"Travelers."
"Which travelers?" "Pilgrims." "From where?" "From Szczytno."
"It's them!" Jurand whispered again.
Meanwhile, the sleds caught up with one another, and at the same moment six horsemen appeared ahead of them. It was the Spychowska Guard, which kept watch day and night over the causeway leading to the stronghold. Terrible, enormous dogs, looking quite like wolves, ran alongside the horses.
The guards, recognizing Jurand, began to shout in his honor, but their shouts also carried surprise that the lord was returning so early and unexpectedly. He, however, was entirely absorbed with the envoys, so he turned to them again.
"Where are you headed?" he asked. "To Spychow!" "What do you want there?" "That we can tell only the lord himself."
Jurand had the words "I am the lord of Spychow" on his lips, but he held back, understanding that the conversation could not take place in front of people. Instead, after asking if they carried any letters, and receiving the answer that they had been instructed to speak orally, he ordered them to ride as fast as the horses could run. Zbyszko was also impatient for news of Danuśka, so he could not focus on anything else. He grew irritated when, twice more, guards blocked their way on the causeway; he grew irritated when the bridge was lowered over the moat, behind which an enormous palisade bristled on the ramparts. And although before he had often been curious to see what that stronghold of ill repute—at the mere mention of which the Niemcy crossed themselves—looked like, now he saw nothing except the Krzyżacy envoys, from whom he might hear where Danuśka was and when her freedom would be returned. He did not foresee that a bitter disappointment awaited him in a moment.
Besides the horsemen added for protection and the driver, the embassy from Szczytno consisted of two persons: one was the same woman who had once brought healing balm to the Forest Manor, the other a young pilgrim. Zbyszko did not recognize the woman, for he had not seen her at the Forest Manor; the pilgrim at once seemed to him some disguised squire. Jurand immediately led both of them into a corner room—and stood before them, huge and almost terrifying in the glow of the flame that fell on him from the fire burning in the hearth.
"Where is the child?" he asked.
They, however, took fright, having come face to face with the formidable man. The pilgrim, though his face was bold, simply trembled like a leaf, and even the woman's legs shook. Her gaze moved from Jurand's face to Zbyszko, then to the shiny, bald head of Father Kaleb, and again returned to Jurand, as if asking what those two were doing there.
"My lord," she finally replied, "we do not know what you are asking about, but we have been sent to you on important matters. However, the one who sent us commanded us explicitly that the conversation with you should take place without witnesses."
"I have no secrets from them!" said Jurand.
"But we have secrets, noble sir," replied the woman, "and if you order them to stay, we will ask you for nothing else but to allow us to leave."
Anger showed on the face of Jurand, who was unaccustomed to opposition. For a moment his straw-colored mustache began to move menacingly, but he thought of Danuśka and restrained himself. Moreover, Zbyszko, who cared above all that the conversation happen as quickly as possible, and who was certain Jurand would repeat it to him, said:
"Since that's how it must be, stay alone with them."
And he went out with Father Kaleb. But scarcely had he found himself in the main hall, hung with shields and weapons taken by Jurand, when Głowacz approached him.
"My lord," he said, "that is the same woman."
"What woman?"
"The one from the Krzyżacy who brought the Hercynian balsam. I recognized her at once, and Sanderus recognized her too. She clearly came as a spy, and now she surely knows where the young lady is."
"And we will know too," said Zbyszko. "Do you also know that pilgrim?"
"No," answered Sanderus. "But do not buy any indulgences from him, my lord, for he is a false pilgrim. If he were put to torture, a great deal could be learned from him."
"Wait!" said Zbyszko.
Meanwhile, in the corner room, as soon as the door closed behind Zbyszko and Father Kaleb, the nun quickly moved up to Jurand and began to whisper:
"Your daughter was kidnapped by brigands."
"With crosses on their cloaks?"
"No. But God blessed the pious brothers, and they recaptured her, and now she is with them."
"Where is she? I ask."
"Under the care of the pious Brother Schomberg," she replied, folding her arms across her breast and bowing humbly.
And Jurand, hearing the terrible name of the executioner of Witold's children, turned as pale as linen; after a moment he sat down on a bench, closed his eyes, and began to wipe with his hand the cold sweat that beaded his forehead.
Seeing this, the pilgrim, though he had not known how to control his fear before, now propped his hands on his hips, sprawled on the bench, stretched out his legs, and looked at Jurand with eyes full of pride and contempt.
A long silence ensued.
"And Brother Markwart helps Brother Schomberg in watching over her," the woman said again. "It is a careful watch, and no harm will come to the young lady."
"What must I do to have her returned to me?" asked Jurand.
"Humble yourself before the Order," said the pilgrim proudly.
Hearing this, Jurand rose, went up to him, and leaning over him, said in a muffled, terrible voice:
"Silence!..."
