“Rejoice now, for she is yours, and you are hers.”
Then Zbyszko reached his good arm toward Danusia, and she threw her little arms around his neck. For a moment they were heard repeating softly:
“You are mine, Danuśka.”
“And you are mine, Zbyszko.”
But immediately afterward Zbyszko grew weak—there had been too much emotion for his strength. He sank back onto the pillows and began to breathe heavily. Yet he did not faint, nor did he stop smiling at Danusia, who wiped his face, beaded with cold sweat. He even kept repeating, “You are mine, Danuśka!” and each time she bent her flaxen head low. The sight deeply moved Sir de Lorche, who declared that nowhere had he ever seen such tender hearts. He therefore solemnly swore that he was ready to fight on foot or horseback any knight, sorcerer, or dragon who dared stand in the way of their happiness. And he did swear it immediately, on the cross-shaped hilt of his misericorde—the small sword used by knights to finish off the wounded. The Duchess and Father Wyszoniek were called to witness this oath.
But the Duchess, believing no wedding was complete without some celebration, brought wine. So they drank. The hours of the night passed one after another. Zbyszko, overcoming his weakness, drew Danusia close again and said:
“Since the Lord Jesus gave you to me, no one can take you away. But it grieves me that you are leaving, my sweetest berry.”
“We’ll come to Ciechanowa with my father,” Danusia answered.
“May no sickness befall you, or anything else... May God protect you from ill fortune... You must go to Spychowa—I know! Ah! I thank the highest God and our gracious lady that you are already mine—for what the sacrament binds, no human power can undo.”
But the wedding had taken place at night and in secret, and separation was to follow immediately. So at times a strange sadness came over not only Zbyszko but everyone. The conversation faltered. Now and then the fire in the grate died down, and faces sank into shadow. Father Wyszoniek threw fresh logs onto the coals. And when a piece of green wood gave a plaintive hiss, as often happens with newly cut timber, he would say:
“Penitent soul, what do you desire?”
The crickets answered him, and then the growing flame drew wakeful faces from the darkness, gleaming on Sir de Lorche’s armor and lighting Danusia’s white dress and the immortelles in her hair.
Outside, the dogs began barking again toward the forest, the way they bark at wolves.
And as the night hours flowed on, silence fell more and more often. At last the Duchess said:
“Dear Jesus! If this is how it is after a wedding, we might as well go to sleep. But since we are to keep vigil until morning, play for me and Zbyszko one last time before you leave, little flower, on your lute.”
Danusia felt tired and sleepy, but she was glad of anything to refresh herself. She jumped up for the lute, returned with it after a moment, and sat by Zbyszko’s bed.
“What shall I play?” she asked.
“What?” said the Duchess. “What but that song you sang in Tyniec, when Zbyszko first saw you!”
“Ah! I remember—I will never forget it till I die,” said Zbyszko. “Whenever I heard it somewhere, tears would flow from my eyes.”
“Then I’ll sing it!” said Danusia.
And at once she began to strum the lute, then, lifting her little head as she always did, she sang:
“If I had wings,
Like a little goose,
I would fly away
With my Jasiek to Silesia.
I would perch
On Silesia’s fence:
Look, Johnny dear,
At a poor orphan!...”
But suddenly her voice broke. Her lips began to tremble, and tears escaped from under her closed lashes onto her cheeks. For a moment she tried to hold them back, but could not, and finally she wept bitterly—just as she had when she last sang that song to Zbyszko in the Kraków prison.
“Danuśka! What’s wrong, Danuśka?” asked Zbyszko.
“Why are you crying? What kind of wedding is this!” cried the Duchess. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know,” sobbed Danuśka. “I’m so sad... such grief... for Zbyszko and for you, my lady...”
Then everyone grew anxious, and they began to comfort her, explaining that her departure would not be long, and that she and Jurand would certainly come to Ciechanowa for the holidays. Zbyszko put his arm around her again, pressed her to his chest, and kissed the tears from her eyes. Yet a heaviness remained in all hearts—and in that heaviness the night hours slipped away.
At last, in the courtyard, a sudden, piercing sound rang out, making everyone start. The Duchess jumped up from the bench and exclaimed:
“Oh, for God’s sake! The well crane! They’re watering the horses.”
Father Wyszoniek looked out the window, where the glass panes were turning a pale gray, and said:
“The night is turning white, and day is coming. Ave Maria, gratias plena...”
Then he left the room. After a while he returned and said:
“It’s dawning, though it will be a dark day. Jurand’s men are watering the horses. It’s time for the road, poor child!”
At these words both the Duchess and Danusia burst into loud weeping, and together with Zbyszko they began to lament, as simple folk do when parting. There was something ritual in their keening—a half-wail, half-song that poured from their full souls as naturally as tears from eyes.
“Ah! Weeping will help no more,
We bid you farewell, dear love,
Weeping will help no more,
We bid you farewell, poor soul,
We bid you farewell—ah!...”
But Zbyszko pressed Danusia to his chest one last time and held her long, until his breath gave out and the Duchess pulled her away to dress her for the journey.
Meanwhile, it grew fully light. Everyone in the manor awoke and began to bustle about. Squire Czech, the page, entered Zbyszko’s chamber to inquire about his health and ask for orders.
“Pull my bed over to the window,” the knight told him.
Czech easily moved the bed to the window, but he was surprised when Zbyszko ordered him to open it. He obeyed, however, only covering his master with his own sheepskin coat, for outside it was cold and cloudy, and soft, heavy snow was falling.
Zbyszko began to look out. In the courtyard, through the snowflakes falling from the clouds, he could see a sleigh. Around it sat Jurand’s men on rough-coated, steaming horses. All were armed; some wore steel plates over their sheepskins, in which the pale, gloomy daylight reflected. The forest was completely covered with snow; the fences and gate were almost invisible.
Danusia rushed back into Zbyszko’s room, already bundled in a little sheepskin and a fox-fur cloak. Once more she threw her arms around his neck, and once more she said to him in farewell:
“Though I am leaving, I am yours.”
And he kissed her hands, her cheeks, and her eyes—barely visible beneath the fox fur—and said:
“May God protect you! May God lead you! You are mine now, mine until death.”
And when she was torn from him again, he raised himself as high as he could, leaned his head against the window, and watched. Through the falling snowflakes, as through a veil, he saw Danusia sit down in the sleigh, saw the Duchess hold her for a long time in her arms, saw the ladies-in-waiting kiss her, and Father Wyszoniek bless her journey with the sign of the cross. She turned toward him just before leaving and stretched out her hands.
“Stay with God, Zbyszko!”
“God grant I see you in Ciechanowa...”
But the snow fell so thickly, as if it wanted to muffle everything and blot everything from sight, that these last words reached them so muted that both felt as if they had called to each other from far away.
End of Part Three.
The text is in the public domain. License details on the author's page: Henryk Sienkiewicz.