PART EIGHTH: CHAPTER V
It was not until the end of the ninth day after Jagienka's departure that
Zbyszko reached the frontier of Spychow, but Danusia was already so near
death that he entirely lost all hope of bringing her alive to her father.
On the following day, when she began to be incoherent in her replies, he
observed that not only her mind was out of order, but that she was also
suffering from a certain malady against which that childlike frame,
exhausted by so much suffering, prison, torture and continuous fright,
could not fight. Perhaps the noise of the fight of Macko and Zbyszko with
the Germans contributed to fill her cup of terror, and it was just about
that time that she was taken ill with that malady. Suffice it to say that
the fever never left her from that moment until they reached the end of
the journey. So far it was successfully accomplished, because throughout
the terrible wilderness, in the midst of great troubles, Zbyszko carried
her as though she were dead. When they left the wilderness and reached
inhabited regions, among farmers and nobles, trouble and danger ceased.
When the people were informed that he carried one of their own daughters
whom he had rescued from the Knights of the Cross, especially when they
knew that she was the daughter of the famous Jurand, of whose exploits
the minstrels sang in the villages, hamlets, and huts, they vied with
each other in rendering help and service. They procured proper horses and
supplies. All doors stood open for them. It was no more necessary for
Zbyszko to carry her in a cradle when the strong young men carried her
from one village to another in a litter. They carried her as carefully as
though she were a saint. The women surrounded her with the most tender
care. The men, upon hearing the account of her wrongs, gnashed their
teeth, and not a few put on the steel cuirass, grasped the sword, axe, or
lance and went along with Zbyszko, in order to take revenge with
interest. Because, the valiant race considered even retribution, wrong
for wrong, insufficient.
But revenge did not then occupy Zbyszko's mind; his only thought was for
Danusia. He lived between flashes of hope when there were momentary signs
of improvement, and gloomy despair when she got worse, and as far as her
latter condition was concerned, he could not deceive himself. A
superstitious thought struck him more than once at the beginning of the
journey, that there was, somewhere in the pathless regions they were
passing, death, riding along with them, step by step, lying in wait for
the moment when he might fall upon Danusia and wring from her the last
breath of life. That vision or feeling became especially pronounced at
dark midnight, so much so, that more than once he was seized with a
despairing desire to return and challenge death to a combat to a finish,
in the same fashion as knights are wont to do toward each other. But at
the end of the journey it became worse, because he felt that death was
not following them, but was in the very midst of the retinue; invisible
truly, but so near that its cold breath could be felt. Then he understood
that against such an enemy, courage, strength and arms are counted as
nothing and that he would be obliged to surrender the most precious head
as a prey without even a struggle.
And that was a most terrible feeling, because it roused within him a
tempestuous, irresistible sorrow, a sorrow, bottomless as the sea. Could
therefore Zbyszko restrain himself from groaning, could his heart remain
unbroken by pain, when he looked at his most beloved? He spoke to her as
in terms of involuntary reproach: "Was it for this that I loved you? Was
it for this that I searched and rescued you in order that you should be
put under ground to-morrow and I should never see you again?" Then he
would look at her cheeks which glowed with fever, at her expressionless
and dull eyes, and ask her again:
"Are you going to leave me? Are you not sorry for it? You prefer going to
staying with me." Then he thought that something was happening in his own
head, and his breast swelled with immense sadness which seared it, but he
could not give vent to his feeling with tears, because of a certain
feeling of anger and hatred against that compassionless power which was
consuming the innocent, blind, and cold child. If that wicked enemy, the
Knight of the Cross, were present, he would have fallen upon him and torn
him to pieces like a wild beast.
When they arrived at the forest court, he wished to halt, but as it was
the spring season the court was deserted. There he was informed by the
keepers that the princely pair had gone to their brother, Prince
Ziemowita, at Plock. He therefore resolved, instead of going to Warsaw
where the court physician might have given her some relief, to go to
Spychow. That plan was terrible, because it seemed to him that all was
over with her and that he would not be able to bring her alive to Jurand.
But just as they were only a few hours distant from Spychow the brightest
ray of hope shone again in his heart. Danuska's cheeks became paler, her
eyes were less troubled, her breathing not so loud and quick. Zbyszko had
observed it immediately, and had given orders to stop, so that she might
rest and breathe undisturbed.
It was only about three miles from the inhabited part of Spychow, upon a
narrow road winding between fields and meadows. They stopped near a wild
pear-tree whose branches served to the sick as a protection from the rays
of the sun. The men dismounted and unbridled their horses so as to
facilitate their grazing. Two women, who were hired to attend Danusia and
the youths who carried her, fatigued with the road and heat, lay down in
the shade and slept. Only Zbyszko remained watching near the litter and
sat close by upon the roots of the pear-tree, not taking his eyes off her
even for a moment.
She lay in the midst of the afternoon silence, her eyelids closed. It
seemed to Zbyszko that she was not asleep,--when at the other end of the
meadow a man who was mowing hay stopped and began to sharpen his scythe
loudly upon the hone. Then she trembled a little and opened her eyelids
for a moment, but immediately closed them again. Her breast heaved as
though she was deeply inspiring, and in a hardly audible voice she
whispered:
"Flowers smell sweetly...."
These were the first words, clear and free from fever, spoken since they
had left, because the breeze really wafted from the sun-warmed meadow a
strong, redolent hay and honey perfume, fragrant with the scent of herbs.
This caused Zbyszko to think that reason had returned to her. His heart
trembled within him for joy. He wished to throw himself at her feet at
the first impulse. But fearing lest that might frighten her, he desisted.
