Mrs. Tiralla was kneeling in the confessional.

When the turn came for the sins against the sixth and ninth commandments, she trembled in all her limbs. How quickly and easily she had hitherto been able to answer in the negative when the question, "Have you had any unclean thoughts or desires?" had been put to her. But what was she to say now? How Father Szypulski, who knew her so well and whom she would probably meet again to-morrow or the day after, would stare at her when she confessed to him what had tortured her day and night for weeks and months, ever since Martin Becker had been at StarydwÓr. Especially at night when she tossed about so restlessly. If she were to whisper in a trembling voice that she longed for this man as she longed for her eternal salvation? And if the priest then questioned her further, if he went into particulars? If she had to describe every thought, every wish that filled her soul and her body, reveal them in such a way that her penitent confession might be followed by absolution in the Sacrament of Penance?

She felt overwhelmed with shame; she bent her head so low and whispered so softly that the confessor was not able to hear anything.

And Father Szypulski did not ask any questions; it was not necessary to go any further into the matter with this woman. Every country girl under sixteen had more to confess than she.

After resigning her seat in the confessional to a young peasant woman who looked contrite and anxious, Mrs. Tiralla repeated the prescribed prayers before the high altar, and then hastened home.

She hurried along as much as possible; she had even hurried over her prayers. What had they been doing at home during her absence? Was he sitting with Rosa again? It was not at all proper, the child was too old for that. Yes, the time was approaching when she would have to be taken to Posen, for it was better for her that she should not become acquainted with what could never be her lot--must never be her lot--never, never.

The woman's eyes blazed as she hurried along. She pressed her Prayer-book to her beating heart, and threw her head back with a proud movement. She had been to confession, and she, the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla, was now returning home with her sins forgiven.

As she approached the farm she met the schoolmaster coming away from it. She gave him a nod and wanted to hurry past him. Her uneasiness drove her on--what were they doing at home; what were they up to? But he barred her way, so that she was obliged to stop.

"Ah, BÖhnke, I've no time now, I'm in a great hurry. Good-bye, let me go--let me go, I say." With a stamp of her foot she pulled away the hand which he had seized.

But she did not get rid of him so easily. "One moment. Surely you've got a moment to spare for me?"

As she did not listen, but continued to hasten on, he ran beside her. How troublesome he was, if only she could get rid of him. What did he want with her? Why did he force himself upon her in this way? Heaven forfend that he should return to the farm with her. She was furious; the spring evening was already drawing to a close, Martin would have returned from the fields, and now he belonged to her. And this fellow took upon himself to hinder her.

"I've not seen you for ages," stammered BÖhnke. "It's so difficult to catch a glimpse of you."

"That's your fault, Mr. BÖhnke," she answered lightly, and shrugged her shoulders. "You could have come more frequently, you know."

"You used to invite me formerly."

"Well, I do invite you." She gave a mocking laugh. "Do you, perhaps, expect me to write you a note every day saying, 'Come'? Come, for goodness sake. You can come whenever you feel inclined."

"I don't feel inclined," he answered bitterly. "How could I feel any inclination to come to StarydwÓr? But something drags me there all the same. I must come, and that's what is so awful, so awful!"

He shouted the last word in a loud voice, and his eyes, that were generally so dull, glittered as he looked at her.

Ah, so now he was going to reproach her. She slackened her pace involuntarily; there was no necessity for anybody else to hear it. But if he thought that she feared him--pooh! he made a great mistake. What on earth could frighten her now? Nothing whatever, and nobody, if only she could see Martin every day.

She boldly returned the man's upbraiding look, and they gazed at each other, until BÖhnke had to cast down his eyes. He knew what kind of woman she was; oh, she was much more guilty than he, for he was only the one who had been tempted, but she was the temptress. What if he were to tell what he knew? She was entirely in his power. And still he lowered his eyes. He loved her, oh God, how he loved her!

He trembled at the thought that she might belong to somebody else, to that other one perhaps, who was so young and handsome and strong, and who had lived under the same roof with her since last autumn, during the whole winter, the short days, the long nights. What was it Mr. Tiralla had told him? Even he was full of Martin Becker's praises when they sat together in the evening at the inn. Mr. Tiralla had lately come more frequently to Starawies; he said he felt ashamed of getting drunk in his own house. The truth was, however--the schoolmaster felt sure he was right--that he also was jealous of the young fellow, and that he did not like to see his wife smile at Becker any more than he, BÖhnke, did. But she should not smile at him, no, she must not do so. And if Mr. Tiralla did not forbid it, then he--yes, he would do so.

"You're good friends with Becker," he hissed, and he seized the woman's wrists so firmly, in spite of his trembling hands, that she could not get loose.

She struggled, she would have liked to run away; no, she would hear nothing, nothing at all.

But he whispered in her ear in a hoarse voice that was half choked with grief and fury, "You're deceiving Mr. Tiralla and me. But if that fool stands it, I won't. Take care. I know everything--I know you well--I will speak--yes, yes, by God I will if you don't----"

"You're threatening me?" she cried, interrupting him with a shrill laugh. She jerked her hand free and flung his away. "You don't intimidate me. Go, inform against me, I'm not afraid. I"--she spread out her arms and an enthusiastic expression transfigured her face--"I should love to suffer. Jesus Christ also suffered on the cross. It would be no suffering for me, it would be a joy." Humbly bending her head she made the sign of the cross.

What did she mean? Why did she say that with such fervour? BÖhnke did not understand her to-day, although he had hitherto understood her so well. He did not guess that she was seized with an ardent desire to suffer for her love, if necessary.

What could affect her if she only had Martin, only him? And he would soon be hers, she felt it. The woman looked down on the man from a triumphant height.

BÖhnke eyed her in perplexity. He tried to endure her gaze, but he felt so confused that he once more had to lower his eyes.

What a poor wretch he was, a real coward. Her voice was full of deep contempt as she said icily, "Let me go on now, Mr. BÖhnke."

"No, no," he cried, seizing hold of her dress. No, she must not leave him in anger. He would--he did--recall everything; he had said nothing, he knew nothing, guessed nothing. Only she must not look at him like that, he could not bear it, it broke his heart. He almost whined as he implored her pardon; surely she must know that he was mad, irresponsible, that it made him furious to know that she was always with the other man, whilst he, alas, had to remain so far away from her.

"You needn't stay away, Mr. BÖhnke."

"But I can't bear to see you with the other man," he cried. "Can't you understand?"

Yes, she understood very well. She almost felt sorry for him now. Jealousy is a terrible torment. Would Martin have returned from the fields by now? Would he be sitting with Rosa, or perhaps standing about with Marianna? She grew hot and cold by turns. Both things were dreadful, she could not permit either of them. She, who a moment ago had been so triumphant, felt disheartened and cast down with fear and torment and uncertainty. Oh, this uncertainty was something dreadful; did he not care for her a thousand times more than for that little girl? Yes, it must be true, BÖhnke must be suffering too.

Her glance was full of compassion as she looked at him. How he shuffled along; he looked like an old man, and he was so pale and emaciated, there seemed to be no youth left in him. She laid her hand on his sleeve. "Surely we are not going to be enemies, BÖhnke?" she said gently.

"No, certainly not," he jerked out. He bent his head, and, hastily pressing his dry lips to the beautiful, white hand which formed such a contrast to the dark sleeve on which it was resting, said:

"Forgive me, for God's sake, forgive me."

"I forgive you," she answered. She stooped and picked up his hat which had fallen off his head without his noticing it. "Here, put it on."

And then she held out her hand, and allowed him to grasp both her wrists and stand thus for a few moments taking leave of her.

