'By the sword and by the spear,
By the hand that knows no fear,
Warrior, nobly shalt thou fall!’
THE sun was rising over Prague when a band of horsemen entered the Alstadt, and wound its way slowly to the Grosser Ring. Even at that early hour many of the citizens were already in the streets, and greeted the horsemen with shouts of joy and triumph. For they brought back with them, safe and whole, ten of their friends, whom they had rescued from the doom of fire. They had mounted them on some of their own horses, while on another they set their two prisoners, bound together ignominiously. One was a monk, caught near the pile in the very act of arranging the fagots, and exciting the crusaders to their cruel work: it is to be feared he was likely to receive no gentle treatment in Prague. The other was neither priest, nor monk, nor soldier, but a man of peaceful calling; the Bohemians could not very well explain how they came to take him, unless it was because he seemed to drop into their very hands.
Why they went at a foot-pace, why the triumph of their bearing was shaded with sadness, soon became apparent to the lookers-on. In their midst was a litter constructed of lances and borne by four, and in the litter lay a wounded, perhaps a dying man. Ostrodek's right arm was broken before his capture, as the Jew had said; and moreover, in the moment of rescue, a crusader, ere he fled, gave him a spear-thrust in the side. Hubert, who rode sadly beside him, thought, perhaps hoped, that he was unconscious.
Some of the party asked whither they should bring him. ‘To the house of Wenzel the cupmaker,' said Hubert briefly. However, as they reached the threshold the wounded man spoke, saying feebly, ‘Stop! '
‘Dear lad, what wouldest thou?’ asked Hubert.
‘I have ever loved the free air. Let me die in it. Lay me down here, in the spot where I first saw the face of Pepka.'
The faintest whisper of the dying is stronger than the mandate of the crowned king. They laid him down, having hastily thrown some of their upper garments on the ground beneath him, as a kind of couch. Someone came out of the house with a cup of wine, which was borne to his lips.
Meanwhile a brief colloquy between one of the prisoners and. those who guarded him resulted in his being unbound, and allowed to dismount from the horse. He came forward with the words, ‘I am a physician; can I be of any use here? '
Hubert, absorbed with Ostrodek, had not looked at him before. As soon as he did so, he started, and exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, ‘Dr. Nathan Solito! And a prisoner! '
‘No unwilling one!’ the Jew whispered.
‘Nor unwelcome to us,' returned Hubert. ‘It is to you we owe the information which has led to this rescue, and we thank you for it heartily.'
Ere he ended the Jew was kneeling down by Ostrodek, and examining the wound in his side. He looked up with a grave face. ‘Bring me a linen kerchief or two,' he said.
`No use,' whispered Ostrodek. ‘I am dying.'
The physician did not contradict him. ‘I will not hurt thee,' he said gently. ‘I will but try to stanch the blood a little—for the present.'
‘The spear went deep,' murmured Ostrodek. The one hand he could use groped feebly amongst the blood-stained garments the physician had displaced. It found what he sought, the glove of Pani Sophia, He held it out to Hubert.
‘Give that to Kepka with my duty,' he said. ‘My heart's blood is on it.' Then a smile flitted across his face. ‘I knew they would not burn me,' he said. ‘Master John's death was not for such as I.'
‘No less art thou a martyr of God,' said Hubert.
‘A martyr! Think of His letting me die for Him, when I could not live—as He wished!'
‘Dear Ostrodek, thou canst trust Him now? Thou hast faith in Him? '
Not faith such as good men have. Not faith to forgive and love—like Christ. Only faith to know that He forgives—' Here his voice failed, and Hubert and the others feared he was passing from them. But the Jew had somewhat stanched the bleeding of the wound, wine was given him again, and he revived. He looked around him on the group, now augmented by several knights and citizens, and by some of Wenzel's household. ‘I would see my lord once more,' he said.
A willing messenger speeded off to the quarters of the Hussite general: already one had gone to summon a priest.
