Then there was silence. De Fourcy bleeding dreadfully from several wounds, quivered on the snow. From beneath the leaden sky, there came only the cawing of the crows, which were flying from the silent wilderness, toward human habitations.
Then there began a hurried conversation between the murderers:
"Our servants did not see anything!" said Danveld, panting.
"No. The retinues are in front; we cannot see them," answered von Löve.
"Listen: we will have cause for a new complaint. We will publish the statement that the Mazowiecki knights fell upon us and killed our companion. We will shout aloud—they will hear us in Marienburg—that the prince sent murderers even after his guests. Listen! we must say that Janusz did not wish to listen to our complaints against Jurand, but that he ordered the accuser to be murdered."
In the meanwhile, de Fourcy turned in the last convulsion on his back and then remained motionless, with a bloody froth on his lips and with dread pictured in his widely-opened dead eyes. Brother Rotgier looked at him and said:
"Notice, pious brothers, how God punishes even the thought of treachery."
"What we have done, was done for the good of the Order," answered
Godfried. "Glory to those——"
But he stopped, because at that moment, behind them, at the turn of the snowy road, there appeared a horseman, who rushed forward as fast as his horse could go. Having perceived him, Hugo von Danveld quickly exclaimed:
"Whoever this man is—he must die." And von Löve, who although the oldest among the brothers, had very keen eyesight, said: