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and Zbyshko held each other in a long embrace, for each had loved the other always, and during recent years adventures and mishaps met in common made that love still stronger. The old knight divined from the first glance at his nephew that Danusia was not in the world then, so he made no inquiry; he merely drew the young man to his bosom, wishing to show by the power of that pressure that Zbyshko was not altogether an orphan, that there was still a kindred soul which was ready to share a sad fate with him.

At last, when sorrow and pain had flowed away with their tears considerably, Matsko asked, after a long silence,—

"Did they seize her again, or did she die in thy arms?"

"She died in my arms at the very edge of Spyhov," said Zbyshko.

And he told what had happened, and how it had happened, interrupting his narrative with sighs and weeping. Matsko listened attentively; he sighed also, and at last inquired,

"But is Yurand still living?"

"Yurand was living when I left Spyhov, but he has not long to abide in this world, and to a certainty I shall not see him again."

"It would have been better, perhaps, to remain at Spyhov."

"But how was I to leave you in this place?"

"A couple of weeks earlier or later would be the same."

Zbyshko looked at his uncle carefully, and said,—

"You must have been sick. You look like Piotrovin."

"Perhaps, for though the sun warms the world, it is always cold underground, and the dampness is terrible because there is water around all these castles. I thought that the mould here would kill me. There was no air to breathe, and my wound opened because of my suffering,—that wound, thou knowest, through which the arrow splinter came out after I had drunk bear's oil."