The depths of the forests rang with the shouts of the hunters and the shrieks of the hunted until the latter were exterminated. Then the old knight, accompanied by Zbyszko and the Bohemian, returned to the battlefield upon which lay the hacked bodies of the German infantry. They were already stripped naked. Some were mutilated by the revengeful Zmudzians. It was an important victory, and the soldiers were drunk with joy. After the last defeat suffered by Skirwoilla near Gotteswerder, a sort of apathy had seized the Zmudzians, more especially because the promised relief from Prince Witold had not yet arrived as quickly as expected. However, now hope revived and the fire was kindled anew as when wood is thrown upon glowing embers. The number of slain Germans, as well as Zmudzians to be buried, was very great, but Zbyszko ordered a special grave to be dug for the wlodykas of Lenkawice, who contributed so much toward the victory. They were buried there among the pine-trees, and Zbyszko cut a cross with his sword upon the bark. Then he ordered the Bohemian to keep watch over de Lorche who was still unconscious; he stirred up the people and hurried on along the road toward Skirwoilla to lend him affective assistance in case of emergency.
But after a long march he came across a deserted battlefield that resembled the former, being covered with German and Zmudzian corpses. It was easy for Zbyszko to conclude that the terrible Skirwoilla had also gained an equally important victory over the enemy, because if he had been defeated, Zbyszko would have met the victorious Germans marching to the castle. But the victory must have been a bloody one, because for some distance a great number of dead were met with. The experienced Macko was able to deduce from this that some Germans had even succeeded in retreating from the defeat.
It was difficult to tell whether Skirwoilla was pursuing them or not, because the tracks were mingled and confused. He also concluded that the battle had taken place quite early, perhaps earlier than Zbyszko’s fight, for the corpses were livid and swollen, and some of them torn by wolves, that scattered in the thickets at the approach of armed men.
In face of these circumstances Zbyszko resolved not to wait for Skirwoilla, but to return to the original safe camp. He arrived there late at night and found the leader of the Zmudzians who had arrived somewhat early. His face, which usually wore a sullen expression, was now lighted with fiendish joy. He asked at once about the result of the fight, and when he was told of the victory he said in tones that sounded like the croaking of a crow:
“I am glad of your victory, and I am glad of mine. They will send no more relief expeditions for some time, and when the great prince arrives there will be more joy, for the castle will be ours.”
“Have you taken any prisoners?” inquired Zbyszko.
“Only small fry, no pike. There was one, there were two but they got away. They were pikes with sharp teeth! They cut the people and escaped.”
“God granted me one.” replied the young knight. “He is a powerful and renowned knight, although a Swede — a guest!”
The terrible Zmudzian raised his hands to his neck and with the right hand made a gesture like the up-jerk of a halter:
“This shall happen to him,” he said, “to him as well as to the other prisoners … this!”
Then Zbyszko’s brow furrowed.
“Listen, Skirwoilla,” he said. “Nothing will happen to him, neither this nor that because he is my prisoner and my friend. Prince Janusz knighted both of us. I will not even permit you to cut off one finger from his hand.”
“You will not permit?”
“No, I will not.”
Then they glared fiercely into each other’s eyes. Skirwoilla’s face was so much wrinkled that it had the appearance of a bird of prey. It appeared as if both were about to burst out. But Zbyszko did not want any trouble with the old leader, whom he prized and respected; moreover his heart was greatly agitated with the events of the day. He fell suddenly upon his neck, pressed him to his breast and exclaimed:
“Do you really desire to tear him from me, and with him my last hope? Why do you wrong me?”
Skirwoilla did not repel the embrace. Finally, withdrawing his head from Zbyszko’s arm, he looked at him benignantly, breathing heavily.
“Well,” he said, after a moment’s silence. “Well, to-morrow I will give orders for the prisoners to be hanged, but if you want any one of them, I will give him to you.”
Then they embraced each other again and parted on good terms — to the great satisfaction of Macko, who said:
“It is obvious that you will never be able to do anything with him by anger, but with kindness you can knead him like wax.”
