This went on for a pretty long time. Antek stood drinks to all the company, whom the Jew served very willingly, chalking up every litre twice upon the door.
Their heads were now turning, and they all went to dance together, thinking it might sober them a little; and Antek with Yagna led the dance.
At that moment, out of the private room came Boryna, whom the women, shocked at what was going on, had brought to see. Instantly he understood everything, and was transported with rage. He buttoned up his capote, seized his fur cap, and pushed on to Yagna. They made way for him, shrinking from the old man’s face, pale as death, and his eyes that glared with fury.
“Home!” he commanded in a loud voice, as the couple approached, and tried to seize her arm. But Antek, spinning on his heel, bore her away, so that she could not free herself from him.
And then Boryna, leaping forwards, broke through the ring of dancers, tore her from Antek’s arms, and never let her leave his grasp till they were out of the tavern. He had not so much as glanced at his son.
Thereupon the band ceased playing; a sinister silence fell upon them all, and they stood as though petrified. All saw that some awful thing was about to take place; for Antek had gone out after them, pushing the throng aside like sheaves of corn and rushing into the night. But the sudden and intense cold made him giddy; he stumbled over a tree-trunk that lay in front of the house, and into a snowdrift. Rising swiftly, however, he came up with them at the turning of the road by the pond.
“Go your ways and let folk be!” the old man cried, turning upon him.
Yagna ran shrieking into the hut; but Yuzka put a heavy cudgel into her father’s hand, screaming:
“Down with that ruffian, dad! down with him!”
“Let her go … let her go!” Antek vociferated, quite beside himself, coming on with clenched fists to the attack.
“Off, I say! or, as there’s a God in heaven, I kill you like a dog! Off!” the old man cried again, ready to strike a crushing blow. … And Antek instinctively shrank back; his arms fell to his sides. A sudden panic had taken hold of him; he shuddered with dread, and let his father go slowly home.
He had no longer even the thought of leaping after him as he went away, but stood trembling, distracted, and casting bewildered looks around. No one was there; the moon shone, the snows sparkled, a sombre whiteness made things just visible. He could not understand what had taken place, and only came partly to his right mind a little later, when brought back to the tavern by the friends who had come out to render assistance, having heard there had been a fight between him and his father.
The merrymaking was all over now, and the people were going to their homes, for it was late. The tavern had now emptied itself, but there were, along the road, a few shouts and cries. No one remained but the folk of Rzepki, who were to spend the night there, and to whom Mr. Yacek was playing such weirdly and wailingly mournful airs that they sighed as they sat listening, elbows on table and arms propping chins. Antek moped all alone in a corner, apart from the others: talk with him was out of the question; for when they spoke, he would not answer. There, then, he sat dazed and stunned, and the Jew reminded him in vain that the house was about to close: he neither made out nor heard what was said. It was only at Hanka’s voice, who had been told he had again come to blows with his father, that he roused himself.
“What do you want?” he snarled.
“Come home. It is late,” she said beseechingly, restraining her tears.
“Go yourself. With you I will not go.—Away, I tell you!” he cried in a threatening voice. Then, on a sudden, moved by some unaccountable impulse, he came close and hissed in her ear: “Were I chained and fettered in a prison cell, I should still be more free than with you beside me—far more!”
Hanka withdrew at once, weeping bitterly.
The night was moonlit and serene. The trees threw long bluish-silvery shadows. The frost nipped very hard, making the fence-hurdles crackle from time to time, and a sort of quiet rustling sound rise up from the scintillating snow. Save for this faint susurration in the still night, all the land lay silent. The villagers slept; no light came from any window, not a dog barked, mill and mill-stream were alike soundless. Antek could just hear—faint like a sound heard in sleep—the husky voice of Ambrose, singing (according to his wont when drunk) in the middle of the road.
With slow and heavy steps, he plodded round the millpond, stopping at times to cast bewildered looks from side to side, and listening with dread to his father’s awful words, that were still ringing in his ears. Still, too, did he see those stern, fierce, baleful eyes: they pierced him like a knife! Instinctively he winced before them: terror gripped him by the throat, his heart sank within him, and his hair stood on end. And they blotted