He felt a little calmer now; she was not angry with him, thank God, not angry. He stood a long time after she had left him, following her with his eyes. How daintily she tripped along in spite of her haste. Her dress did not knock against her like a heavy sail against a clumsy mast, but the wind played with it wantonly, so that you could see her ankles, her striped stockings, and smart white petticoat even at a distance. BÖhnke felt his heart stand still with delight. There she went to meet somebody else, leaving him behind; but his thoughts hurried after her all the same and clung to her like a chain. She would never be able to get rid of him entirely. And even though she might curse the chain, it would always clatter behind her and warn her that he and she--yes, that they were forged together for time and eternity. That consoled him. And a hope arose within him that the chain might become still stronger and tighter. Then might the angels hide their faces and weep when God cursed them--if only he and she might go to hell together.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Tiralla rejoiced to think that she had so easily got rid of the schoolmaster. It would have been so tiresome if he had returned with her. She ran through the gate with a light heart.

The stillness of evening lay over the farm. The pigeons that had their cot on the high pole near the pond were already sitting huddled together on the perch in front of their door, cooing softly. How tender it sounded; it seemed to Mrs. Tiralla as though it had never sounded so tender before. And the cock was strutting about among his hens; the woman thought she could see that he particularly wished to please the white hen. A couple of early white butterflies, the first heralds of approaching spring, were fluttering about, exhausted by their amorous dalliance. Mother stork was standing on her nest on the old barn; the couple had returned the day before in renewed love to the home they had left last autumn. Marianna was crouching on the doorstep peeling potatoes for supper, and quite close to her stood Mikolai with his back against the wall and his hands in his trouser pockets, looking down with a smile at the girl's firm brown neck that showed above her white frill.

How beautiful everything was! Mrs. Tiralla closed her eyes as though dazzled, then opened them wide with a dreamy expression and gave a deep sigh full of longing. Everything spoke of love. What did it matter if the butterflies were dead by to-morrow morning, if they were found lying on the ground like small, withered leaves, killed by the night that was still so raw? Had they not spent a merry hour, disporting themselves at love's fair game? She looked round; where was Martin Becker? Had he not returned from the fields with Mikolai?

"Heigh!" Her voice sounded shrill as she called to her stepson. "Where are the others? Your friend and Rosa?"

"I don't know," answered the young man in a calm voice, and went on philandering with the maid, in spite of his stepmother's arrival. He had got hold of a long straw, with which he was tickling her neck, and which he quickly hid behind his back whenever she let the potato-knife fall and laughingly tried to seize it.

Where could Martin and Rosa be? They were not in the room downstairs, for she had looked in at the low window. She gazed around with burning, impatient eyes; where had they hidden themselves? All at once she felt disgusted with the two flirting on the doorstep. Were they not ashamed of themselves? She tore the straw angrily out of her stepson's hand and pulled it to pieces. "Stop that nonsense," she said sharply, frowning. "Go in, Marianna, dalej, don't lounge there any longer. When Mr. Tiralla comes home we are to have supper, dalej."

Disturbed in her amusement, the maid, who was still quite hot from laughing, murmured sullenly, "The master hasn't been out at all; he's in the house. That man was here"--she turned up her nose--"the schoolmaster from Starawies. I had to bring some bottles up from the cellar, and they've been drinking beer and gin. Now the master has gone to bed and is asleep." She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head as she tripped away.

"Father drinks," said Mikolai, his laughing face all at once overcast. "He never drank before, why does he do so now?"

He looked at his stepmother inquiringly; he felt as though he must demand an explanation of her. How could she allow him to drink so much? And it was not only beer and wine, for a short time before, when he had gone to the pig-market in Gnesen, he had brought gin back with him, a whole keg of clear gin, some bad stuff made of potatoes, like that given to reapers at harvest-time. And he drank it off as if it were small beer. "Tell me how it is that father has so changed," he continued, in a voice that sounded quite rough. "He used to be so lively formerly. He has always been fond of a drink--who wouldn't be?--but still he never took more than he could stand. But now!" He shook his head, and his glance seemed to Mrs. Tiralla to have suddenly grown suspicious. "I don't know how it's happened."

