t was done, now he would get on with the wreath, which
was not yet up. He would also tell them to have the yard thoroughly
swept, the [Pg 176] stables and sheds tidied up, as well as the
coachhouse, thrashing-floor, and harness-room. Everything was to be
bright and clean when the young master came home.

But the man no longer felt happy. Why not? Mr. Tiralla sighed and cast
a timorous look round the room. His Sophia's black eyes, which were so
beautiful that they could steal a man's heart out of his body, could
look very terrible--ugh! very terrible. They gazed at him from every
corner; their glances seemed to pierce his body. What was it that
Marianna used to say? "Let that wicked look fall on the dog," and then
she would make the sign of the cross. He did the same now, but he felt
that it was of no avail at the present moment. It did not exorcize the
restlessness that made him walk up and down the room, the strange
feeling of terror that took possession of him and seemed to encircle
him in such an incomprehensible way. What did those eyes betray? Thank
God, Rosa had not such eyes, that looked like black, poisonous berries,
like the deadly nightshade that intoxicates you and then kills you.

Mr. Tiralla stood pondering gloomily, his brows contracted. He did not
think much as a rule, but to-day he had fallen into a reverie.

He could not recover his good humour, even after he had put the last
nail into the wreath with Rosa, and when she went to a sewing class in
the village--she no longer went to school--he felt quite forlorn.
Nothing was to be seen of Mrs. Tiralla; nobody knew what had become of
her. So he sat down in the kitchen with the maid--he could not stand
being alone--and told her to fetch him something to drink.

She had not got the key of the wine cellar, as the Pani kept it, and
there was no wine out. But Mr. [Pg 177] Tiralla put his back firmly
against the lattice door. It yielded to his strength and flew open, and
in the future it was to remain so.

Marianna triumphantly dragged one bottle after the other upstairs.

It was not yet ten o'clock in the morning when Mr. Tiralla had finished
the first bottle of Tokay. But even that did not improve his temper. By
eleven o'clock the second bottle had been emptied; but his temper was
no better, his head was only heavier. It would have to be gin if he
wanted to be in a good humour--real Geneva, which looked as clear as
water in the glass.

When they sat down