He only knelt in front of the litter, and bending over her, said in a
whisper:
"Dear Danusia! Danusia!"
She opened her eyes again, and looked at him for a while. Then a smile
brightened up her face, the same as when she was in the tar-burner's
shanty, but far from consciousness, but she pronounced his name:
"Zbyszko!..."
She attempted to stretch her hands toward him, but owing to her great
weakness she was unable to do it. But he embraced her, his heart was so
full that it seemed as if he were thanking her for some great favor he
had received.
"I praise the Lord," he said, "you have awoke ... O God...." Now his
voice failed him, and they looked at each other for some time in silence.
That silence was only interrupted by the gentle wind which moved the
leaves of the pear-tree, the chirping of the grasshoppers among the grass
and the distant indistinct song of the mower.
It seemed as though her consciousness was gradually increasing, for she
continued to smile and had the appearance of a sleeping child seeing
angels in its dream. Little by little her face assumed an air of
astonishment.
"Oh! where am I?" she cried. He was so much overcome with joy that he
uttered numerous short and abrupt questions.
"Near Spychow. You are with me, and we are going to see dear papa. Your
sorrow is ended. Oh! my darling Danusia, I searched for you and rescued
you. You are no more in the power of the Germans. Be not afraid. We shall
soon be at Spychow. You were ill, but the Lord Jesus had mercy upon you.
There was so much sorrow, so many tears! Dear Danusia. Now, everything is
well. There is nothing but happiness for you. Ah I how much did I search
for you!... How far did I wander!... Oh! Mighty God!... Oh!..."
He sighed deeply and groaned as though he had thrown off the last heavy
burden of suffering from his breast.
Danusia lay quiet trying to recall something to her mind and reflecting
upon something. Then finally she asked:
"So, you cared for me?"
Two tears which were gathering in her eyes slowly rolled down her cheeks
upon the pillow.
"I, not care for you?" cried Zbyszko.
There was something more powerful in that smothered exclamation than in
the most vehement protestations and oaths, because he had always loved
her with his whole soul. And from the moment when he had recovered her
she had become more dear to him than the whole world.
Silence reigned again. The distant singing of the mowing peasant ceased
and he began to whet his scythe again.
Danusia's lips moved again, but with such a low whisper that Zbyszko
could not hear it. He therefore bent over her and asked:
"What do you say, darling?"
But she repeated:
"Sweet smelling blossoms."
"Because we are near the meadows," he replied. "But we shall soon proceed
and go to dear papa, whom we have also rescued from captivity, and you
shall be mine even unto death. Do you hear me well? Do you understand
me?"
Then he suddenly became alarmed, for he observed that her face was
gradually paling and was thickly covered with perspiration.
"What ails you?" he asked in great alarm.
And he felt his hair bristling and frost creeping through his bones.
"What ails you, tell me," he repeated.
"It darkens," she whispered.
"It darkens? Why, the sun shines and you say: 'it darkens'?" he said with
a suppressed voice. "Up to this time you have spoken rationally. In God's
name I beseech you, speak, even if it is only one word."
She still moved her lips, but she was unable even to whisper. Zbyszko
guessed that she tried to pronounce his name and that she called him.
Immediately afterward, her emaciated hands began to twitch and flutter
upon the rug covering her. That lasted only for a moment. No doubt was
left now that she had expired.
Horrified and in despair, Zbyszko began to beg her, as though his
entreaties could avail:
"Danuska! Oh, merciful Jesus!... Only wait till we come to Spychow! Wait!
Wait, I beseech you! Oh, Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!"
The appeal awoke the sleeping women, and the men who were stretched with
the horses upon the lawn came running. They guessed at a glance what had
happened; they knelt down and began loudly to recite the litany.
The breeze ceased, even the leaves upon the pear-tree did not rustle.
Only the voices reciting the litany sounded throughout that profound
silence.
Danusia opened her eyes once more at the very end of the litany, as
though she wished to look upon Zbyszko and upon the sunlit world for the
last time. Then she lapsed into an everlasting sleep.
* * * * *
The women closed her eyelids; then they went to the meadow to gather
flowers. The men followed them in file. Thus they walked in the sunshine
among the luxuriant grass and had the appearance of field spirits bowing
now and then, and weeping, for their hearts were filled with pity and
sorrow. Zbyszko was kneeling in the shade beside the litter, with his
head upon Danusia's knees, speechless and motionless, as if he too were
dead. But the gatherers kept on plucking here and there, marigolds,
buttercups, bellflowers and plenty of red and white sweet-smelling little
blossoms. They also found in the small moist hollows in the meadow,
lilies of the valley, and upon the margin near the fallow ground, they
got St. John's wort until they had gathered their arms full. Then they
sadly surrounded the litter and began to adorn it, until they had covered
the dead with flowers and herbs; they only left the face uncovered, which
in the midst of the bellflowers and lilies looked white, peaceful, calm,
as in eternal sleep, serene, and quite angelic.
The distance to Spychow was less than three miles. Then, when they had
shed copious tears of sorrow and pain, they carried the litter toward the
forest where Jurand's domains began.
The men led the horses in front of the retinue. Zbyszko himself carried
the litter upon his head, and the women loaded with the surplus of the
bunches of flowers and herbs, sang hymns. They moved very slowly along
the herb-covered meadows and the grey fallow fields and had the
appearance of a funeral procession. Not a cloudlet marred the blue clear
sky, and the region warmed itself in the golden rays of the sun.
The further adventures of Zbyszko will be found in a subsequent volume.
Content of PART EIGHTH: CHAPTER V
-THE END-
Henryk Sienkiewicz's novel: The Knights of the Cross
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