Here someone broke in: “No sooner had I heard there was a fire at Boryna’s than I knew it was Antek’s doing.”
“Tush, ye talk as though ye had seen him do it.”
“Seen him I have not; but all say it is he.”
“Why, Yagustynka has been whispering something of the sort for ever so long.”
“Of course they will put him in the stocks, and then in prison.”
“But,” cried Balcerkova, whose pride was that she knew the law, “what can they do to him? Who has seen the man? What witnesses are there?”
“Well, but did not Boryna catch him in the act?”
“Yes; but not in that act.—Besides, even had it been that, his testimony is worthless, because he is at odds with his son!”
“After all, ’tis the court’s business, not ours; but who, before God and man, is guilty of it all, if not that foul wench Yagna?” Balcerkova continued sternly, raising her voice.
“You say true!—Ah, such wickedness, such depravity!” they assented, speaking lower and thronging closer, as they recounted her former misdeeds.
Little by little, their voices rose loud in condemnation of Yagna’s behaviour. All the old offences which had caused their hatred, now again returned to their minds: a shower of epithets, reproaches, threats, and evil spiteful words, were hurled at her; and their fury was so hot that, had she appeared among them at that instant, she would surely have been attacked and beaten.
The men, on the other side, were discussing Antek, more calmly, but not with less animosity. Every heart was full of indignation and bitterness. More than one fist was shaken with dangerous menace, more than one word of harsh import flew about. Even Matthew, who had been on his side at first, forsook him now, only saying:
“Well, if the man had dared to attempt such a thing, he must needs be out of his mind.”
Thereupon the blacksmith entered the lists, speaking loud, with furious passion, and pointing out to them that Antek had long ago threatened his father he would burn him down; that Boryna had known of his threats, and been in the habit of keeping watch every night.
“Yes, I could take my oath it was he that did it.—Besides, there are witnesses who will speak; he must—he must be punished! Was he not always plotting with the farmhands, setting them against their betters, egging them on to evil deeds?—Yes, and I know,” he cried in threatening tones, “I know more than one of these—I see them here before me, and they hear me speak … and yet they dare to stand up for such a scoundrel—one who taints the whole place! … To prison, to Siberia with the wretch! What—with his own stepmother! Was not that crime heinous enough, without adding to it arson besides? ’Tis a wonder any of us is yet alive!” … And so he went on, shrieking and shouting so vehemently that he might be guessed to have a purpose in doing so.
Roch, who stood with Klemba not far off, took good note of this, and said:
“Ye make a mighty uproar against him, yet ye were drinking with him in the tavern only yesterday!”
“Whoso would beggar all the village is my foe!”
“And yet,” Klemba gravely remarked, “the Squire is no foe of yours!”
The smith then strode off amongst the people, stirring them up, calling them to take revenge, and laying unheard-of offences to Antek’s account; and his hearers, already greatly moved, were presently wrought to the very highest pitch of rage. Some began to cry that the incendiary ought to be seized, fettered, and taken to the police-court; while others, of yet more fiery mettle (those especially whose ribs had in days past felt Antek’s cudgel), were now looking for sticks, intending to drag him from his cabin and give him such a thrashing as he would remember to his dying day.
The clamour grew, with cries, threats, curses, and a hullabaloo so great that the folk swayed hither and thither like a spinney in a gale, rolling to and from the palings of the enclosure, and preparing to pour out through the gate into the road. The Voyt came to pacify them, but without avail; nor did the Soltys and the elders of the village succeed any better. Their voices were lost in the uproar, and they were themselves swept away by the torrent. No one heeded what they said: everyone dashed on, tore along, and shouted with all the force of his lungs: the whole band, carried forward by a tempest of hate, appeared like men possessed.
At that moment, Kozlova elbowed her way forward, vociferating:
“There are two culprits: let both be dragged to the place of their crime and judged there!”
The married women, especially the poorest of all, took up the cry with a hideous bellow and, with arms stretched forth, placed themselves by her side. The mob rolled on with the din of a raging torrent.
The howling and shrieking grew as they went on, delayed by the narrow fenced road; they all pressed together, surging along, shrieking, shaking their fists, and lurched against one another, glaring with sinister glances; and a savage many-sounding voice, the cry of universal exasperation, burst from them as they hastened on, intent upon their purpose.—Suddenly those in front cried out:
“The priest! the priest!—And with the Sacred Host!”
At this the mob moved uneasily, as if held back by a chain—wavered, spread out upon the road, stopped, and broke up into little groups. A hush fell all at once upon them: they were struck speechless—fell on their knees and, kneeling, bowed down their heads.
It was indeed the priest, coming out of the church, and bearing with him Christ’s Body—the holy viaticum. Ambrose walked on in front, ringing a bell and swinging a lantern.
He went swiftly past, and presently, in the eddying snowfall, was seen only as a