"I don't know either," said she, as she cast her eyes around. Where had those two crept to? They had both gone, and probably together. Nothing else was of any consequence to her at the present moment. Let Mikolai think what he liked, it was perfectly immaterial to her. "Where can Becker be?" she asked impatiently.

Mikolai's thoughts were still with his father, and he kept staring at the pavement with a heavy frown, which was not at all in keeping with his round, innocent face. It grieved him very much to think that his old father, of whom he was so fond, should drink like that. It was fortunate that his mother had not lived to see it. It seemed to be quite immaterial to his stepmother. Or was he wrong? She was looking quite pale all at once, positively distraught. He must be wrong, she took it, no doubt, just as much to heart as he did. He felt sorry that he had wronged her if only in thought, and held out his hand to her with a good-natured laugh. "Well, what do you say to breaking the old man of this bad habit in good time? Anyhow, it won't kill him yet."

"Anyhow, it won't kill him yet," she repeated absent-mindedly. But she could not stand it any longer, she must know where the two were. "Where can Rosa be? Psia krew!" she cried in a furious voice.

Her stepson stared at her in amazement. How mad she was; it amused him to see her. She had always been so very refined, but now she could never make a wry face again when his father rapped out an oath or two. Besides, he never meant any harm by it, but she was furious to-day--ugh! He put his arm round her waist and said jokingly, "H'm, the Pani is in a bad temper to-day."

She could not control her feelings any longer, and burst into tears in her despair at not being able to find out where the two had gone. She laid her head on her stepson's arm and sobbed.

Mikolai felt dismayed and then overcome; he resembled his father in that particular, and could not bear to see a woman cry. And especially this woman, who really was good. He had never known that his stepmother was so tender-hearted. How she fretted about his father.

Mrs. Tiralla wept a long time on his shoulder.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Martin Becker remained longer in the fields than Mikolai. He had still to sow some clover seed in a piece of fallow-land, when the latter led the horse home with which he had been harrowing.

The young sower whistled as he walked up and down the furrows. A mild breeze was blowing across the fields which had nothing in common with the raw March winds they had been having lately. Was spring really coming? Why, there was Rosa!

He put his hand up to his eyes that the last rays of the setting sun should not hinder him from watching her. The farm was not far from the field they were tilling, and the young girl had just come out of the gate and was walking towards him without hat or shawl, her hands hanging idly by her sides.

As Rosa saw that he was smiling at her, she smiled too; her radiant happiness made her look prettier than usual. "You must leave off working now, Mr. Becker," she cried gaily. "I've come to fetch you. You've been so busy. Aren't you tired?"

"No." As he smiled at her he showed his strong teeth, which looked whiter and more shining than ever under his black moustache.

"Jendrek has never done so much," she remarked knowingly, "and the other labourers haven't either."

"But I'm not a labourer."

"Oh, I didn't mean that"--she turned crimson--"oh, no." She held out her hand artlessly. "Please don't be angry with me. Mother has told me that you've some money and that you really need not work here. I know it very well."

"I like working here," he said quickly. "I like it very much"--he hesitated for a moment and cast a quick glance at the delicate face that was half averted--"very much indeed."

"That's very nice of you," she said innocently, looking at him with a friendly smile.

He cast a complacent glance at her; how blooming she looked now, much more so than when he came. She would soon be old enough to get married. Many a wooer would come forward; her curly hair that shone like gold was very conspicuous among all the smooth, dark-haired women of the country. She would also have a good dowry; Mr. Tiralla had hinted at that pretty broadly. And Mikolai was a good fellow and an affectionate brother; he would be pleased to let his sister have her portion. And she would be a patient, good wife. Martin felt as though he ought to make hay while the sun was shining.

"I'll stop now," he said, suddenly making up his mind, and throwing the last seeds he had in his bag at random; he put on his coat, which he had hung over the plough. "Shall we go for a little walk, Miss Tiralla?"

Yes, Rosa would like that very much. Had he ever been in the Przykop? Perhaps there would be some violets there now. But he must not say "Miss," she was not grown up, her mother had said that repeatedly, she was only a child.

