Marketa Lazarová by Vladislav Vančura

Author:Vladislav Vančura
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction & Literature
ISBN: 9788086264929
Publisher: Twisted Spoon Press
Published: 2016-07-13T00:00:00+00:00

Sixth Chapter

Behold a nobleman more perfect in every measure than Kristian. Behold Kozlík! Lying near the young lord, he is breathing his last. He has lost a great deal of blood, he is pale, his mouth twisted.

I know not if greater examples of relentlessness have been recorded. Kozlík’s shoulder was busted, the skin and muscles ripped open by a hoof, the knight’s side dripping with blood, and terrible pain accompanied every movement the poor man made, yet none of it could dampen his spirit. A mighty pretense restrained his cries, a mighty will roused him back to life, a mighty will stirred him to action from which he should have abstained.

After a tremendous effort he found a knife. He saw the royal soldiers coming. Eh, he would be dead before they got to him. He leaned the knife against that place on his chest where the heart beats. Yet he could not find the strength. This moment so pivotal for the rest of the tale had surely been anticipated, and the architect of fates had led Count Kristian to that spot along circuitous paths, so that at least once the lamb might perform a capital service for the wolf. After a struggle, the count managed to deprive the wretch of the knife. At that moment the royal men-at-arms reached them, and they set upon Kozlík and tied him up. No one showed any concern for his pain or for the blood streaming from his wounds, and the brigand paid them in the same coin. He excoriated both the king and his troops and wanted nothing more than for some enraged soldier to stab him. Yet carry on though he might and defend himself though he might, a tiny imperceptible dot would crop up in his mind, a tiny seed the Reaper plants in the brains of man to germinate and put forth stalks, leaves, and shadow. The shadow of death. It all takes no more than a short moment. Columns of blood flow down to a lower place, and the pink brain pales, as once did the gardens of Mesopotamia.

Was Kozlík dead? Four soldiers prepared a stretcher from lances and canvas. They poured some wine into his parched mouth and carried him down the hill. They walked rather gingerly, as do maidservants with a sick infant, and the two who stood higher than the pair in front squatted to the ground and slid along their backsides to keep the deathbed level. They deposited the brigand on a cart.

Alive or dead? Alive! The captain held a blade to Kozlík’s mouth and was pleased to see mist form from the man’s breathing. He was delighted, and told the soldiers he was delighted. Everyone saw this, and they were twice as solicitous of the wounded man. As they began to busy themselves with tending to the man, they jabbered away about the brigands’ affairs, for the battle was over and, as is common after battles, the troops were suddenly overcome by diffidence and distracted solicitude.

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