We have carefully described the life of these simple poor people, and the most important events which had happened to them,--the changes in their employments, the acquisition of new acquaintances, the least increase of their comfort. Their days passed in perfect uniformity and an equally profound peacefulness; Radionek at least conceived of no existence happier than this which had fallen to his lot. His father loved him and as far as he possibly could gratified his wishes; he succeeded in his undertakings; he had something to occupy him, something to amuse him; and the distant and unknown future seemed smiling and peaceful.

Sometimes, it is true, the child sat dreamily on the door-sill of the cabin with his eyes fixed on the waters of the river Horyn, on the woods and fields, paying by a moment of inexpressible sadness his debt to the vague and infinite desires and aspirations which arise in the heart of man through the whole course of his life. Then would recur to his mind the remembrance of things his father had told him,--the strange manner of his being found under the oak-tree, his mysterious origin, and the singular and incomprehensible fate which had cast him into the old man's arms. Radionek could not comprehend why he had been forgotten and abandoned; something told him that he would be remembered some day. Sometimes it seemed to him in the silence that he heard the sound of wheels and horses coming to announce the arrival of guests whom he was expecting,--strange, terrible, unknown guests.

In his imagination he often pictured to himself under various forms those parents whom he had never known; but whenever he thought of the grief that his departure would be to Iermola, the bitterness of the separation from him, his constant solitude, he burst into tears and resolved never to leave him. In him as in all other young and ardent beings awoke the desire to see new things, to do something different from the old life; but he felt in the bottom of his heart that whatever he might gain by a change of position, he would surely lose some portion of his real happiness. Where could he be better off? Where happier or freer? He worked only as much as he wished to do, varying his occupations; and the old man rarely had anything to say. It is true that Iermola had reared the boy from the first in such a manner as to be able to control him by encouragement and reason; and he had no need of threats. The old man had made himself a child so as to understand Radionek; the child had endeavoured to attain the maturity of the old man. They shared time and years as they shared all the other things of life.

The days and months were passing in this perfect peace, which at any moment a sudden change might disturb, when one evening Chwedko, returning from Malyczki, passed by the old inn, because the little bridge had been carried away on the other road, and wishing to light his pipe, went into Iermola's house. The gray, who was not at all anxious thus to extend her circuit, had made, it is true, some signs of stopping; but feeling that the stable was not far off, she had allowed herself to be persuaded.

The old potter and the child were seated on the threshold,--the former smoking his pipe, and the latter talking aloud of his hopes for the future,--when Chwedko stopped in front of them with his wagon, and greeted them in his usual fashion, saying,--

"Glory to God!"

"World without end! Where do you come from?"

"From Malyczki."

"Did you go there alone?"

"I carried Mikita the potatoes I had sold him."

"What is the news down there?"

"Oh, there is some news; there is a great deal of news," answered Chwedko, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree. "The old chief of squadron is dead."

"The old man is dead!" replied Iermola. "Peace to his soul! he has suffered a long time."

"And he knew pretty well how to make others suffer."

"So he is really dead!" repeated Iermola. "You see old men must look out; death may call them any time. I trust he will not come for us very soon."

"He was very sick," said Chwedko; "and I do not see how he held out so many years. But there is a regular upturning at the dwor."

"And how about his son?"

"His son and his people and every one whom he has tormented so much shed fountains of tears over him. All the people from the village are in the courtyard; it is a pitiful scene of desolation."

"It is the destiny of us all," replied Iermola, with a sigh.

"Yes, truly," continued Chwedko; "but to tell the truth, the chief of squadron was a perfect tyrant over his family. Sick, helpless, and infirm as he was, to the hour of his death he never gave up his keys nor the management of his household, never confided in either his son or his young ward. His son has grown old in his service without enjoying his fortune and without being able to attempt to direct his household; he never would allow him to marry, nor would he permit him to go away from him. He kept the young lady in equal bondage; and though he knew they loved each other, he always forbade them to marry under penalty of his curse."

"Ah, well, they will marry now," said Iermola.

"So you do not know about it, then? They have already been married for a long time; no one knew it at the dwor except the old housekeeper. The parish curate married them. There were witnesses; but what good did that do them? They could not live together, because the old father kept them both always by his bedside night and day; he would have one or other of them always by him. In addition to this, matters were so arranged at the dwor that the stewards and servants were obliged to tell the master everything the young lord did, or else he would scold and abuse them all; and he had assured his son of his curse if he ever dared to think of such a marriage."

"The old man was a little stern, it is true," said Iermola, "but he had his good side. And besides, he suffered a great deal,--so much that during the long hours of the night, one might hear him crying out almost every moment, 'Good Lord, have mercy on me and take me out of this world!' Toward strangers his manner was gentle as a lamb. It was he who managed so nicely to get Procope to teach me how to make pottery; and when I went to see him, he talked with me and told me stories of old times, and joked and laughed. But that was because he was an old friend of my master."

The old men continued to talk a long time about the chief of squadron, relating in turn various small events of his life, mourning and regretting the dead man as people generally do, for each one of us on leaving this world leaves behind a certain measure of regret and remembrance. They were still talking when the sound of carriage-wheels was heard at a distance on the road from Malyczki; and they could hear that the vehicle which was coming was not the wagon of a peasant.

"That must certainly be Hudny going home," said Iermola. "Let us go inside the cabin; it is best that he should not see us."

"Oh, no, it is not he," answered Chwedko; "it must be a stranger. From the sound of the wheels I should say it was a covered carriage. Some one has lost his way, surely."

Curious to know who it could be, they stood still with their eyes fixed on that side of the plain which extended beyond the oaks and which was crossed by a narrow pathway. Soon, sure enough, a covered carriage appeared, a very neat and almost elegant one, which was coming at a brisk trot toward the village. "Who can it be, I wonder," murmured Iermola.

"Those are the chief of squadron's horses. And that is the young lord and his wife, I am sure. But why are they coming here?"

The carriage approached rapidly; and instead of going past the old inn, where the child and the two old men were standing gazing at it with astonished faces, it stopped suddenly in front of them.

A man of somewhat more than thirty years, and a woman who was still young, got out of it together and hastened up to Iermola; but before reaching him, they stopped. Then a startled cry, sobs, and tears were heard. The young woman rushed to Radionek; the strange man also stepped toward the boy, who drew back frightened.

Iermola understood the whole matter at once. He turned pale, stumbled, and was obliged to sit down, he felt so faint and overcome; for him had sounded that fatal hour, the very thought of which he had always dismissed from his mind with mortal terror.

"My son! my dear child!" cried the lady.

"Marie, be calm, for the love of God, and let us speak to them first!"

The child, who was gazing at his mother with his large, brilliant, and astonished eyes, threw himself into Iermola's arms as though he wished to call upon him to help him.

"He does not know me," cried the young woman, in a sad tone. "He does not know me, and he cannot know me; he runs away from me and repulses me. He cannot do otherwise. Oh, it would have been better to give up everything, to bring down upon our heads your father's curse, rather than abandon our child. He is ours no longer; we have lost him!" As she said this, she wept bitterly and wrung her hands.

"Marie, be calm, I beg you!" repeated the young man.

In the midst of this scene of grief and trouble, Iermola had time to become less agitated, and his face now wore a grave, sad expression.

"This child," said the father, in a choking and deeply agitated voice,--"this child, whom you found twelve years ago under the oak-trees, is our son. In order to escape the curse with which our father threatened us, and the watchfulness of the people who would have accused us before him if they had known of our secret marriage, we were compelled to send him away from us, to abandon him for a time, and to forget him. But the priest who married us, and who baptized the child, will be our witness; the man who placed him here--"

"He may indeed have been your son," slowly answered the old man, to whom strength had returned at this critical moment, "but now he is mine alone; he is my child. You see he does not know his mother, that when his father calls him he runs to me. I have reared him by the labour of my old age, by taking the bread from my own mouth. No one shall take him from me; Radionek will never leave me."

The mother, as she heard this, sobbed aloud. Jan Druzyna held her; but he himself blushed, trembled, and various expressions passed over his countenance.

"Listen, old man," he cried, "whether you will or no, you will be obliged to give up this child, whose caresses we have longed for so many years."

"If I should give him up to you, he would not go with you," answered Iermola; "he does not know you. He would not abandon the old man who has brought him up."

Radionek stood motionless, pale, and troubled. His mother held out her hands to him; her eyes sought his; her lips sought his lips. The mysterious power of maternal feeling roused itself to draw him to her; and the boy's eyes filled with tears.

"Anything for your son, anything you can ask!" cried Jan Druzyna.

"And what should I take from you?" replied the old man, indignantly. "What could you give me which would supply the place of my beloved, my only child? I ask nothing of you,--nothing but permission to die near him and to die in peace."

As he spoke, the old man burst into tears; his limbs shook, and he leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Radionek held him up, and helped him to sit down again on the door-sill; and Iermola, laying his hand on the child's fair head, kissed him passionately. The young mother wrung her hands in despair; her grief increased, and she became beside herself. At last she threw herself upon her child, ardent and strong as a lioness, and strained him in her maternal arms.

"You are mine!" she cried, choked by her tears; "you are mine!"

And already Radionek no longer sought to avoid her caresses; he had just received his mother's first kiss,--a kiss so sweet, so penetrating, so long awaited.

The father also tremblingly approached his child, and kissed him through his tears.

Iermola watched them with a glance now sad and despairing, now bright and burning with jealousy; one single moment, one single word, had been sufficient to deprive him of his treasure.

"It was happiness enough for me," murmured the old man. "God takes it all from me. I must give him up; fate had only lent him to me. And I shall doubtless not live long. Sir," said he then, in a voice full of tears and emotion, "you see it is I who now supplicate you. I am old; I shall not live long; leave me my child until I die. I shall die soon, I am very old; then you will drag him away from my coffin. How could I live without him? Ah, do not leave me alone for the last days I have to live in this world; do not punish me; do not kill me, if for no other reason but because I have welcomed and reared your child!"

"We will take you away with the little fellow," cried Jan. "Come with him; we are more grateful to you than any words can express."

The old man interrupted him by sobbing violently; and Radionek hastened to run to Iermola as soon as he heard him crying. He knelt down beside him and hid his weeping face on his lap.

"My father, my father!" he cried, "do not weep; I will never leave you. We will not go away from your cabin; we will stay here together. I am so happy with you, I want nothing more."

Then the mother, seeing herself still forsaken, began to sob again, and nearly fainted. The neighbours, attracted by the noise, gathered on the spot and were witnesses of the scene. The cossack's widow, Chwedko, Huluk, and others shed the tears of compassion which the poor have always ready even for the griefs and miseries which they cannot comprehend, for the tears of others always suffice to move them to pity.

At last the father aroused from the momentary state of stupefaction into which his wife's words had thrown him; he sighed, and going up to his wife, spoke to her for a moment in a low voice.

"Whether you are willing or not," said he, aloud, in a stern voice, "you will be obliged to give the child up to us; he is ours, and we have witnesses of the fact. But you may ask anything you desire in exchange."

Iermola trembled and rose quickly to his feet.

"The child does not know you," he cried; "you will be obliged to take him by force. I will not give him up to you of my own free will, for he is not your child. I will bring witnesses to contradict yours. This is not the child of a gentleman; he is a villager, a working boy, an orphan. Call him; you do not even know his name; and he will not listen to you, for he does not know your voice."

"Why, the old man is insane," cried Jan Druzyna, trembling with rage. "Very well; we shall be compelled to resort to other means,--to those which our rights grant us. Do you, then, wish to deprive the child of the advantages and benefits of the position to which he was destined?"

"What position? What destiny?" replied the old man, proudly. "Ask him if he has ever been unhappy with me,--if he wants anything more, if he needs anything. I know the sort of life which is lived in the dwors where I have been. Do not destroy my peace; do not desolate my old age; do not take away my child."

The young mother then drew near him and took him by the hand.

"My father, my brother," said she; "I understand your grief, I know what you lose in losing this child; but I, have I not swallowed my tears for twelve long years? Would you have the heart to refuse an unfortunate mother her dearest joy, her only treasure? Would you be so cruel as to force us to be ungrateful? No, you will come with us; you will rejoice when you see the child's happiness, and you will share ours."

These words of the mother went deeper into Iermola's heart; he became more like himself, dried his tears, and said in a low voice,--

"Oh, the hour has come before which I would rather have died! For so many years I have seen it in my dreams, I feared every shadow, I dreaded each stranger, thinking he came to take away from me the child of my old age. I trembled; I prayed God that He would let me die first, but He has purposely prolonged my days. May He receive the present hour as an expiation for all my sins!"

