ernation, and quickly
repeated a silent prayer.

Whilst kneeling there he heard an angel praying softly. That must be
Rosa. Now he saw her. And when he had finished his prayer and made the
sign of the cross, he pressed her hand and then Mikolai's.

The three put their heads together like the terrified lambs of a flock
over which a storm is raging. "Eternal rest give to him, Lord,"
whispered Rosa, and the two men murmured in response, "and let
perpetual light shine upon him."

Then Martin got up from his knees and went to the door. He longed to be
doing something, for there is always much to see to in a house where
death has entered, and he had once more a warm, living feeling of how
good Mikolai had always been to him, and how much he liked both the
sister and the brother. Somebody would have to run to the village to
tell Father Szypulski first of all, and if possible bring him quickly
to the farm, and then--but the woman barred the way.

"Where are you going?" Her voice no longer sounded firm, it was
trembling.

He tried to pass her without answering--no, she should not hold him
again.

But she followed him into the passage, where she again seized hold of
him. "I shall not let you go, tell me first where you're going."

"Into the village. Let me go, I tell you," He turned his head aside
defiantly, so as to avoid her eyes.

"Swear that you'll come back," she whispered hoarsely, "swear by God
Almighty, by Mr. Tiralla lying dead in there."

[Pg 314]

"I will not swear." He pushed her away.

Then she threw herself on his breast, and her arms held him like
chains. '"Look at me, why do you turn your dear face away? Look at me,
it's I, darling, I, whom you love so. Mr. Tiralla is dead."

She no longer spoke in a whisper, she no longer took care that her
words should remain inaudible to others, and her voice sounded loud in
the echoing passage. "I'm a widow now. I'm free now. Don't go! All I
possess shall be yours. And it's no sin if we love each other. I beg of
you, I implore you, don't go! Stop, my darling, my Martin, stop!"

She slid down and embraced his knees, sobbing; she pressed her face
that was wet with tears against his clothes. "Why are you so cold; why
don't you speak to me? What have I done to you?"

He stood like a tree without bending. "You've not done anything to me,"
he murmured at last, gloomily. "Not to me, but----"

"I've not done anything to him either," she cried, jumping up eagerly
an