And the pilgrim again grew frightened. He knew that he could threaten and could say something that would stop and break Jurand, but he feared that before he could utter a word, something dreadful would happen to him; so he fell silent, his round eyes, as if petrified with fear, fixed on the threatening face of the lord of Spychow, and he sat motionless—only his beard began to shake violently.
Jurand turned to the nun.
"Do you have a letter?"
"No, my lord. We have no letter. What we have to say, we were ordered to say orally."
"Then speak!"
And she repeated once more, as if wanting Jurand to impress it well upon his memory:
"Brother Schomberg and Brother Markwart are watching over the young lady, therefore, my lord, restrain your anger... But no harm will come to her, for although for many years you have grievously wronged the Order, the brothers nevertheless wish to repay you good for evil, if you satisfy their just demands."
"What do they want?"
"They want you to free Mr. de Bergow."
Jurand breathed deeply.
"I will give them de Bergow," he said.
"And the other prisoners you have in Spychow."
"There are two squires of Majneger and de Bergow, besides their servants."
"You are to free them, my lord, and compensate them for their imprisonment."
"May God forbid that I should haggle over my child."
"That is what the pious brothers expected of you," said the woman, "but that is not all we were ordered to say. Your daughter, my lord, was kidnapped by some men, probably brigands, and probably to get a rich ransom from you... God allowed the brothers to recapture her, and now they ask no more than that you return their companion and guest to them. But the brothers know, and you know, my lord, what hatred there is for them in this country, and how unjustly all their deeds, even the most pious, are judged. Therefore, the brothers are certain that if people here learned that your daughter is with them, they would immediately begin to suspect that it was they who kidnapped her, and thus for their virtue they would reap slander and complaints... Oh yes! The wicked and malicious people of this region have often repaid them in such a way, which greatly harmed the fame of the pious Order—which the brothers must care for, and therefore they impose this further condition: that you yourself, to the prince of this land and to all the fierce knighthood, declare—as is the truth—that it was not the Krzyżacy, but brigands who kidnapped your daughter, and that you had to ransom her from the brigands."
"It is the truth," said Jurand, "that brigands kidnapped my child and that I must ransom her from brigands..."
"You are to tell no one otherwise, for if even one man learned that you had made an arrangement with the brothers, if even one living soul, or if even one complaint reached either the Grand Master or the Chapter—then serious difficulties would arise..."
Anxiety showed on Jurand's face. At first it had seemed quite natural to him that the commanders demanded secrecy out of fear of responsibility and dishonor, but now a suspicion arose in him that there might be some other reason; and since he could not account for it, fear seized him, such as seizes the bravest men when danger threatens not themselves but their loved ones.
Nevertheless, he decided to learn something more from the convent servant.
"The commanders want secrecy," he said, "but how is secrecy to be maintained when I release de Bergow and the others for the child?"
"You will say that you took a ransom for Mr. de Bergow in order to have something to pay the brigands."
"People will not believe that, for I never took ransom," replied Jurand gloomily.
"Because your child was never at stake before," replied the servant in a hissing voice.
And again silence fell. Then the pilgrim, who had in the meantime regained his spirit and judged that Jurand must now restrain himself more, said:
"Such is the will of Brothers Schomberg and Markwart."
The servant continued:
"So you will say that this pilgrim who came with me brought you the ransom, and we will leave from here with the noble Mr. de Bergow and the prisoners."
"What!" said Jurand, knitting his brows. "Do you think I will give you the prisoners before you return my child to me?"
"Do otherwise, my lord. You may go yourself for your daughter to Szczytno, where the brothers will bring her to you."
"Me? To Szczytno?"
"Because if the brigands kidnapped her again on the road, your suspicion and that of the local people would again fall on the pious knights, and therefore they prefer to hand her over into your own hands."
"And who will guarantee that I will return, once I stick my head into the wolf's mouth myself?"
"The virtue of the brothers, their justice, and their piety."
Jurand began to pace the room. He was already beginning to foresee treachery and feared it, but at the same time he felt that the Krzyżacy could impose whatever conditions they pleased—and that he was helpless before them.
However, a way out apparently occurred to him, for he stopped suddenly before the pilgrim, began to stare at him keenly, then turned to the servant and said:
"Very well. I will go to Szczytno. You and this man, who wears pilgrim's garb, will stay here until my return, after which you will leave with de Bergow and the prisoners."
"You do not wish, my lord, to trust the monks," said the pilgrim, "so how are they to trust you, that upon your return you will release us and de Bergow?"
Jurand's face grew pale with agitation, and a threatening moment came, when it seemed he would seize the pilgrim by the chest and bring him under his knee—but he smothered his anger, breathed deeply, and began to speak slowly and emphatically:
"Whoever you are, do not strain my patience too much, lest it snap."
And the pilgrim turned to the sister:
"Say what you were ordered."
"My lord, we would not dare to disbelieve your oath on your sword and knightly honor, but it is not fitting for you to swear an oath before people of low estate, and we were not sent for your oath."
