There was mourning in the little village high up in the Tatras, as the Carpathian Mountains are called by the Slovaks. Nine men and women lay dead and four lay wounded behind carefully closed doors of the little homes. Scarcely a person except Magyar gendarmes was to be seen on the one main street. Now and then the curious, frightened face of a child peeped out from behind the shaded windows, and again quickly disappeared.

The day before, Magyar officers and priests had come to consecrate the little square church that had just been erected. It had cost the villagers many sacrifices, but they were proud of it. They had come dressed in their best and full of gayety to the services, never dreaming but that their beloved Slovak pastor would be allowed to assist. When they found, however, that he had been ignored, they pressed closely around those in charge and begged that he be allowed to take part, that they might feel that the church was actually their own.

Did they beg too hard? Was it because they were loyal to a leader who loved and sympathized with his own people? Was that why Magyar guns suddenly boomed, and why the ground lay covered with blood?

The news of the happening spread even to the little village in the more fertile plains, where Jozef lived. The twelve-year-old boy heard it discussed the very next day as he accompanied the haymakers to the fields. In order to hear, he found it necessary to keep close to the men and women, for they spoke only in half whispers, fearing spies sent out by the Notary, chief officer of the Commune, who seemed to count it among his duties to keep tab on their very thoughts. They knew that they could do nothing, and it gave them a cowed, dejected air. Never had a haying been so dismal.

The killing, dangerous as the topic was, drew the men to the tavern at night. They sat at the plain deal tables in small groups and drank and smoked their long pipes. Now and then one had something to say. Perhaps it concerned the fate of some woman who had resisted the officers during the mad effort at Slovak denationalization in 1892, when forcible transportation of children to purely Magyar districts had been undertaken. Or it may have dealt with the imprisonment of some editor who had had the courage to denounce some new injustice or atrocity.

A tall athletic-looking man with a broad smooth-shaven face, and hair worn rather long, seemed to be listened to with greatest attention. He was plainly from some other district, for his attire was different from that of his companions. It consisted of felt trousers, the seams piped with red, a linen shirt and a sheepskin waistcoat with the wool inside, heavily embroidered on the leather side. His shoes were of soft leather, laced with rawhide thongs across the ankle, and he wore a low, black hat decorated with a red ribbon band.

"I was living in Turciansky Sv. Martin, our one national center, when the effort was made to establish a cellulose factory there," he was saying. "It was one of the many efforts on the part of Slovaks to be more prosperous and progressive. Like other citizens, I invested considerable money in it. The building was erected and the machinery installed and we were awaiting our license from the government, when word came that it could not be given to the present management. We were dumbfounded, although we understood. We were not to be allowed to run our own factory because we did not help oppress our fellow citizens; because we were loyal to our Slovak traditions and to our Slovak land.

"We did not give in without making an effort to secure justice. But, after several months, we knew that we were defeated. During all this time we had not been allowed to do any work in the factory. One thing, finally, the authorities permitted, and that was to run the costly machinery once a week, so that it should not grow rusty. Of course we had to sell, and at a heavy loss to people eagerly awaiting to develop what we had started."

The peasants near nodded their appreciation of the conditions. One more excitable than his fellows jumped up.

"Will a time never come when we shall be free? Will a time never come when the world recognizes the crime of using force to make people false to their own traditions?" he exclaimed. "To outsiders the Magyars boast of their liberal constitution, of the freedom granted to other nations in the kingdom. We who have no opportunities, who are not allowed a single higher school of our own, nor even a single Magyar Higher School where our language is taught, know what a lie this is. And what advantage is the Magyar language to our children outside of Hungary? Go even to Vienna or anywhere else in the monarchy, and try to make yourself understood with it! You'll see! And we were here before the Magyars; we helped them to know the glorious religion of Jesus Christ; we fought and bled as well as they for our native land." Here his voice changed curiously and a sort of exaltation lit up his face as he said softly: "We must have faith." Then he began to repeat some lines taken from the great Slovak poet Kollar's "Slavy Dcera" (The Daughter of Slava).

Then again:

And once more:

Here in a rich bass voice he broke forth into the Slovak national song: "Nad Tatrou sa bliska":

At the conclusion, a peculiar silence brooded in the room. Suddenly, little anxious twitchings might have been noticed. The singer turned. In the doorway stood the Notary with a wicked, sneering smile on his supercilious face.