"Well, then, Rosa--RÖschen, let's go." He held out his hand and she put hers into it, and thus they strolled into the Przykop. There was not a shoot to be seen yet on the alders or willows, or on the few oaks that were scattered about, but the old pines were as green as ever and smelt fresh and alive. The woodpecker was hammering at their bark, and the wood-pigeons were cooing up in their big branches that shone so red.

Everything was very quiet in the hollow, and the air was so mild that you could have sat down. Martin felt a wish to do so, but the girl began to look about busily for the bushes in whose red sprigs the sap was already coursing, and to turn the big heaps of brown leaves over with her hands and feet. Would she not be able to find the first violet under one of them? Oh, now she had found one! She shouted with joy.

Who would have thought that this gentle girl could be so jubilant? The young fellow was delighted to hear her, and stood quite still and smiled down on her as she with nimble fingers stuck a violet and a leaf into the top button-hole of his coat. He very nearly gave her a kiss--nobody was looking on, and her shining parting was so near his mouth.

he began to sing.

"I don't know that song," she said innocently.

He felt ashamed of continuing it. It was a song that the soldiers used to sing, and also the couples as they walked through the corn in the evenings, but it was not suitable for her ear.

Then they strolled about hand-in-hand. How beautiful everything was. The man had never been accustomed to forest and shade, and the big trees in the Przykop inspired him with awe and reverence. He would never venture to take any liberties here; besides, it would be very wrong of him if he were to disturb this child's innocent mind.

He walked beside the girl as though he had been her brother. "Why are you so silent?" she asked. "Tell me something, but please no stories like those Marianna tells me, something nice. Do you always go to Mass as frequently as you do here? Shall you go to confession when I go? Is there a nice church at Opalenitza? Have you also a Holy Virgin on the altar who performs as many miracles as ours does?"

Then he spoke to her of his mother. She had been a happy woman, for she had had a good husband. And she had had many children, and they were good and honest, and happy too. Two daughters were married, the eldest son had the farm at Opalenitza, the second was an engineer in the Rhine province, the third had re-enlisted with the chasseurs in Liegnitz, and he, the miller, was the fourth and youngest. If everything went well, and he got a wife who had enough money, with the sum he had, to buy a good mill, then he, the youngest, would be the happiest of them all.

"If only my mother had lived to see it," he said softly, looking at the girl. And then he went on to speak of his parents, who had always been so united, who had almost died together--his father six years ago and his mother only a few months later--and there was so much love in his voice that Rosa began to cry. He did not understand her tears. Why was she crying? He put his arm tenderly round her shoulders and drew her towards him in the quiet Przykop. "Why are you crying, RÖschen, my little girl?"

She said nothing, but continued to cry bitterly. Oh, how happy they had been. Husband and wife always united; many children; and almost dying together. She shivered; that must be even more glorious than in Paradise. She clung to him more closely in her longing and sadness.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was late when they came out of the hollow. A grey, rising mist covered the ploughed field as they crossed it hand-in-hand. They did not let go of each other until they passed through the gateway leading into StarydwÓr.

Now they were back at the farm again. Marianna was singing as she rattled the pots and pans, Mikolai stood laughing by the kitchen fire, but Rosa's face continued to wear a dreamy, radiant expression. Although she was always such an obedient, conscientious child, it did not affect her in the slightest when her brother shouted to her from the kitchen, "Your mother has been looking for you for such a long time; she's very cross. Where have you been?" She did not notice her mother's eyes resting on her with a piercing expression; she did not feel the oppressive silence that reigned at supper that evening.

Mrs. Tiralla kept an obstinate silence; she seemed so low-spirited that the men involuntarily became low-spirited, too--that is, Mr. Tiralla and Mikolai. Becker's eyes were fixed on his plate; he was quiet and happy, and ate with a good appetite. What did he care if the woman was in a bad humour? Let the old man and Mikolai dance to her piping, he would not. And then the thought came to him that a girl like Rosa would never want to order about, and that a man would fare well with a wife like her: always united, and many children, and, and--he did not get any further. He felt a glance resting on him that weighed him down, so that he could no longer think of all those pleasant things.