"What were you sent for, then?"
"The brothers told us that you are to appear in Szczytno with Mr. de Bergow and the prisoners, without telling anyone."
At this, Jurand's shoulders began to pull back, and his fingers spread like the talons of a bird of prey; finally, standing before the woman, he leaned down as if to speak in her ear, and said:
"Were you not told that I have you and Bergow broken on the wheel in Spychow?"
"Your daughter is in the power of the brothers, and under the care of Schomberg and Markwart," the sister replied with emphasis.
"Brigands, poisoners, executioners!" burst out Jurand.
"Who know how to avenge us, and who said to us as we were leaving: 'If he does not fulfill all our orders, it would be better for that girl to die, just as Witold's children died.' Choose!"
"And understand that you are in the power of the commanders," said the pilgrim. "They do not wish to harm you, and the starosta from Szczytno sends you word through us that you will leave his castle a free man—but they want you, for the wrongs you have done them, to come bow before the Krzyżacki cloak and beg for the mercy of the victors. They want to forgive you, but first they want to bend your proud neck. You proclaimed them traitors and perjurers—so they want you to surrender to their faith. They will return freedom to you and your daughter—but you must beg for it. You trampled on them—you must swear that your hand will never be raised against the white cloak."
"Such is the will of the commanders," added the woman, "and with them Markwart and Schomberg."
A moment of deadly silence fell. It seemed only that somewhere between the beams of the ceiling a muffled echo repeated, as if in horror: "Markwart... Schomberg." From outside the windows came also the calls of Jurand's archers, keeping watch on the ramparts by the stronghold's palisade.
The pilgrim and the convent servant for a long time looked at each other, then at Jurand, who sat leaning against the wall, motionless, his face immersed in the shadow cast by a bundle of hides hanging by the window. Only one thought remained in his head: that if he did not do what the Krzyżacy wanted, they would suffocate his child; and even if he did it, he might still not save either Danuśka or himself. And he saw no counsel, no way out. He felt above him a merciless force that crushed him. In his soul he already saw the iron hands of a Krzyżak on Danuśka's neck—for knowing them, he did not doubt for a moment that they would murder her, bury her in the castle's rampart, and then deny it, swear to it—and then who would be able to prove that they had kidnapped her? Indeed, Jurand had the envoys in his hands; he could take them to the prince, extract confessions from them by torture—but the Krzyżacy had Danuśka—and they could also spare her no torments. And for a moment it seemed to him that the child was stretching out her hands to him from afar, begging for rescue... If he only knew for certain that she was in Szczytno, he could set out that very night toward the border, fall on the unsuspecting Niemcy, take the castle, cut down the garrison, and free the child—but she might not be, and certainly was not, in Szczytno. Another thought flashed through his mind like lightning: that if he seized the woman and the pilgrim and took them straight to the Grand Master, perhaps the Master would extract confessions from them and order him to return his daughter; but that lightning, as it kindled, so it died out at once... After all, these people could tell the Master that they had come to ransom de Bergow and knew nothing of any girl. No! That path led nowhere—which one led? For he thought that if he went to Szczytno, they would chain him and throw him into a dungeon, and they would not release Danuśka either, if only so that the kidnapping would not come to light. And in the meantime, death looms over the last dear head!... And finally his thoughts began to tangle, and his grief became so great that it turned and passed into numbness. He sat motionless because his body had become dead, as if hewn from stone. If he had wanted to rise at that moment, he would not have been able to do so.
Meanwhile, the others grew tired of the long wait, so the convent servant rose and said:
"It will be dawn soon, so allow us to leave, my lord, for we need rest."
"And some refreshment after the long journey," added the pilgrim.
Then both bowed to Jurand—and left.
He sat on, motionless, as if seized by sleep or dead.
But after a moment the door opened a crack and Zbyszko appeared in it, followed by Father Kaleb.
"Well, the envoys? What do they want?" asked the young knight, approaching Jurand.
Jurand shuddered, but at first said nothing; he only blinked hard, like a man awakened from a deep sleep.
"My lord, are you ill?" said Father Kaleb, who, knowing Jurand better, noticed that something strange was happening to him.
"No," replied Jurand.
"And Danuśka?" pressed Zbyszko. "Where is she, and what did they tell you? What did they come for?"
"For a ran-som," replied Jurand slowly.
"A ransom for Bergow?"
"For Bergow..."
"What do you mean, for Bergow? What is the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
But there was something so unusual and feeble in his voice that both of them were seized with sudden dread, especially since Jurand was speaking of a ransom, not of exchanging Bergow for Danuśka.
"For the love of God!" cried Zbyszko. "Where is Danuśka?"
"She is not with the Krzy-ża-cy—no!" answered Jurand in a sleepy voice.
And suddenly he fell like a dead man from the bench to the floor.