During this conversation, Radionek, agitated, troubled, and not knowing what to do, looked first at the old man and then at his parents. His father's eyes expressed great impatience, mingled with tenderness and a certain irritation; his mother wore a more quiet expression, more compassionate and gentle. Iermola felt his strength forsake him again; he once more fell into his seat, his head bent down, his hands clasped.

The conversation, thus abruptly disturbed, was resumed, but in a more peaceful and ordinary tone. Druzyna had evidently intended to take his son away at once; but an hour passed, night came on, and he still did not know what to do. Iermola, overcome, no longer offered any resistance; he kept silence, exhausted, and only questioned the child with his eyes.

"Come, let us go," said the young man at last, as he turned toward his wife. "We will come back to see him to-morrow."

"But the child?"

Radionek heard the words; frightened, he threw himself into the arms of his adoptive father, and Iermola, touched and grateful, pressed him to his breast.

"You are a good dear child," he cried. "You will not go away from me; you will not leave me alone; you will not forget your old father. You know I should die without you; you can do as you like when you have closed my eyes. And may God's eternal blessings follow you then!"

Druzyna, who was gazing in silence upon this scene, led, or rather dragged his wife away by force, carried her to the carriage, and ordered the coachman to return home. Chwedko set off for the village, where he spread this important piece of news.

After Druzyna's departure, there was no visible change in the old inn, but the peace and happiness which the day before had reigned beneath that thatched roof had flown away. Iermola, silent and motionless, remained seated on the door-sill; Radionek at times wept quietly, and at others gave himself up to dreamy meditation. Then they drew near each other and spoke a few sad, tender words in a low voice. The morning found them still in the door-sill, half asleep, and cowering in each other's arms as though they feared some one would come to separate them.

The broad daylight, as it opened their eyes to the sun, which dispels the terrors of night and revives the forces of life, brought back to them the remembrance of the events of the day before; but it presented them in another light, and awoke in them other sentiments, which gathered about each event, each serious thought, like mercenary servants grouped around a coffin. A thousand ideas, a thousand confused impressions crowded upon their minds, each struggling with the other to clear away the difficulty.

Neither the old man nor Radionek felt himself capable of working that morning. The ordinary course of their life had been interrupted; they did not know what to do with themselves. In the child's mind arose, now a thousand images of a brilliant, an unknown future, now regret for past days filled with so much happiness, and which would never return.

He tried to recall the features of his mother, those of his young father whom he had seen only in the dim twilight. Sometimes his heart leaned toward them; sometimes he trembled, agitated by a feeling of fear. What would become of him near them? Would he be better or worse than here? And in either case, he would be obliged to begin a new life, to leave his peaceful corner, go to a strange house, renounce all his old happiness, and bid adieu to what he had loved so well.

Iermola dreamed also; the new day had brought him new thoughts. According to his custom, he went to see the widow, as he always did when he felt in need of some one to talk to.

"Are you crazy?" cried the old woman as she saw him. "How could you yesterday evening have been so obstinate as to keep the child, just as if you had any sort of prospects for him? And besides, he is the son of a lord; he has his position already given him. And could it have done you any harm to go to the dwor with Radionek and live peacefully, enjoying his good fortune?"

"Yes, yes! but how could I be to him there what I have been to him up to this hour? I should no longer be his father; I should become his serving-man. They would take his heart away from me little by little; they would spoil and ruin my child. Do I not know something about the life of lords and rich people? Food a little more delicate, clothes a little finer, words a little smoother; but are they happier? God knows we cannot tell anything about it. Ask them if they do not weep in secret, if there are no sad moments spent under their roofs, if their happiness is as great, as pure, as it appears from a distance."

"It is doubtless your great grief which causes you to talk in this way," cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "Their life is not like ours, that is certain. If our fate is the better of the two, why is it that all do not wish to live as we do? It is indeed a rare thing that a great lord is willing of his own accord to live as we do; while each one of us, on the contrary, would like to taste their bread. But the truth must be told."

Iermola remained silent for a few moments, leaning his head on his hand.

"Neighbour," said he, at last, "when we shall come to die, it will then matter very little to us whether during our lives we have eaten bread of fine wheat flour or coarse rye bread; no matter how a man has lived, it will be all the same to him, provided he has clean hands and a pure conscience to present before God. And as for knowing whether my child will then have been better off as lord of his father's house or with me, a potter in the old inn, upon my word, it is a serious question which I cannot take upon myself to answer."

"But you will nevertheless be obliged to give him up; there is no way of avoiding it."

