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had just begun to whiten the trees, the bushes, and the large blocks of limestone scattered here and there on the field, when a hired guide walking at the side of Yurand's horse stopped, and said,—

"Permit me to rest, lord knight, for I am out of breath. There is dampness and fog, but it is not far now."

"Lead me to the road, and return," said Yurand.

"The road is to the right beyond the pine wood, and from the hill you will see the castle directly."

The peasant fell now to slapping his hands crosswise under his arm-pits, for he was chilled from the morning dampness; then he sat on a stone, for he was still more out of breath after this exercise.

"And knowest thou if the comtur is in the castle?" asked Yurand.

"Where should he be, since he is sick?"

"What is the matter with him?"

"People say that the Polish knights gave him a dressing," answered the old peasant. And in his voice could be felt a certain satisfaction. He was a subject of the Order, but his Mazovian heart was delighted at the superiority of Polish knights. Indeed, he added after a while,—

"Hei! our lords are strong, though they have hard work with the others. But he glanced quickly at the knight, as if to be sure that nothing evil would meet him for his words, which had shot out incautiously.

"You speak in our way, lord," said he; "you are not a German?"

"No," answered Yurand; "but lead on.*'

The peasant rose, and walked again near the horse.

Along the road he thrust his hand from time to time into his pouch, took out a handful of unground wheat, and turned it into his mouth. When he had appeased his first hunger in this way, he explained why grain was unground, though Yurand, occupied with his own misfortune and his own thoughts, had not noticed what he was doing.

"Glory to God even for this?" said he. "A grievous life under our German lords. They have put such taxes on

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