The echo of the funeral--the church bells, the processional songs and the lamenting of the crowd,--was heard for several weeks. During that time, he grew gloomier, lost his appetite, could not sleep and walked in his underground cell like a wild beast in a cage. He suffered in solitude; there were often days during which the jailer did not bring him food nor water. So much was everybody engaged with the queen's funeral, that after her death nobody came to see him: neither the princess, nor Danusia, nor Powala of Taczew, nor the merchant Amylej. Zbyszko thought with bitterness, that as soon as Macko left the city, everybody forgot about him. Sometimes he thought that perhaps the law would forget about him also, and that he would putrefy in the prison till death. Then he prayed for death. Finally, when after the queen's funeral one month passed, and the second commenced, he began to doubt if Macko would ever return. Macko had promised to ride quickly and not to spare his horse. Marienburg was not at the other end of the world. One could reach it and return in twelve weeks, especially if one were in haste. "But perhaps he has not hurried!" thought Zbyszko, bitterly; "perhaps he has found some woman whom he will gladly conduct to Bogdaniec, and beget his own progeny while I must wait here centuries for God's mercy." Finally he lost all trace of time, and ceased altogether to talk with the jailer. Only by the spider web thickly covering the iron grating of the window, did he know that fall was near at hand. Whole hours he sat on his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers in his long hair. Half dreaming and stiff, he did not raise his head even when the warden bringing him food, spoke to him. But at last one day the bolts of the door creaked, and a familiar voice called him from the threshold; "Zbyszku!" "Uncle!" exclaimed Zbyszko, rushing from the bed. Macko seized him in his arms, and began to kiss his fair head. Grief, bitterness and loneliness had so filled the heart of the youth, that he began to cry on his uncle's breast like a little child. "I thought you would never come back," said he, sobbing. "That came near being true," answered Macko. Now Zbyszko raised his head and having looked at him, exclaimed: "What was the matter with you?" He looked with amazement at the emaciated and pallid face of the old warrior, at his bent figure and his gray hair. "What was the matter with you?" he repeated. Macko sat on the bed and for a while breathed heavily. "What was the matter?" said he, finally. "Hardly had I passed the frontier, before the Germans whom I met in the forest, wounded me with a crossbow. _Raubritters!_ You know! I cannot breathe! God sent me help, otherwise you would not see me here." "Who rescued you?" "Jurand of Spychow," answered Macko. There was a moment of silence.