicted with a severe injury, begged for his daughter's quick return, for he saw less and less and in a few days might be completely blind. The envoy even pleaded urgently that, as soon as the horses had caught their breath, he be allowed to take the girl. But since it was evening, the lady firmly opposed it, especially to avoid tearing her own heart and those of Zbyszko and Danusia to pieces by a hasty farewell.
And Zbyszko already knew everything. He lay in the room as if struck in the head with a bludgeon. When the lady entered and, wringing her hands, said at once from the threshold, "There is no help for it, for he is her father!"—he repeated after her like an echo, "There is no help for it," and closed his eyes like a man who expects death to come upon him at once.
But death did not come, though a greater and greater sorrow gathered in his chest, and ever darker thoughts flew through his head—just like clouds driven by the wind, one after another, overshadowing the sunlight and extinguishing all joy in the world. For Zbyszko understood, like the duchess, that once Danusia left for Spychow, she would be as good as lost to him. Here everyone was kind to him; there Jurand might even receive him, but he would not want to listen to him, especially if he was bound by a vow or some other unknown reason as weighty as a religious vow. Besides, how could he ride to Spychow when he was ill and could barely move on his bed? A few days ago, when by the prince's grace the golden spurs had fallen upon him along with the knightly belt, he thought that joy would overcome his illness and he prayed with all his soul that he might soon rise and measure himself against the Teutonic Knights. But now he had again lost all hope, for he felt that when he lacked Danusia by his bedside, he would also lack the will to live and the strength to fight death. The next day would come, and the day after, finally Christmas Eve and the holidays; his bones would ache just the same, and fainting would seize him just the same, but there would be no brightness that spread from Danusia through the whole room, nor that delight of the eyes that looked upon her. What comfort and what solace it had been to ask several times a day, "Am I dear to you?"—and then see her cover her laughing and embarrassed eyes with her hand, or bend over and answer, "And who, if not Zbyszko?" Now only illness and pain and longing would remain, and happiness would depart—and not return.
Tears glistened in Zbyszko's eyes and slowly rolled down his cheeks. Then he turned to the duchess and said:
"Gracious lady, I think I shall never see Danushka again in my life."
And the lady, herself distressed, replied:
"And it would be no wonder if you died of grief. But the Lord Jesus is merciful."
After a moment, however, wanting to comfort him a little, she added:
"Although, if I may say so, if Jurand died before you, the guardianship would pass to the prince and me, and we would give you the girl at once."
"He won't die!" Zbyszko replied.
But suddenly, evidently some new thought flashed through his mind, for he raised himself, sat up on the bed, and said in a changed voice:
"Gracious lady..."
But Danusia interrupted him. She had run in crying and began to call from the threshold:
"So you already know, Zbyszko! Oh, I feel sorry for Daddy, but I feel sorry for you too, poor dear!"
And Zbyszko, when she came near him, began to say:
"How am I to live without you, girl? I didn't come here across rivers and forests, I didn't vow to you and serve you, only to lose you now. Hey! Grief won't help, crying won't help, no, not even death itself, for even if grass grows over me, my soul will not forget you, not even in the Lord Jesus's court, not even in the chambers of God the Father himself... And I say, there is no remedy, but a remedy there must be, for without it there is no way! I feel a crippling pain in my bones and terrible suffering, but you, fall at the lady's feet, for I cannot—and beg for mercy upon us."
Danusia, hearing this, quickly jumped to the duchess's feet and, embracing them with her arms, buried her bright face in the folds of her heavy skirt. The lady turned eyes full of pity, but also surprise, on Zbyszko.
"In what can I show you mercy?" she asked. "If I do not let the child go to her sick parent, I will draw God's wrath upon myself."
Zbyszko, who had raised himself earlier on the bed, slid back onto his pillow and did not answer for a while, for he was out of breath. Slowly, however, he began to move one hand toward the other on his chest, until finally he clasped them as if in prayer.
"Rest," said the duchess, "then tell me what you want. And you, Danushka, get up from my knee."
"Indulge me, but do not get up, and beg along with me," Zbyszko said.
Then he began to speak in a weak and broken voice:
"Gracious lady... Jurand was against me in Krakow... he will be here too, but if Father Wyszoniek gave me the marriage with Danushka, then—let her go to Spychow afterward, for no human power will take her from me..."
These words were so unexpected for Duchess Anna that she sprang up from the bench, then sat down again, and as if not understanding what was going on, said:
"God's wounds!... Father Wyszoniek?..."
"Gracious lady!... gracious lady!" Zbyszko begged.
"Gracious lady!" repeated Danusia after him, again embracing the duchess's knee.
"How can that be without parental permission..."
"God's law is stronger!" Zbyszko replied.