The day after the misty, soft night, a windy day came, bright at moments, gloomy at others from the clouds that galloped in herds across the sky, driven by the gale. Macko ordered the camp to move at dawn. The charcoal burner who had agreed to guide them to Budy claimed the horses could get through anywhere, but the wagons would have to be taken apart in places and carried piece by piece, along with the baskets of clothing and food supplies. This could not be done without effort and delay, but men hardened and accustomed to hardship preferred the greatest labor to idle rest in an empty inn, so they set off willingly. Even fearful Wit, emboldened by the charcoal burner's words and presence, showed no fright.
Just past the inn, they entered a high-canopied forest with no undergrowth, where with skillful handling of the horses they could weave between the pines without even dismantling the wagons. The wind would die down at times, then flare up with incredible force, striking the branches of the towering pines like giant wings, bending them, twisting them, whirling them like windmill vanes, breaking them. The forest groaned under that unleashed breath, and even in the lulls between one gust and the next, it never stopped roaring and thundering, as if in anger at the assault and violence. Now and then the clouds completely blocked the daylight; rain mixed with sleet lashed down and it grew as dark as if evening twilight were falling. Then Wit would lose heart again and cry out that the evil one had dug in and was hindering them, but no one listened to him, not even timid Anula, especially since the Czech was so close that her stirrup could touch his, and he stared ahead so defiantly as if he wanted to challenge the devil himself to a duel.
Beyond the high-canopied forest began an area with undergrowth, then a thicket through which they could not ride. There they had to dismantle the wagons, but they did it quickly, in the blink of an eye. The sturdy servants carried the wheels, shafts, and front ends on their shoulders, along with the bundles and provisions. This bad stretch was about three furlongs, yet they reached Budy only by evening, where the charcoal burners welcomed them warmly and assured them that by way of Devil's Hollow—or rather along its rim—they could get to the city. These people, accustomed to the wilderness, seldom saw bread or flour, but they did not starve, for they had plenty of smoked meats, especially smoked eels, which teemed in all the marshes. They offered them generously, reaching out greedy hands for flatbreads in return. There were women and children among them, all black from pitch smoke, and also an old man, over a hundred years old, who remembered the massacre of Łęczyca in 1331 and the complete destruction of the city by the Krzyżacy. Macko, the Czech, and the two girls, though they had heard almost the same story from the prior in Sieradz, listened eagerly to this old man, who sat by the fire and, poking in it, seemed to be digging up the terrible memories of his youth at the same time. Yes! In Łęczyca, as in Sieradz, even churches and priests were not spared, and the blood of old men, women, and children flowed over the conquerors' knives. The Krzyżacy, always the Krzyżacy! Macko's and Jagienka's thoughts kept flying to Zbyszko, who was now living as if in a wolf's den, among a hostile tribe that knew neither mercy nor the laws of hospitality. Sieciechówna's heart also quailed, for she was not sure whether in the chase after the Abbot they might not have to ride all the way among those cruel people.
But the old man began then to tell of the battle of Płowce, which ended the Krzyżacy invasion, and in which he had fought with an iron flail as a peasant militiaman. In that battle, almost the entire House of Grady had perished, so Macko knew all its details well, yet he still listened to the story of the terrible slaughter of the Germans, when they lay like a field before the wind under the swords of the Polish knights and the might of King Łokietek.
"Ha! I remember it well," said the old man. "They invaded this land, burned the strongholds and castles. Why, they even butchered babies in their cradles, but they came to a black end. Aye, it was a worthy battle. Well! When I close my eyes, I see that field."
And he closed his eyes and fell silent, only stirring the coals in the fire a little, until Jagienka, unable to wait for more of the story, asked:
"How was it, then?"
"How was it?" the old man repeated. "I remember the field as if I were looking now: there were thickets and to the right a boggy spot and a strip of stubble, like a small field. But after the battle, neither thickets, nor bog, nor stubble could be seen—only iron everywhere, swords, axes, spears, and fine armor, one on top of another, as if someone had covered the whole holy land with them... I've never seen so many beaten folk in one heap, nor so much human blood flowing..."
Macko's heart was strengthened again by that memory, so he said:
"True! Merciful Lord Jesus! They engulfed that kingdom then like a conflagration or a plague. They ruined not only Sieradz and Łęczyca, but many other cities. And what happened? Our nation is terribly tenacious, and its strength is indestructible. Though you might grab it by the throat, you Krzyżak cur, you can't choke it—it'll still knock your teeth out. For just look: King Casimir rebuilt both Sieradz and Łęczyca so nobly that they are better than before, and assemblies are still held in them as of old, while the Krzyżacy—after they were thrashed at Płowce—there they lie and rot. May God always grant such an end!"
The old man, hearing these words, began nodding his head in agreement at first, but finally said:
"They don't lie and rot, maybe. The king ordered us infantry to dig ditches after the battle, and peasants came from the area to help with the work, so the spades fairly hummed. We laid the Krzyżacy in the ditches and covered them properly so that no diseases would breed from them, but they didn't stay there."
"How could they not stay? What happened to them?"
"I didn't see that myself, but I'll tell you what folks later said. After the battle, a terrible blizzard set in that lasted twelve weeks, but only at night. By day the sun shone as it should, but at night the wind nearly tore the hair from your head. So the devils swarmed in whole clouds in the gale, each with a pitchfork, and whenever one flew over, he'd jab his pitchfork into the ground, pull out a Krzyżak, and carry him off to hell. Folk in Płowce heard a racket as if packs of dogs were howling, but they couldn't make out whether the Krzyżacy were howling in fear and sorrow, or the devils in glee. This went on until the priests blessed the ditches and until the ground froze at the new year so hard that even pitchforks couldn't penetrate."