"I shall not prevent him from following them if he will; but he must choose between us, because I myself wish to die as I have lived. I shall lay my bones in our old cemetery. I have already tasted the bread of servitude. I will not go in my last years to hold out my hand and bow down before young fools who would laugh at me,--not for any amount. I will remain in Popielnia; as for Radionek, if he wishes, he can go play the lord at Malyczki."

"And how will you be able to live without him, poor old man?"

"And you, how have you managed to live without Horpyna, without your grandchildren? Unless, indeed, you can see them by stealth."

"Ah! that is true, that is true," sighed the widow. "With pain and tears we rear our children, to see them, as soon as they have wings, fly out of the nest; as for us, we are left behind with broken wings to look at them far off."

"It is not for long, however," added Iermola, with a sad smile; "our days are numbered. A few more will pass, and then death will come knocking gently at our window; our eyes will close, and all will be over. We shall then have only to render our account to the Lord God."

"Ah, you speak sad words, neighbour."

"Because, as you see, my heart is not merry."

While this conversation was taking place in the widow's house, Radionek, who had not the heart to go to work, sat in the door-sill, thinking and dreaming. At one time his heart inclined him toward that unknown world; at another his tenderness for the old man called him back and held him.

Parents! a mother!--these are sweet words, which bring sweet thoughts and have great power over an orphan's heart; for no one can take the place of a father, no one can take the place of a mother.

The idea of living at the dwor, of being rich, of being a master, seemed very pleasant to the boy; but as he knew nothing of any other life than the one he had lived until that moment, he did not know what awaited him in that higher position. His ardent childish curiosity alone painted the unknown future for him. Then he said to himself that it would be very sad for the old man to be separated from him; he recalled all that he had done for him, how much he had loved him. He did not know whether even maternal tenderness, so powerful and God-inspired, could equal that love.

While he was thus reflecting, the carriage he had seen the day before drew near, arrived, and stopped. Radionek might have run away and hidden himself, but he had not the strength; his mother saw him from a distance, waved her hand to him, and he remained motionless. His parents hastened to him, embraced him, and wept.

"It is true,--it is true, is it not, that you are coming with us?" cried Marie Druzyna, gazing in agitation upon the handsome young fellow, whom it distressed her to see dressed in peasant's clothes and a coarse cloak. "You will see," said she, "how happy you will be with us; you have suffered, but all that will soon be forgotten."

"But I have not suffered," cried Radionek, who began to grow bold, "and I shall never forget my old father. I shall be very, very much grieved to leave him."

"I am your father," said Jan Druzyna, in a grieved and irritated tone; "call the old man what you will, but do not give him the name which belongs to me."

"Oh, he has been a father to me for a long time, and will be as long as he lives. He has loved me so dearly."

"And we? Shall not we love you also? Do you not know that you have cost us many tears?"

"I did not see you shed them; but I know that the old man has wept over me, and more than once I have seen his tears fall."

"We will take him away with us."

"He would not want to go," murmured Radionek.

At that moment, as though moved by some sad presentiment, Iermola arrived, having seen the carriage, and run till he was almost out of breath, trembling, half suffocated, fearing lest he should not find the child.

The husband and wife greeted him kindly, but with coldness and reserve; he returned them a glance of indifference.

"To-day," said Jan Druzyna, "you must make up your mind to give the child up to us. We cannot do without him; and he must be present at his grandfather's funeral."

"He can do as he pleases," answered the old man; "if he wishes to go with you, I shall not prevent him."

"You will come,--you will come!" cried the mother, rushing up to Radionek.

The child hesitated, turned pale, and burst into tears.

"No, no, I cannot," he murmured; "I cannot leave you, my father."

"You may come to see him as often as you wish," said Jan, restraining himself and speaking gently.

There was a moment's silence; the child, beside himself, turned first toward the thoughtful, sad old man, then toward his mother, who seemed to implore him with her eyes not to send her away.

"Do with me what you choose," said Radionek, at last. "I do not know what to do, I can't think; I am weak and sad. I do not want to leave you two; but at the same time I wish to stay here always. Why will you not live here with us?"

Thus pleadings, prayers, and promises continued to be exchanged till half the day had passed; and at last when the carriage drove away from the old inn, it bore in it poor Radionek, who was weeping and holding out his hands to Iermola and promising him to come back the next day and kiss him.