Mrs. Tiralla kept her eyes fixed on the young man; her brows were contracted, her lips pouting. She felt so scornful, so angry. So he preferred that chit to her! But then her scorn melted and a world of love, grief, longing, and even humility lay in her glance. If only he would look at her, only for one short moment. Ah, now he was looking up--her glance had drawn him--he had to look at her, was obliged to.

At that moment, when she was glowing with happiness, she became a most dangerous temptress. A seductive smile parted her lips, her eyes shone in radiant splendour. She had never been so beautiful, never so amiable.

Even Mr. Tiralla profited by her radiant smiles; he simply basked in them. She was looking at him so kindly; ah, there was not another woman who could be compared with his Sophia. Her smile intoxicated him. What did it matter that she had often been very horrid to him? Pooh! that was all forgotten now, it was some nonsense that he must have dreamt. She had certainly been very strange at times--h'm, very strange, but to-day she was an angel. He even forgot to drink when he looked at her. He kissed the tips of his fingers, threw her the kiss, and stared at her with watery eyes.

Martin Becker gazed at her too, as though there were something quite new about her. He had never known that she was so beautiful; by Jove, there was nobody like her. The girl certainly resembled her very little. No wonder that everybody ran after her, as Mr. Tiralla had told him the first day they met; he could easily believe it. He stroked his dark moustache and looked her full in the face with his fine eyes. Then she smiled still more seductively, and he smiled at her again. He liked her very much.

As they said good night to each other her hand nestled in his; he felt its warm softness, and pressed it more firmly than he had ever done before. How thin Rosa's little hands were compared with hers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Tiralla was standing in her room upstairs in front of the looking-glass, undressing. She was doing it very slowly; she felt the whole time as though she must go downstairs once more and walk down the long passage past the young men's door. Was he already asleep?

Mikolai and Becker had gone early to bed, as they had to rise with the lark next morning and go to their work. Rosa had likewise gone to her room after supper. But Mrs. Tiralla had talked some time to Marianna in the kitchen, whilst her husband remained sitting at the table with his head resting in his hands, dozing. He had made no attempt to keep his wife when she left the room.

Did he know by now that he was repugnant to her? Mrs. Tiralla almost thought he did; he often looked askance at her now, whilst his purple lip would droop sullenly. She was glad to think it; good, let him know it; it had taken her long enough to make him understand that she hated and despised him too. Thanks be to God and all His saints, praise be to them a thousand times, Mr. Tiralla had left her in peace for months, from the day his son had returned home, the day she had failed in her attempt with the poisonous corn. The saints had not permitted it at the time, and it was a good thing, for since he had taken such a liking to the bottle, she had got rid of him in that way. She had had nothing to confess to Father Szypulski.

"Thanks be to the holy saints." The woman devoutly made the sign of the cross as she stood before the glass. Then she thrust her hands through her hair and pulled her long, thick tresses down, so that they hung around her like a smooth, silky mantle. She shook them and drew a deep breath. How heavy, oppressive, and disquieting the room felt.

She went to the window, opened it with an impatient movement, and leant out as far as she could. It was like spring outside. The night was dark and mild, there was a smell of the earth in the air and the stars were twinkling. Just over the farm there was such a golden light, that she could see a couple walking up and down near the pond with their arms thrown round each other.

It was Marianna. But with whom? The man was tall, taller than Mikolai. A deadly fear overpowered her; she would not stand that, she had better run downstairs. But it was not Becker, he had not that clumsy, rolling gait, he was much more erect. But even if it were not he, how she envied the girl down there.

She pressed both hands to her face; she would not look at them, she would not listen to their whispers. But a shiver ran through her similar to what she had only felt once before in her life, and of which she now no longer knew if it had been sweet or terrible. She felt as she had done that time in the quiet room in early, long-gone-by days, when she had lain on her knees before her best friend and had implored, demanded his help. In those days that shiver full of presage and bliss had almost bereft her of her senses; she could have shouted with joy and still have died of weeping. Now, so long afterwards, she once more felt the same kind of shiver.

She turned away. She staggered from the window to the glass as though she were about to faint, and stared into it with half-closed, swimming eyes. The balmy air blew in through the open window and fanned her bare shoulders, neck, and arms. It felt like a soft hand, and she held her breath as it caressed her. She kept her eyes fixed on the glass; was she not too old, was she really young enough? Oh, yes. She had to laugh. A voice within her seemed to say, "You still look like a girl and you are still like a girl." And when she came to think of it, was she Mr. Tiralla's wife in the eyes of God? No. He had forced her, but she was not his wife in spite of that. God alone makes husband and wife.

If only he would come now, if only he were here. "Holy Mary, all ye angels and archangels, ye fourteen helpers in need, lend me your aid."

The woman stretched out her arms as though she were intoxicated. Suddenly she thought she heard somebody coming cautiously upstairs. The floor outside her room creaked.

She rushed to the door and unbolted it with a jubilant cry like one who has been saved. There stood Mr. Tiralla.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The night grew dark, the stars hid themselves behind clouds, as though they were afraid of looking down on StarydwÓr. The balmy wind, which seemed to carry spring on its wings, had brought rain. All at once there came a heavy shower, which turned into a slow drizzle as soon as the warm air had grown cool, and which continued until the misty, grey dawn broke.

The young men buttoned up their coats before starting for the fields. What a change in the weather! They felt chilled to the bone. Somebody might at least have made them a cup of hot coffee. But nobody appeared, and there came no answer to their soft call of "Heigh, Marianna, heigh!" The whole house was as silent as death; it was as though all life were extinct. There was nothing for it; Mikolai had to make the fire and boil the coffee himself, or they would have to leave the house on that wet, sullen-looking morning without something warm to drink.

Mrs. Tiralla had heard their call. She was lying on her bed with open eyes, but was unable to rise. She felt worn-out, bruised in body and mind; she had only sufficient strength left to bite her pillow, so as to suppress her sobs. "Holy Mary, wert thou asleep?" Had the angels and archangels not heard her when she called to them? He, he had come--but not the one she had prayed for.

The woman clenched her fists in impotent fury, whilst her glowing cheeks burned with shame. All the aversion, all the hatred she had ever felt for her husband was nothing compared with this intense, blazing passion that raged within her. How was she to avenge herself? If only she had the poison which she, like a fool, had given back to him. Then she would have rushed downstairs and calmly, quite calmly, poured some of the white powder into his half-open mouth whilst he was lying in his bed snoring. It would have acted, she felt sure of that. The saints would not let innocent animals die, but they would look on with a smile when the devils carried Mi. Tiralla's soul off to hell.

The woman uttered wild curses as she reproached herself for her stupidity. How foolish, how unutterably foolish she had been to give up those powders that could have released her. If she had had them now, she would have given ten years of her life, nay more, her hope of everlasting bliss. "Yes, take it," she groaned, starting up in bed and stretching her clenched fists towards heaven, "take it in exchange for them."

Then she prayed. It was a meaningless jumble of words, for she was beside herself, but still she felt somewhat calmed as she moved her lips and made the sign of the cross and hit her breast. Her thoughts dwelt on the powders as she mechanically repeated the usual prayers. Perhaps she could get them again, after all? He had put them into his writing-desk that day, she had seen him do it. True, it was always locked, but--"Blessed be the Holy Virgin and all the saints," she cried, drawing a breath of relief--but the key was on the ring in his trouser pocket.

She sat down on the side of the bed, and pushing her dishevelled hair away from her distraught-looking face she groped for her slippers. It was still early; he would still be fast asleep and Rosa and Marianna, too, and Martin and Mikolai had already gone to the fields. There would be nobody to frustrate her plans this time.

