“True! True! I have been hard on you, but... not treacherous.”
Suddenly, from the other end of the hall, a voice shouted: “I bring the girl!” — and at once silence fell over the entire hall. The soldiers parted to both sides. Although none of them had yet seen Jurandówna, and most, because of the secrecy with which Danveld had surrounded his actions, knew nothing of her presence in the castle, those who did know had already whispered to others about her extraordinary beauty. All eyes turned with extraordinary curiosity toward the door through which she was to appear.
First a squire appeared, followed by a monastic servant everyone knew — the same one who had ridden to the Forest Manor — and behind her entered a girl dressed in white, with loose hair bound by a ribbon on her forehead.
And suddenly, like a clap of thunder, a huge burst of laughter rang through the hall. Jurand, who had initially rushed toward his daughter, suddenly recoiled and stood pale as linen, staring in astonishment at the pointed head, the blue lips, and the vacant eyes of the simpleton being handed over to him as Danushka.
“That is not my daughter!” he said in a fearful voice.
“Not your daughter!” cried Danveld. “By Saint Liborius of Paderborn! Either we did not rescue her from your bandits, or some sorcerer has changed her, for there is no other in Szczytno.”
Old Zygfryd, Rotgier, and Godfrey exchanged quick glances full of the greatest admiration for Danveld’s cunning, but none had time to speak, for Jurand began to shout in a terrible voice:
“She is here! She is in Szczytno! I heard her singing, I heard Danushka’s voice!”
At that, Danveld turned to those assembled and said calmly and distinctly:
“I take you present here as witnesses, and especially you, Zygfryd of Innsbruck, and you, pious brothers, Rotgier and Godfrey, that according to my word and the promise made, I return this girl, whom the bandits we defeated claimed to be the daughter of Jurand of Spychów. If she is not, it is not our fault, but rather the will of Our Lord, who wished in this way to deliver Jurand into our hands.”
Zygfryd and the two younger brothers bowed their heads to signify that they heard and would testify if needed. Then they exchanged quick glances again — for this was more than they could have hoped: to capture Jurand, not return his daughter, and yet seemingly keep the promise — who else could have managed that!
But Jurand fell to his knees and began to beseech Danveld by all the relics in Malbork, and then by the ashes and heads of his parents, to return his true child and not to act as a deceiver and traitor who breaks oaths and promises. There was so much despair and truth in his voice that some began to suspect treachery, while others thought that perhaps a sorcerer had indeed changed the girl’s form.
“God sees your betrayal!” cried Jurand. “By the wounds of the Savior! By the hour of your death, return my child to me!”
Rising from his knees, he walked bent double toward Danveld, as if to embrace his knees, and his eyes gleamed with near madness, while his voice broke alternately with pain, fear, despair, and threat. Danveld, hearing the accusations of deceit before everyone, began to snort through his nostrils; finally anger burst onto his face like a flame. Wanting to trample the wretch completely, he also moved toward him, and leaning close to his ear, whispered through clenched teeth:
“If I return her — it will be with my bastard...”
But at that same moment, Jurand roared like a bull: both his hands seized Danveld and lifted him into the air. A piercing cry of “Spare him!!” rang through the hall — then the commander’s body struck the stone floor with such terrible force that the brain from his shattered skull splattered the nearby Zygfryd and Rotgier.
Jurand leaped toward the side wall where the armor stood, and snatching up a great two-handed sword, stormed like a hurricane into the Germans petrified with terror.
Men accustomed to battles, slaughter, and blood, yet their hearts failed them so completely that even when the numbness passed, they began to retreat and flee, like a flock of sheep fleeing before a wolf that kills with a single bite. The hall resounded with cries of terror, the stamping of feet, the clatter of overturned vessels, the howling of servants, the roar of a bear that, having broken free from the jester’s hands, began to climb onto a high window, and desperate calls for armor, shields, swords, and crossbows.
At last weapons flashed, and several dozen blades pointed at Jurand, but heedless of them, half-mad, he himself leaped toward them, and a wild, unheard-of battle began, more like a slaughter than an armed contest. The young and fiery brother Godfrey was the first to block Jurand’s path, but he sliced off his head along with his arm and shoulder blade with a lightning stroke of his sword. After him fell by his hand the captain of the archers and the castle steward, von Bracht and the Englishman Hugh, who, though he did not fully understand what was happening, had pitied Jurand and his torment, and had only drawn his weapon after Danveld’s death.
The others, seeing the man’s terrible strength and fury, clustered together to offer united resistance, but this method only brought worse disaster, for he, with hair bristling on his head, with maddened eyes, entirely covered in blood and breathing blood, raging, frenzied, broke, tore, and cut through that dense throng with terrible sword strokes, felling men to the floor awash with gore, as a storm fells bushes and trees.
And there came again a moment of terrible fear, in which it seemed that this terrible Mazovian alone would cut down and murder all these men, and that just as a yapping kennel of hounds cannot without the help of hunters overcome a fierce wild boar, so these armed Germans could not match his power and fury, and that fighting him meant only death and ruin for them.
“Disperse! Surround him!” cried old Zygfryd de Loewe.
So they scattered throughout the hall, like a flock of starlings in a field when a hook-beaked hawk swoops down from above, but they could not surround him, for in his battle frenzy, instead of seeking a place to defend, he began to chase them around the walls, and whoever he caught died as if struck by lightning. Humiliation, despair, and disappointed hope, transformed into a single bloodlust, seemed to multiply his already cruel natural strength tenfold. He wielded a sword that even the strongest among the Teutonic Knights needed both hands to handle, as if it were a feather with one hand. He sought not life, not safety, not even victory — he sought revenge, and like fire, or like a river that, having burst its dams, blindly destroys everything that resists its current, so he, a terrible, blinded destroyer, seized, broke, trampled, and extinguished human lives.
They could not strike him from behind, for at first they could not catch him, and besides, the common mercenaries were afraid to approach even from behind, knowing that if he turned, no human power would save them from death. Others were seized with utter terror at the thought that an ordinary man could not have caused so much destruction, and that they were dealing with a man aided by some superhuman forces.
But old Zygfryd, and with him brother Rotgier, rushed onto the gallery that ran above the great windows of the hall, and began to call to the others, who took shelter behind them. They did so eagerly, such that on the narrow stairs they pushed each other, eager to get upstairs as quickly as possible and from there strike the mighty man.
Finally, the last man slammed shut the door leading to the choir, and Jurand remained alone below. From the gallery came cries of joy and triumph, and soon heavy oak stools, benches, and iron torch brackets began to fly at the knight. One of the missiles struck him on the forehead above the eyebrows and flooded his face with blood. At the same time, the great entrance doors swung open, and the men-at-arms, summoned through the upper windows, poured into the hall in a crowd, armed with spears, halberds, axes, crossbows, stakes, poles, ropes, and any weapon each could hastily grab.
And the mad Jurand wiped the blood from his face with his left hand so it would not blur his vision, gathered himself, and hurled himself at the whole throng. Again the hall echoed with groans, the clang of iron, the grinding of teeth, and the piercing cries of dying men.