Here he fell silent, and after a moment added:
"But may God grant such an end, Sir Knight, as you said, for though I won't live to see it, those little lads like these two will live and won't see what these eyes of mine have seen."
Having said this, he began to look at Jagienka and then at Sieciechówna, marveling at their lovely faces and shaking his head.
"Like poppies among the grain," he said. "I've never seen such."
They talked away part of the night in this manner, then lay down to sleep in the huts on mosses soft as down, covered with warm furs, and when sound sleep had refreshed their limbs, they set off the next day well after dawn. The road along the hollow was not exactly easy, but it was not difficult either, so that they saw the castle of Łęczyca before sunset. The city had been rebuilt from the ashes with red brick and even stone. It had high walls fortified with towers, and churches even more splendid than those in Sieradz. At the Dominican monastery they easily got news of the Abbot. He had said he was better, rejoiced in the hope of a full recovery, and had set off a few days before. Macko was no longer overly concerned with catching up to him on the road, as he had already decided to take both girls all the way to Plock—where the Abbot would have taken them anyway—but because he was in a hurry to get to Zbyszko, he was greatly troubled by another piece of news: that after the Abbot's departure, the rivers had risen so high that it was completely impossible to travel further. The Dominicans, seeing a knight with a sizable retinue who said he was traveling to Prince Ziemowit, welcomed them and entertained them hospitably, and even provided Macko for the road with a small wooden tablet anointed with oil, on which was written in Latin a prayer to the angel Raphael, patron of travelers.
A forced stay in Łęczyca lasted two weeks, during which one of the castle steward's squires discovered that the passing knight's servants were girls, and immediately fell hopelessly in love with Jagienka. The Czech wanted to challenge him to a duel on the spot, but since it happened on the eve of their departure, Macko advised against it.
When they set off again toward Plock, the wind had somewhat dried the roads, for although rains came frequently, as usual in spring they were short. They were also warm and heavy, for spring had fully arrived. In the fields, bright strips of water gleamed in the furrows, and a strong smell of wet earth wafted from the rows. The marshes were covered with marsh marigolds, wood anemones bloomed in the forests, and warblers raised joyful chirping among the branches. New spirit and hope entered the travelers' hearts, especially since they were making good time and reached the gates of Plock after sixteen days of travel.
But they arrived at night, when the city gates were already closed, so they had to spend the night with a weaver outside the walls. The girls went to bed late and, after the hardships and discomforts of the long journey, slept like stones. Macko, whom no exertion could fell, did not want to wake them, but he went to the city himself as soon as the gates opened, easily found the cathedral and the bishop's house, and the first news he heard was that the Abbot had died a week before.
He had died a week before, but according to the custom of the time, Mass had been said at his coffin and funeral feasts held for six days; the burial was only to take place that day, followed by memorials and the final feast in honor of the deceased.
Macko, greatly distressed, did not even look around the city, which he knew somewhat from the time he had traveled with Princess Alexandra's letter to the Grand Master—he hurried back to the weaver's house beyond the walls, muttering to himself on the way:
"Well, he's passed on, may he rest in peace! There's no help for it in this world, but what am I to do with these girls now?"
And he began to consider whether it would be better to leave them with Princess Alexandra, or with Duchess Anna Danuta, or perhaps take them to Spychow. For during the journey it had often occurred to him that if it turned out that Danusia was dead, it would do no harm for Jagienka to be near Zbyszko. He did not doubt that Zbyszko would mourn that one, beloved above all others, for a long time and weep for her long, but he also did not doubt that a girl like that, right under his nose, would do her work. He remembered how the boy, though his heart yearned far away over forests and fields to Mazovia, still felt a pull toward Jagienka. For these reasons, and also deeply believing that Danusia was lost, he often thought that if the Abbot died, he should not send Jagienka anywhere. But because he was somewhat greedy for worldly goods, he also cared about the Abbot's estate. The Abbot had been angry with them and had announced he would leave them nothing, but perhaps remorse had seized him before death? That he had bequeathed something to Jagienka was certain, for he had often spoken of it in Zgorzelice, so through Jagienka it might not pass Zbyszko by after all. At times, Macko also felt like staying in Plock to find out how things stood, to take care of the matter, but he soon overcame such thoughts. "I'll be here," he thought, "chasing after property, while my boy may be stretching out his hands to me from some Krzyżak dungeon, waiting for my rescue." There was one solution: leave Jagienka under the protection of the Duchess and the Bishop, asking them not to let her be cheated if the Abbot had left her anything. But that solution did not entirely appeal to Macko. "The girl already has a fine dowry," he told himself, "and if she inherits from the Abbot, she'll get more. Some Mazur will take her, as God is in heaven, and she won't hold out long either—for the late Zych said that even then she was walking on hot coals." The old knight was frightened by that thought, for it occurred to him that in that case both Danusia and Jagienka might slip away from Zbyszko, and that he would not have for anything in the world.
"Whichever one God has destined for him, let him have her, but he must have one."
He finally decided to rescue Zbyszko first and foremost, and as for Jagienka, if he had to part with her, either in Spychow or with Duchess Danuta, not here in Plock, where the court was much more splendid and there were many handsome knights.
Burdened by these thoughts, he walked briskly toward the weaver's house to inform Jagienka of the Abbot's death, but he promised himself not to tell her all at once, since sudden bad news might take the girl's breath away. When he arrived, he found both already dressed, even adorned, and as cheerful as warblers. He sat down on a stool and called for the weaver's apprentices to bring him a bowl of mulled beer, then, furrowing his already stern face, he said: