as Mr. Tiralla--he could still collect his thoughts, if he took the
trouble to do so--and he was thinking of the man who loved him as a
friend and son. But very soon Mrs. Tiralla took entire possession of
his thoughts. He looked around and listened for her step, and strained
his eyes so in the dark that they watered. Was he to leave the house
without a single kiss? _Psia krew_, he would not do that. He swore in
an undertone, for he had suddenly grown brutal. He would be paid, paid
for every visit. It was no pleasure to him to get drunk with that
fellow. If she did not come now, then----There was still [Pg 264] time
to go away and never come back, to become again as he had been before.
If he were to ask to be removed and left the neighbourhood, and never
more put his foot inside the door at Starydwor? Let Mr. Tiralla drink
himself to death, alone. But if he were never to see this woman again?

The fresh air in the yard cooled his brow as he stepped out of the
house. "Ah!" He drew a deep breath; air, thank God. There was still
time, still time.

At that moment he heard the rustle of a dress in the dark passage, a
furtive whisper of "Pan Boehnke!" and turning round he stretched out his
arms in a transport of delight. "My darling, my sweet one!"

She did not respond to his kisses, but he did not notice it in his joy;
and he did not see either in the dark how she pressed her eyes together
and screwed up her face. All he heard was her whisper in his ear, "How
are you getting on? I hope you've filled his glass frequently? How is
he? Please tell me, will it still last long?"

He did not answer her; he had buried his mouth in her hair, and his
lips were glued to its silky waves like those of a thirsty man. When
she wanted to free herself in her impatience, "Speak, why don't you
tell me, how much longer?" he clasped her still more closely without
replying. There was no escape for her. They were standing like a pair
of lovers, almost melted into one; her head was lying on his breast as
though welded to it by the pressure of his arms. Thus her eyes and ears
were closed, and he--he only felt her.

At that moment the door of Mr. Tiralla's room was gently opened and the
old man stuck his head out timidly. Had his little Boehnke, his friend,
succeeded in escaping?

[Pg 265]

The sick man was tortured by the idea that they wanted to kill the
schoolmaster just because he was his, Pan Tiralla's, brother and
friend, his only frie