lone at the inn. They had made up their minds to
take him by surprise some time, and now they had found him.

"_Psia krew_, old fellow," cried Jokisch, "where have you been? You and
I are neighbours, and still I never see you."

The forester, who had been obliged to complain of Mr. Tiralla formerly,
said to him in a friendly, reproachful voice, "I never meet you in the
Przykop now." Schmielke and the gendarme also gave vent to their
astonishment--why did Mr. Tiralla no more appear at the usual table?
The priest, too, had been very much surprised that he never came to
church either. That was not right, he really must go. He ought to pray
twice as much as others, he the husband of such a pious and--there was
a momentary pause and Mr. Schmielke gave a waggish laugh--beautiful
wife.

They poked each other in the ribs and laughed. Had he really not
noticed anything?

But he glanced at them all in turn with a stupid, dull look, and then
went on drinking as if they were not there. He did not want to have
anything to do with them; he wanted to be left in peace. Why should it
be such a pleasure to them to gloat over him? He had not grown so
stupid but that he could feel they wanted to get some fun out of him.
He gazed about him with a restless look; now this place was embittered
as well. Where could he drink a glass in peace? At home he feared his
wife. She was quite friendly to him now, and would often say to him,
"Have something to drink, do." And when he had complained of the blood
rising to his head, she had told Marianna to bring him a cooling drink
from the cellar. "Why do you want to go into the fields?" she had even
said; [Pg 220] "let the young folks work there. Stop at home. It's so
hot out of doors, you'll get a stroke." She was right, and still he did
not believe in her any more. Why did she advise him in such a kind way
to remain at home? He would have liked to know--yet he dreaded the
knowledge. Is not everybody fond of life? It would be better to pretend
that he had not noticed anything.

But inwardly the man was consumed with a terror that burnt him to such
a degree that his mouth and throat and chest and lungs were as dry as a
parched field that never can get enough moisture. He was obliged to
drink to conquer the fear that always gripped him anew, that took
possession of him day after day, whether he was in the room or in the
passage, in the yard either when the sun shone, or on a moonlit night,
in the ba