“Such is the whole nation,” replied Zbyszko; “but the Germans do not know it.”
Then he gave orders for de Lorche, who had taken rest in the booth, to be brought to the camp-fire. A moment later the Bohemian brought him in; he was unarmed and without a helmet, having only his leather jacket upon which the marks of the coat of mail were visible. He had a red cap on his head. De Lorche had already been informed by Hlawa that he was a prisoner and therefore he came in looking cool and haughty, and the light of the flames revealed defiance and contempt in his countenance.
“Thank God,” Zbyszko said, “that He delivered you in my hands, because nothing evil shall happen to you by me.”
Then he extended a friendly hand; but de Lorche did not even move.
“I decline to give my hand to knights who outrage knightly honor, by joining pagans in fighting Christian knights.”
One of the Mazovians present, who could not restrain himself, owing to Zbyszko’s importance, on hearing this became excited and his blood boiled.
“Fool!” he shouted and involuntarily grasped the handle of his “misericordia.”
But de Lorche lifted up his head.
“Kill me,” he said. “I know that you do not spare prisoners.”
“But, do you spare prisoners?” the Mazur who could not restrain himself, exclaimed: “Did you not hang on the shore of the island all the prisoners you took in the last fight? That is the reason why Skirwoilla will hang all his prisoners.”
“Yes! they did hang them, but they were pagans.”
There was a certain sense of shame in his reply; it could easily be seen that he did not entirely approve of such deeds.
Meanwhile, Zbyszko controlled himself, and in a quiet and dignified manner said:
“De Lorche, you and I received our belts and spurs from the same hand, you also know well that knightly honor is dearer to me than life and fortune. Listen, therefore, to my words which I say under oath to Saint Jerzy: There are many among this people whose Christianity does not date from yesterday, and those who have not yet been converted stretch out their hands toward the Cross for salvation. But, do you know who hinder them and prevent their salvation and baptism?”
The Mazur translated all Zbyszko’s words to de Lorche, who looked into the young knight’s face questioningly.
“The Germans!” said Zbyszko.
“Impossible,” shouted de Lorche.
“By the spear and spurs of Saint Jerzy, the Germans! Because if the religion of the Cross were to be propagated here, they would lose a pretext for incursions, and domination and oppression of this unhappy people. You are well acquainted with these facts, de Lorche! You are best informed whether their dealings are upright or not.”
“But I think that in fighting with the pagans they are only banishing them to prepare them for baptism.”
“They are baptizing them with the sword and blood, not with water that saves. Read this letter, I pray, and you will be convinced that you yourself are the wrongdoer, plunderer and the hell-starosta of those who fight religion and Christian love.”
Then he handed him the letter which the Zmudzians had written to the kings and princes, which was distributed everywhere; de Lorche took it and perused it rapidly by the light of the fire. He was greatly surprised, and said;
“Can all that be true?”
“May God, who sees best, so help you and me that I am not only spea
king the truth but I also serve justice.”
De Lorche was silent for a moment and then said:
“I am your prisoner.”
“Give me your hand,” replied Zbyszko. “You are my brother, not my prisoner.”
Then they clasped hands and sat down in company to supper, which the Bohemian ordered the servant to prepare.
De Lorche was greatly surprised when he was informed on the road that Zbyszko, in spite of his letters, had not got Danusia, and that the comthurs had refused important and safe conduct on account of the outbreak of the war.
“Now I understand why you are here,” he said to Zbyszko, “and I thank God that He delivered me into your hands, because I think that through me the Knights of the Order will surrender to you what you wish. Otherwise there will be a great outcry in the West, because I am a knight of importance and come from a powerful family….”
Then he suddenly threw down his cap and exclaimed:
“By all the relics of Akwizgran! Then those who were at the head of the relief train to Gotteswerder, were Arnold von Baden and old Zygfried von Löve. That we learned from the letters which were sent to the castle. Were they taken prisoners?”
“No!” said Zbyszko, excitedly. “None of the most important! But, by God! The news you tell me is important. For God’s sake, tell me, are there other prisoners from whom I can learn whether there were any women with Zygfried?”
