n of the cross
over him and wanted to fold his hands, but Mrs. Tiralla pushed her
aside--"Leave him!" What had he got there? The woman's eyes dilated; he
was clenching a small box in one hand, a box she knew very well. The
lid had fallen on the ground, and the powders wrapped in paper had been
torn out and were lying beside him near a brick on which there was a
cobweb. She stared open-mouthed--rat poison! Look, there was the
grinning death's head above the cross-bones!

In the other hand the dead man was still holding an empty paper, and
some grains of sugar still clung to the wild-looking stubble on his
sunken chin.

"Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" The widow threw herself on her knees, made the
sign of the cross, and bent her forehead to the ground. "I give
his soul to you." Her lips continued to move in prayer, whilst her
thoughts flew on. So he had got some of the poison after all? He had
kept it hidden--_she_ had not known where--he had taken some of it
himself--pilfered some of it like a boy pilfers sugar--he had died of
it.

She made the sign of the cross again and again. "Holy Mary, reconcile
him to Thy Son, commend him to Thy Son, bring him to Thy Son." The
saints had willed it, the saints had been gracious to him--and to her
too.

Mrs. Tiralla could not help it, but she no longer felt the slightest
animosity towards the man lying there. She touched his forehead with
her lips, then folded his hands and tried to close his eyes, "May he
rest in peace."

Then she sent the weeping servant to fetch his [Pg 311] children whilst
she remained on her knees alone with the dead. She felt no fear. It was
as though a light had risen for her in the dark stables, and as though
she must thank the dead man for it as well as the saints.

Mikolai was not so calm, the calamity had affected him deeply. His
father, his old father. And he had died in all his sins without the
consecrated candle, without a priest, and without absolution. He could
not compose himself, he sobbed so.

He and Marianna vied with each other in weeping. He and she had carried
Mr. Tiralla into the house, and their tears had fallen on him like warm
rain, drop by drop, a constant flow.

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

The sun had risen over Starydwor when Martin Becker awoke, disturbed by
sobbing and wailing. He had slept very heavily. He had been so
exhausted by emotion and the decision that he had arrived at after a
long strugg