VIII

VIII.

The servants untied him at once, but his limbs were numb and he collapsed to the ground. When they lifted him, he fainted again and again—he had been badly battered. In vain, Zbyszko ordered him brought before the fire, given food and drink, rubbed with fat, and then wrapped warmly in furs. Sanderus could not come to his senses. Then he fell into such a deep sleep that the Czech was barely able to wake him by noon the next day.

Zbyszko, burning with impatience like fire, came to him immediately. At first, however, he could learn nothing. Whether from terror after those horrible events, or from the relief that usually overtakes weak souls once the danger passes, Sanderus was seized by such uncontrollable weeping that he could not answer any questions. Sobs choked his throat, his lips trembled, and tears streamed from his eyes as if his very life were flowing out with them.

Finally, having recovered a little and fortified himself with mare's milk—a drink the Lithuanians had learned from the Tatars—he began to lament that "the sons of Belial" had beaten him to a pulp with their spears, stolen his horse on which he carried relics of exceptional power and value, and finally, when they tied him to a tree, ants had bitten his legs and whole body so badly that he was sure to die, if not today then tomorrow.

But Zbyszko's anger finally flared. He grabbed him and said:

"Answer, you vagabond, what I ask you, and watch out that something worse doesn't happen to you!"

"There's an anthill of red ants not far from here," said the Czech. "Have him laid on it, lord, and he'll soon find his tongue in his mouth."

Hlawa did not mean it seriously—he even smiled, for in his heart he felt kindly toward Sanderus. But the man was terrified and began to shout:

"Mercy! Mercy! Give me more of that pagan drink, and I'll tell everything I've seen and even what I haven't!"

"If you lie even a word, I'll drive a wedge between your teeth!" replied the Czech.

But he brought the wineskin with mare's milk to his lips again. Sanderus grabbed it, pressed his mouth to it greedily like a child to his mother's breast, and began to drink, opening and closing his eyes in turn. When he had downed about two quarts or more, he shook himself, placed the wineskin on his knees, and said as if surrendering to necessity:

"Disgusting stuff!"

Then, turning to Zbyszko:

"But now ask, my savior!"

"Was my wife in that detachment you traveled with?"

A certain surprise showed on Sanderus's face. He had heard that Danusia was Zbyszko's wife, but the wedding was secret and she had been abducted right after, so in his heart he always thought of her only as Jurand's daughter.

Nevertheless, he answered quickly:

"Yes, Voivode, she was! But Zygfryd de Löwe and Arnold von Baden broke through the enemies."

"Did you see her?" asked the young man, his heart beating.

"I didn't see her face, lord, but I saw a wicker cradle between two horses, completely closed, in which someone was being carried. And it was guarded by that same lizard—that same servant nun who had come from Danveld to the Forest Manor. And I also heard mournful singing coming from the cradle..."

Zbyszko went pale with emotion. He sat down on a stump and for a moment did not know what else to ask. Macko and the Czech were also deeply moved, for they had heard important and great news. The Czech perhaps also thought of his beloved lady who had remained in Spychów—for her, this news was like a sentence on her misery.

A moment of silence followed.

Finally, cunning Macko, who did not know Sanderus and had barely heard of him before, looked at him suspiciously and asked:

"Who are you? And what were you doing among the Teutonic Knights?"

"As for who I am, noble knight," answered the vagabond, "let this brave prince (he pointed to Zbyszko) and this valiant Czech count, who have known me for a long time, answer for me."

Here the kumys evidently began to affect him, for he perked up. Turning to Zbyszko, he began to speak in a loud voice in which there was no longer any trace of his earlier weakness.

"Lord, you saved my life twice. Without you, the wolves would have eaten me, or the bishops' punishment would have caught up with me—they were misled by my enemies (oh, how wicked this world is!) and issued an order to hunt me down for selling relics whose authenticity they doubted. But you, lord, took me in. Thanks to you, the wolves did not devour me, and the pursuit could not catch me, because I was taken for one of your men. Nor did I ever lack for food or drink with you—better than this mare's milk here, which I loathe, but which I will drink again to show that a poor, pious pilgrim does not shrink from any mortification."

"Speak, you buffoon, quickly, what you know, and stop clowning!" shouted Macko.