Then he called the men to bring him lit resinous chips and he hastened to where the prisoners were gathered by order of Skirwoilla. De Lorche, Macko and the Bohemian ran with him.
“Listen,” said de Lorche to Zbyszko, on the way. “If you will let me free on parole I will run and seek her throughout the whole of Prussia, and when I find her, I will return to you and you will exchange me for her.”
“If she lives! If she lives!” replied Zbyszko.
Meanwhile they reached the place where Skirwoilla’s prisoners were. Some were lying upon their backs, others stood near the stumps of trees to which they were cruelly fastened with fibre. The bright flame of the chips illuminated Zbyszko’s face. Therefore all the prisoners’ looks were directed toward him.
Then from the depths of the road there was heard a loud and terrible voice:
“My lord and protector! Oh, save me!”
Zbyszko snatched from the hands of the servant a couple of burning chips and ran into the forest toward the direction whence the voice proceeded, holding aloft the burning chips, and cried:
“Sanderus!”
“Sanderus!” repeated the Bohemian, in astonishment.
But Sanderus, whose hands were bound to the tree, stretched his neck and began to shout again.
“Mercy!… I know where Jurand’s daughter is!… Save me.”
CHAPTER VIII.
The soldiers unbound him at once, but his limbs were benumbed and he fell; when they lifted him up he was seized with successive fainting fits. In spite of Zbyszko’s orders for him to be taken to the fire and given food and drink, and rubbed over with fat and then covered with warmed skins, Sanderus did not recover consciousness, but lapsed into a very deep sleep, which continued until noon of the following day when the Bohemian succeeded in awakening him.
Zbyszko, who was burning with fiery impatience, immediately went to him, but at first he could get no information from him, because either from his terrible experiences or from the relaxation which usually overpowers weak natures when the threatening danger has passed, Sanderus burst into long and uncontrollable weeping, so that for some time he could give no answer to the questions put to him. He was choked with sobs, his lips trembled, and tears flowed down his cheeks so copiously that it seemed as though his very life was flowing out with them.
Finally he succeeded to some extent in controlling himself, and he strengthened himself a little with mares’ milk, which mode of refreshing themselves the Lithunians learned from the Tartars. He began to complain that the “sons of Belial” had thrust him with their pikes against a wild apple-tree; that they had taken away his horse which was laden with relics of priceless virtue; and finally when they had bound him to the tree, the ants had attacked his feet and body so that he expected to die from it, if not to-day, to-morrow.
Zbyszko’s anger overcame him and he could restrain himself no longer, and he interrupted Sanderus and said:
“You vagabond, answer the questions I am going to put to you and take care that you tell the truth, or you will fare worse.”
“There are red ants yonder,” said the Bohemian, “order them to be pat upon him, and he will soon find a tongue in his mouth.”
Hlawa did not say this seriously; he even smiled as he spoke, for his heart was well inclined toward Sanderus. The latter, however, was terror-stricken, and shouted.
“Mercy! Mercy! Give me some more of that pagan drink and I will tell you all that I have and that I have not seen.”
“If you tell lies, even one word that is not true, I will drive a wedge between your teeth,” said the Bohemian.
They brought him another skin full of mares’ milk; he grasped it and fastened his lips to it with the avidity that a child does to its mother’s breast, and began to gulp it down, alternatively opening and closing his eyes. When he had drank from it about half a gallon or more, he shook himself, placed the skin upon his knees, and as if submitting himself to the inevitable, he said:
“Vile stuff!…” Then he turned toward Zbyszko. “Now, deliverer! ask.”
“Was my wife in that division with you?”
Sanderus’ face assumed a certain air of surprise. In fact he had heard that Danusia was Zbyszko’s wife, but it had been a secret marriage, and immediately afterward she had been abducted, and he had always thought of her as Jurandowna, (Miss Jurand).
He replied quickly:
“Yes, voyevode! She was! But Zygfried von Löve and Arnold von Baden broke through the enemy’s ranks and escaped.”
“Did you see her?” asked Zbyszko, with beating heart.