She could not wait to dress herself properly, but throwing a petticoat on, she thrust her bare feet into her slippers and glided downstairs. She opened the door into Mr. Tiralla's room almost noisily; she was right, there he lay snoring, his eyes closed, his mouth wide open. Quick, quick!

She looked round the room; there stood the old bureau. But, alas, he had got the trousers on in which he always kept the bunch of keys. He had thrown himself on his bed half-dressed; a sock and a trouser-leg were sticking out from under the feather bed which he had drawn around him.

A feeling of intense disappointment took possession of her for a moment. But then a look of contempt crossed her face; he was snoring, he would not notice anything. She conquered the feeling of disgust at having to touch him, drew the feather bed away from his massive body that lay there like a felled log, and put her nimble fingers into his pocket. He was as lifeless as a stone; she hardly considered it necessary to suppress a cry of joy when she held the coveted key in her hand.

She ran to the bureau and stuck it into the lock; the desk creaked loudly as she opened it. There were the drawers. Heedless of danger she turned her back on the bed and began to search for the powders. She opened and closed one drawer after the other with an angry bang at not finding what she sought. Where were they, where could they be? Stop! In this drawer, quick, what was that that gleamed so white and new under all those papers yellow with age? It was the box, the box! She stretched out her hand to seize it--but the hand remained poised in mid-air.

"Psia krew, what are you doing there?" cried Mr. Tiralla. He had awaked.

She wheeled round and they gazed at each other with pale faces. She stood there like a delicate, feathery leaf that a breath of wind has caused to tremble; but he was trembling too. Neither of them was capable of saying a word. Mr. Tiralla had not uttered a sound since his first cry; he was like a man who is being choked, and his face grew purple as he struggled for air. What was she doing there, what did she want, what was she looking for? Why did she come so furtively when he was asleep? Did she want to rob him? He had never refused her any money, it could not be that she was looking for. Perhaps it was for the----? He grew rigid with horror, his tongue hung out of his mouth and he gasped and gasped. "Let, let----" He could not say anything more, but fury, fear, and the horror of it all, extorted from him an inarticulate cry like that of an animal.

Then she, too, gave a shrill cry and ran out of the room with hair flying, leaving the drawers and the desk open.

He remained lying on his bed as though paralyzed; only his eyes wandered timidly from corner to corner. He was so terrified; the strong, stout man felt all at once quite helpless. Had she gone--had she really gone? He listened to every sound. But there was nobody creeping outside in the passage, and everything remained perfectly quiet until Marianna's noisy tread was heard. Then her loud singing in the kitchen and her rattling with the rings on the stove gave him courage, and he stood up and tottered to the bureau with shaking knees, took the box with the powders out of the drawer which she had left open, and hid it inside his shirt. If only she did not find it--if only she did not find it!

Then he staggered to the washstand and stuck his head, which felt dizzy, deep down into the basin. How his face smarted. He was cooling it as the maid came in.

Marianna clasped her hands in dismay. "What is it, Panje?" Oh, dear, what a sight Pan Tiralla was. It was awful, his face was scratched all over. Where had he got it? Had he fallen amongst thorns? She ran into the kitchen lamenting and fetched a little lard to put on it.

Mr. Tiralla sat as quiet as a lamb and let the servant smear his scratches with it, but he never said a word, in spite of Marianna's inquiries. Fallen amongst thorns, fallen amongst thorns, yes, that he had! He continued to nod in a stupid kind of way. Then he groaned and moaned like a man who has been heavily wounded, and laid his head on the table. It was all up, all up. And he had believed, when she was so kind to him the night before, kinder than she had been for a long time--oh, what a fool he had been, what an idiot! He began to cry in a resigned kind of way. He could not think any more; besides, he did not want to think about it any more--what was the good? He could not alter what was coming.

He sent for gin. Ah, that made him feel easier, that did him good. He sat banging the table with his fist, and now and then he would give a hiccoughing sob, "So-phia--So-phia!" He had always loved her so.