Presently the crowd divided of its own accord. One approached the couch of Ostrodek to whom all other men gave place by instinct. The hero of the Hussites was a muscular, broad-shouldered man of middle height. His large, round, closely-shaven head, his dark countenance and long mustache, the straight line down his forehead, called the warrior's line,' and the fire that gleamed in the solitary orb fate had left him—all gave the impress of power, tremendous but terrible. Yet his voice was gentle as a woman's as he said, Speak, Ostrodek; what can Zisca do for the bravest soldier he ever led to victory?
‘My lord, hear me. Once thou didst promise me a boon.'
‘Speak on,' said Zisca.
‘God has given thee a great victory. All Prague was thy battle-field, and this—whereon I lie—is the soil of Prague. By the rules of chivalry, a conqueror on the field can confer knighthood.'
Perhaps Zisca was not unwilling to exercise a prerogative that would stamp his position in the eyes of his followers with a lustrous and shining seal. I remember well,' he said, that thou didst desire the name and the honor of noble knighthood. Thou shalt have thy desire, and well halt thou earned it, brave Ostrodek. ‘Would God it had not come too late! Let someone give me a sword,' he added, for he had come forth unarmed.
Hubert stood up from his place beside the dying, and offered his own. Yet as he did so he looked at Ostrodek somewhat sadly. ‘Dear brother,' he pleaded, ' think rather where and to whom thou art going now.'
Ostrodek looked at him and smiled. ‘Thou wilt know my meaning soon,' he whispered. Then he raised his hand and spoke to Zisca. ‘Stay, my lord. It was indeed my desire to cover my stained name with the glory of knighthood, that it might shine forth once more in the eyes of men, and Zul of Ostrodek lift his head unashamed amongst his peers. That is over now. Zul of Ostrodek is going where his name shall not once be heard, since when he is called Christ shall answer for him. So, if thou wilt grant me a last boon, give the accolade instead to Master Hubert Bohun, the squire of Kepka, who hath done many valiant deeds, even before this rescue of ours.'
‘It shall be done, Ostrodek,' said Zisca, not unmoved. ‘Bohun well deserves the honor for his own sake, not to speak of thine.'
‘Then, I pray thee, do it now. I grow faint again.'
‘Kneel down, Master Hubert Bohun.'
Hubert obeyed. Zisca struck him gently on the shoulder with his own sword, saying, ‘Rise up, Sir Hubert Bohun.'
Hubert rose to his feet a knight.
‘The golden spurs,' whispered Ostrodek, who was watching all with eager eyes.
A knight amongst the bystanders made his squire unfasten his own spurs, and tendered them to Zisca. Then, as the custom and manner was, the general with his own hands buckled them on the heels of Hubert. When this was done, those around set up a ringing cheer.
‘Hush!' said the voice of power that all men were wont to obey. ‘We stand in the presence of death.'
Once more Hubert knelt down beside Ostrodek, The dim eyes, the laboring breath, and that strange look we never can mistake, all told that the end was near. ‘Dear brother,' he whispered, ‘think upon the Lord Christ.'
‘Dear Ostrodek, remember thou art dying for Him,' said Vaclav, who was beside him also.
‘Ostrodek gathered up his remaining strength to say, I remember only—He died for me.'
There was a pause. The tide of life ebbed slowly—slowly—till it touched the tideless ocean of eternity.
When the end came Ostrodek smiled, and lifted up his hand, as one who beckons the unseen. ‘I hear the children singing,' he murmured.
‘It is over,' said Hubert reverently. He stooped down to close his eyes, but gave place to Václav. ‘Do it thou,' he said. ‘The son of Kepka, to whom he owed all, has the best, right.'
‘Yet once more,' said Vaclav, as he did the office of the next of kin—' yet once more my mother has welcomed him home.'
‘May he rest in peace!’ spoke Zisca, as he turned away.
‘No braver man than Zul of Ostrodek will ever fight under the banner of the Cup.'
Then his eye fell on the unfortunate monk, and the form of his countenance was changed' in an instant. Take that rascal away, and throw him into the deepest dungeon of the Council House!' he thundered. Men whispered darkly of a cruel wrong done long ago to a gentle girl who called Zisca brother, which steeled his heart against priest and monk as much even as the tragedy of Constance.