But the man raised the wineskin to his lips again, emptied it completely, and as if he had not heard Macko's words, turned back to Zbyszko:

"That is why I came to love you, lord. The saints, as Scripture says, sinned nine times an hour, so sometimes Sanderus also happens to sin, but Sanderus was not and will not be ungrateful. Therefore, when misfortune befell you, do you remember, lord, what I told you? 'I will go from castle to castle, teaching people along the way, and seek your loss.' Whom I did not ask, where I did not go!—it would take long to tell. Enough that I found it, and from that moment, I stuck to old Zygfryd like a burr to a cloak. I made myself his servant and went from castle to castle, from commandery to commandery, from town to town, following him without rest until the last battle."

Meanwhile, Zbyszko had mastered his emotion and said:

"I am grateful to you, and a reward will not miss you. But now answer what I ask: will you swear on the salvation of your soul that she is alive?"

"I swear on the salvation of my soul!" replied Sanderus solemnly.

"Why did Zygfryd leave Szczytno?"

"I don't know, lord, I only guess: he was never the starosta of Szczytno, and he left it perhaps fearing orders from the Grand Master, who, it was said, wrote to him to return the captive to the Duchess of Mazovia. Perhaps he fled before that letter, for his soul was hardened with pain and vengeance for Rotgier. They now say he was his son. I don't know how it was, only I know that his mind was somewhat unhinged from rage, and that as long as he lives, he will not release Jurand's daughter—I mean, the young lady—from his hands."

"This all seems strange to me," interrupted Macko suddenly. "If that old dog was so spiteful against all of Jurand's blood, he would have killed Danusia."

"He wanted to do that," replied Sanderus, "but something happened to him that he then fell seriously ill and nearly gave up his last breath. His people whisper a lot about it. Some say that as he was going to the tower at night to murder the young lady, he met an evil spirit—others say an angel. Enough that they found him on the snow before the tower, completely unconscious. Even now, when he remembers it, his hair stands on end, and because of that, he does not dare to raise his hand against her himself, and he is afraid to order others. He travels with a mute—the former executioner of Szczytno—but it's not known why, for that one is also afraid, like everyone else."

These words made a great impression. Zbyszko, Macko, and the Czech drew closer to Sanderus, who crossed himself and continued:

"It's not good to be among them. I often heard and saw things that made my skin crawl. I already told your graces that the old komtur's mind has gone bad. Well, how else could it be, when spirits from the other world visit him! Whenever he is alone, something near him starts to wheeze, just as if someone were running out of breath. And that is Danveld, whom the terrible lord of Spychów killed. Zygfryd says to him: 'What? Masses are of no use to you, why do you come?' And the other only grinds his teeth and then wheezes again. But even more often, Rotgier comes—the room smells of sulfur after him—and the komtur talks with him even more: 'I cannot!' he says to him. 'I cannot! When I come myself, then, but now I cannot!' I also heard him ask: 'Will that relieve you, sonny?' And so on constantly. And it also happens that for two or three days he does not speak a word to anyone, and on his face one can see terrible pain. He guards that cradle carefully—both he and that servant nun—so that no one can ever see the young lady."

"Are they tormenting her?" asked Zbyszko hoarsely.

"I will tell your grace the honest truth: I did not hear beating or screaming, but I did hear mournful singing, and sometimes a sound like a bird whimpering..."

"Woe!" said Zbyszko through clenched teeth.

But Macko interrupted further questions.

"Enough of that," he said. "Now tell about the battle. Did you see it? How did they escape, and what happened to them?"

"I saw it," answered Sanderus. "I will tell faithfully. At first they fought terribly, but when they realized they were surrounded on all sides, they began to think how to break out. And Sir Arnold, who is a true giant, was the first to break the circle and opened such a path that the old komtur got through, along with several men and the cradle, which was tied between two horses."

"Was there no pursuit? How did it happen that they were not overtaken?"

"There was a pursuit, but it could do nothing, for when it got too close, Sir Arnold turned back and fought with all of them. God save anyone from meeting him, for he is a man of such terrible strength that fighting a hundred men is nothing to him. He turned back three times, three times he stopped the pursuit. The men who were with him all perished. He himself, it seems, was wounded and had a wounded horse, but he survived, and besides, he gave the old komtur time to escape safely."

Macko, listening to this story, thought that Sanderus was telling the truth, for he remembered that from the place where Skirwoiłło fought the battle, the road for a long stretch in the opposite direction was covered with the bodies of Samogitians, cut so terribly as if by the hand of a giant.

"Nevertheless, how could you see all that?" he asked Sanderus.

"I saw it," replied the vagabond, "because I grabbed the tail of one of the horses that carried the cradle and fled with them until I got a hoof in the belly. Then I fainted, and that's how I fell into your hands."

"It could have happened that way," said Hlawa, "but you'd better not lie, or you'll come out badly!"

"There is still a mark," answered Sanderus. "Anyone who wants can see it; however, it is better to believe on word than to be damned for unbelief."

"Even if you sometimes accidentally tell the truth, you'll howl for simony."

And they began to banter, as they used to do before, but Zbyszko interrupted further conversation:

"You traveled through that land, so you know it. What castles are nearby, and where do you think Zygfryd and Arnold could have taken refuge?"

"There are no castles nearby, for it's all one wilderness through which this road was recently cut. There are no villages or settlements either, because what there was, the Germans themselves burned, for this reason: when this war began, the local people, who come from the same tribe as these here, also rose up against Teutonic rule. I think, lord, that Zygfryd and Arnold are now wandering through the forest, and either they will want to return whence they came, or sneak through to that fortress we were heading to before that ill-fated battle."

"That must be it!" said Zbyszko.

And he fell into deep thought. From his furrowed brows and concentrated face, it was easy to see the effort of his thinking, but it did not last long. After a moment, he raised his head and said:

"Hlawa! Have the horses and servants ready, for we are leaving at once."

The squire, who never had the habit of asking about the reasons for orders, got up and without a word ran to the horses. Macko, on the other hand, stared at his nephew with wide eyes and asked in amazement:

"Well... Zbyszko! Hey! Where are you going? What? How?"

But the other answered with a question in turn:

"And what do you think? Should I not?"

The old knight fell silent. Amazement gradually faded from his face. He shook his head once, twice, and finally took a deep breath and said, as if answering himself:

"Well... there's no help for it!"

And he too went toward the horses. Zbyszko turned to Sir de Lorche and, through a Masurian who knew German, said to him:

"I cannot ask you to help me against those men with whom you served under one banner, so you are free to go wherever you wish."

"I cannot now help you with my sword against my knightly honor," replied de Lorche, "but as for freedom, no. I remain your prisoner on parole, and I will present myself on summons wherever you command. And you, in case of any misadventure, remember that the Order will exchange any captive for me, for I come not only from a powerful but also a well-deserving family for the Teutonic Knights."

And they began to take leave, placing their hands on each other's shoulders according to custom and kissing each other on the cheeks. De Lorche said:

"I will go to Malbork or to the Mazovian court, so that you know that if not here, you will find me there. Let your messenger only say two words: 'Lorraine-Guelders!'"

"Good," answered Zbyszko. "I will go to Skirwoiłło to have him give you a sign that the Samogitians respect."

Then he went to Skirwoiłło. The old chieftain gave the sign and made no difficulties about the departure, for he knew what was going on, liked Zbyszko, was grateful to him for the last battle, and besides had no right to detain a knight who belonged to another country and had come only of his own free will. So, thanking him for the great service he had rendered, he provided him with food, which could be useful in the devastated country, and bid him farewell with the wish that someday in life they might meet again in some great and final confrontation with the Teutonic Knights.

Zbyszko was in a hurry, for he was consumed as if by fever. But when he came to his retinue, he found everything ready, and among the men, his uncle Macko, already on horseback, armed in a hauberk and with a helmet on his head. So approaching him, he said:

"Are you coming with me too?"

"And what else am I supposed to do?" asked Macko somewhat gruffly.

Zbyszko said nothing in reply, only kissed his uncle's armored right hand, then mounted his horse, and they set off.

Sanderus rode with them. They knew the road well as far as the battlefield, but beyond that he was to be their guide. They also counted on the fact that if they met local peasants in the forests, those, hating their Teutonic masters, would help them track down the old komtur and that Arnold von Baden, about whose superhuman strength and courage Sanderus had told so much.

This text is in the public domain. For license details, see the author's page: Henryk Sienkiewicz.