The brutal fight dragged on far longer than usual. Deathly silence settled over the galleries. Only the ringing or muffled thuds of blades and axe-heads against shields broke through now and then. Neither the prince, the knights, nor the ladies of the court were strangers to such spectacles, yet a feeling akin to dread gripped every heart as if in a vise. Everyone understood this was no mere contest of strength, skill, or courage—there was greater fury here, greater despair, a more merciless stubbornness, a deeper thirst for vengeance. On one side: terrible wrongs, love, and bottomless grief; on the other: the honor of the entire Order and profound hatred. These two forces faced each other on that field of battle, invoking God's Judgment.
Meanwhile, the pale winter dawn brightened further. The gray curtain of mist thinned, and a ray of sunlight lit the blue armor of the Krzyżak and the silvery Milanese armor of Zbyszko. In the chapel, the bell rang for Terce. At the sound, flocks of jackdaws again rose from the castle roofs, flapping their wings and cawing noisily, as if rejoicing at the sight of blood and the corpse that already lay motionless on the snow. During the fight, Rotgier had glanced at it once or twice, and suddenly he felt utterly alone. All the eyes watching him belonged to enemies. All the prayers, wishes, and silent vows the women made were on Zbyszko's side. Besides, though the Krzyżak was certain the squire would not attack him from behind or strike treacherously, the presence and proximity of that menacing figure filled him with the same involuntary unease a man feels at the sight of a wolf, bear, or buffalo when no bars separate them. And he could not help that feeling all the more because the Czech—wanting to follow the fight—kept moving and changing position, circling the combatants from the side, from behind, from the front, meanwhile tilting his head and peering at him menacingly through the slits of his iron helmet visor, and sometimes raising his bloodstained blade a little, as if involuntarily.
Fatigue began to overtake the Krzyżak at last. He delivered two short but terrible blows in quick succession, aiming at Zbyszko's right shoulder—but Zbyszko knocked them aside with his shield so forcefully that the axe-shaft shook in Rotgier's hand, and he had to retreat abruptly to avoid falling. From that moment on, he kept retreating. Not only his strength but also his coolness and patience were draining away. At the sight of his retreat, several cries of near-triumph burst from the spectators' chests, which stirred rage and despair in him. The axe blows came faster and faster. Sweat drenched both fighters' brows, and a rasping breath forced its way from their chests through clenched teeth. The onlookers no longer stayed calm. Every moment now, shouts rang out, sometimes male, sometimes female: "Strike! Hit him!... God's Judgment! God's punishment! May God help you!" The prince motioned several times with his hand to quiet them, but he could not restrain them. It grew louder and louder, for here and there children began to cry on the galleries, and finally, right beside the princess, a young female voice, sobbing, called out:
"For Danushka, Zbyszko! For Danushka!"
Zbyszko knew, after all, that Danushka was at stake. He was certain that this Krzyżak had had a hand in her abduction, and by fighting him, he fought for her wrongs. But being young and hungry for battle, in the heat of the fight he had thought only of the fight itself. Suddenly that cry made him realize her loss and her suffering. Love, grief, and vengeance poured fire into his veins. His heart howled with pain suddenly awakened, and sheer battle madness seized him. The Krzyżak could no longer parry or keep up with Zbyszko's terrible blows, like thunderclaps. Zbyszko struck his shield against Rotgier's shield with such superhuman force that the German's arm went numb and dropped limp. Rotgier recoiled in fear and terror, leaning backward, and then the flash of the axe flickered before his eyes. The blade fell like lightning on his right shoulder.
Only a piercing scream reached the spectators' ears: "Jesus!..." Then Rotgier took one more step back and crashed onto his back.
In an instant the galleries roared and swarmed like a beehive when the sun-warmed bees begin to stir and hum. Knights poured down the stairs in throngs; servants leaped over the snow bank to look at the corpses. Cries resounded everywhere: "There, God's Judgment!... Jurand has an heir!... Glory and thanks to him! What a man with an axe!" Others shouted: "Look and wonder! Even Jurand himself could not have struck more worthily." A whole crowd of the curious gathered around Rotgier's corpse. He lay on his back, his face pale as snow, his mouth wide open, his bloody arm hewn so terribly from the neck to the armpit that it hung by only a few fibers. So some said again: "See, he was alive and walked the earth in pride, and now he can't even move a finger!" And saying this, some admired his size—for he occupied a great stretch of the battlefield and seemed even larger in death—others admired the peacock plume that shimmered splendidly on the snow, and still others the armor, valued at the price of a good village. But the Czech, Hlawa, approached with two of Zbyszko's grooms to remove it from the dead man, so the curious surrounded Zbyszko, praising him to the skies, for they rightly felt his glory would reflect on all the knights of Masovia and Poland. In the meantime, they took away his shield and axe to relieve him, and Mrokota of Mocarzewo unfastened his helmet and covered his sweaty hair with a cap of scarlet cloth. Zbyszko stood as if dazed, breathing heavily, the fire still not out in his eyes, his face pale from effort and grim determination, trembling a little from emotion and exhaustion. But they took him by the arms and led him to the prince and princess, who were waiting for him in a heated chamber by the hearth. There Zbyszko knelt before them, and after Father Wyszoniek had blessed him and recited the eternal rest for the departed souls, the prince embraced the young knight and said:
"The Most High God has judged between you and guided your hand. Blessed be His name—amen."
Then, turning to Sir de Lorche and the others, he added:
"I take you, foreign knight, and all present as witnesses of what I myself witness: that they fought according to law and custom, and as God's Judgments are conducted everywhere, so this one was conducted in a knightly and godly manner."
The local warriors echoed him in a unanimous chorus. When the prince's words were translated for Sir de Lorche, he rose and announced that not only did he bear witness that everything had proceeded in a knightly and godly manner, but if anyone in Malbork or at any other princely court dared to doubt it, he, de Lorche, would immediately challenge him to a duel on foot or horseback—even if it were not merely an ordinary knight but a giant or sorcerer surpassing Merlin himself in magical power.
Meanwhile, when Zbyszko in turn embraced Princess Anna Danuta's feet, she said, leaning toward him:
"Why aren't you rejoicing? Rejoice and thank God, for if God in His mercy has freed you from this trial, He will not abandon you further and will lead you to happiness."
And Zbyszko replied:
"How am I to rejoice, Your Grace? God gave me victory and vengeance over that Krzyżak, but Danushka is as absent as before, and I am no closer to her now than I was."
"The most bitter enemies—Danveld, Godfrey, and Rotgier—are dead," answered the princess. "And they say Siegfried is more just than them, though cruel. Thank God's mercy even for that. Sir de Lorche also told me that if the Krzyżak fell, he would take his body and then ride to Malbork and demand Danushka from the Grand Master himself. Surely they will not dare to disobey the Grand Master."
"May God give health to Sir de Lorche," said Zbyszko. "I will ride with him to Malbork."
The princess was frightened by these words as if Zbyszko had said that unarmed he would walk among wolves that gathered in packs in the deep Masovian forests in winter.
"For what?" she cried. "To certain destruction? Right after the encounter, neither de Lorche nor the letters Rotgier wrote before the fight will help you. You will save no one and doom yourself."
But he stood up, folded his hands as if in prayer, and said:
"So help me God, I will ride to Malbork, and even beyond the seas. So bless me, Christ, as I will seek her to my last breath, and as I will not rest until I perish. It is easier for me to strike Germans and fight in armor than for that orphan to groan in a dungeon. Oh, easier! Easier!"
He spoke as he always did when he mentioned Danushka, with such emotion, such pain, that sometimes his words broke off as if someone were gripping his throat. The princess realized it would be vain to dissuade him, and that anyone who tried to stop him would have to bind him in chains and throw him into a dungeon.
But Zbyszko could not leave immediately. A knight of that time might disregard any obstacle, but he could not break knightly custom, which required the victor in a duel to remain at the site of the battle for a full day until the following midnight—partly to show that he was master of the field, and partly to show readiness for a new fight if any relative or friend of the vanquished should challenge him anew. Even entire armies observed this custom, sometimes losing the advantages that haste after victory could bring. Zbyszko did not even try to break this inexorable law. After taking some refreshment and then donning his armor, he stayed in the castle courtyard until midnight under the glowering winter sky, waiting for an enemy who could not come from anywhere.
Only at midnight, when the heralds finally proclaimed his victory with trumpet blasts, did Nicholas of Długolas summon him to supper and also to a council with the prince.