“I did not see her face, sir, but I saw a closed litter made of brushwood, suspended between two horses, in which there was somebody, led by that very lizard, the same servant of the Order who came from Danveld to the Forest Court. I also heard sad singing proceeding from the litter….”
Zbyszko grew pale with emotion; he sat down on the stump and was unable to ask another question for a while. Macko and the Bohemian were also much moved at this great and important news. The latter, probably, thought about his beloved lady who remained at Spychow, and upon whom this news would fall like a doom.
There was silence for a moment. Finally, the shrewd Macko who did not know Sanderus, and who had scarcely heard of him previously, looked at him with suspicion, and asked:
“Who are you and what were you doing among the Knights of the Cross?”
“Who am I, powerful knight?” replied Sanderus. “Let this valiant prince answer for me,” (here he pointed toward Zbyszko), “and this manly Bohemian noble who has known me long.”
The effect of the kumys (mares’ milk) upon Sanderus apparently began to show itself, for he grew lively, and turning to Zbyszko he spoke in a loud voice and showed no trace of his previous feeble condition.
“Sir, you have saved my life twice. If it were not for you, the wolves would have devoured me, or the punishment of the bishops who were misguided by my enemies. (Oh, what a wicked world this is!) They issued an order to hunt me for selling relics which they thought were not genuine, simply because they took me for one of your people. But you, O lord, protected me, and thanks to you I was not destroyed by the wolves, nor shall their persecution harm me. Food and drink was never lacking whilst I was with you — better than the mares’ milk here which makes me sick, but I drink it in order to show how a poor but pious pilgrim can stand all kinds of privations.”
“Speak, you bear-trainer; tell us quickly what you know, and do not play the fool,” exclaimed Macko.
But he lifted the skin to his mouth again and entirely emptied
it; apparently not hearing Macko’s words, he turned again to Zbyszko: “This is another reason why I love you. The saints, as it is written in the Scriptures, sinned nine times an hour, consequently, sometimes also Sanderus transgresses, but Sanderus never was nor shall be ungrateful. Therefore, when misfortune came upon you, you remember, sir, what I told you; I said, ‘I will go from castle to castle, and, instructing the people along the road, I will search for your lost one.’ Whom did I not ask? Where did I not go? — It would take me a long time to tell you. — But, suffice it to say, I found her; and from that moment on, burrs do not cling as tenaciously to the cloak as I attached myself to old Zygfried. I became his servant, and from castle to castle, from one comthur to another, from town to town I went with him without intermission until this last battle.”
Zybszko meanwhile mastered his emotion and said:
“I am very thankful to you and I shall surely reward you. But now, answer my questions. Will you swear, by the salvation of your soul, that she is alive?”
“I swear by the salvation of my soul that she is alive,” replied Sanderus, with a serious air.
“Why did Zygfried leave Szczytno?”
“I do not know, sir. But I surmise that as he was never the starosta of Szczytno, he left it; perhaps he feared the grand master’s orders, which were, they say, to give up the little lamb to the Mazovian court. Perhaps that very letter was the cause of his flight, because his soul burned within him with pain and vengeance for Rotgier who, they say now, was Zygfried’s own son. I cannot tell what happened there, but this I do know, that something turned his head and he raved, and determined not to surrender Jurand’s daughter — I meant to say, the young lady — as long as he lives.”
“All this seems to me very strange,” suddenly interrupted Macko. “If that old dog thirsts so much for the blood of all who belong to Jurand, he would have killed Danuska.”
“He wanted to do so,” replied Sanderus, “but something happened to him and he became very sick, and was at the point of death. His people whisper much over that affair. Some say that upon a certain night when he went to the tower intending to kill the young lady he met the Evil Spirit — some say it was an angel whom he met — well — they found him lying upon the snow in front of the tower wholly lifeless. Now, when he thinks about it, his hair stands up upon his head like oak-trees; this is the reason why he does not himself dare to lift up his hand against her, he even fears to order others to do it. He has with him the dumb executioner of Szczytno, but it is not known why, because the executioner as well as others, are equally afraid to harm her.”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 544