What they were suffering now baffles description.
Three weeks had passed; and Lipka, instead of calming down, felt the injury and wrong done increasing every day, nay, every morning and noon and nightfall: whether within the huts or without, cries of indignation resounded, and a craving for revenge, like a hellish weed sown by Satan, sprang up and flourished in every heart. And many a fist was clenched, many a reckless word said, and many an imprecation thundered forth.
So that Roch’s words to soothe them—just as a stick thoughtlessly thrust into a heap of dying embers may make them burst into flame again—had only the effect of rousing the smouldering bitterness and the memory of injustice committed.—That afternoon, but few went to Vespers. They gathered in groups filling the enclosures, or out upon the roads, and even in the tavern, full of grief and uttering fierce curses.
Hanka alone felt a little comforted. Her husband’s praises had filled her with strength and glad expectation, and she was eager to work and show him that she was equal to the emergency—eager beyond all expression.
The other women had left the place; the smith’s wife had gone to sit at Boryna’s bedside; and Hanka went to the sty with Yuzka. They let the pig out: it was so fat that it fell wallowing in the dirt, and refused to stir any more.
“Give it nothing else to eat today, so that its bowels may be cleansed.”
“ ’Twas well, then, that I forgot to feed it this afternoon.”
“Good: if so, we shall kill it tomorrow. Have you told Yagustynka to come?”
“I have. She says she will be here in the evening.”
“Dress yourself and run to Ambrose. He must come here tomorrow after Mass at the latest, and bring with him all things needful.”
“But will he be able?—His Reverence has said two priests will come hither tomorrow to hear confessions.”
“He knows well I’ll give him vodka in plenty: he’ll find time, be sure.—No one can kill a pig, and cut it up, and season it in such good style as he. … And Yagustynka likewise will be of use.”
“Then may I go to town early in the morning for the salt and other seasonings?”
“Say for an airing, you little gadabout.—No, we can get all we want at Yankel’s: I shall go there directly.—And, Yuzka!” she called after her; “where are Pete and Vitek?”
“Out in the meadows, I dare say. I saw Pete take his violin with him.”
“If you find them, send them hither. They must bring round the trough that stands in the outhouse, and place it here in front of the cabin: in the morning, we shall scald and scour it.”
Glad to get out of doors, Yuzka ran straight to Nastka, with whom she went to seek old Ambrose.
Hanka, however, did not go to the tavern then, her father having crawled round to see her.
She gave him something to eat, and had the pleasure of telling him what Roch had said about Antek.—Suddenly Magda burst in, crying:
“Something is the matter with Father: come this instant!”
Boryna was sitting up, his legs out of bed, and looking round the room. Hanka ran to prevent him from falling. He eyed her well, and then looked fixedly on the blacksmith, who had just run in unexpectedly.
“Hanka!”
He spoke aloud, distinctly, in a voice that startled her.
“Here I am,” she answered, trembling.
“How is it out of doors?”
It was a strange voice—strange and broken.
“Spring is here, and the weather warm,” she faltered.
“Are they not up yet? Afield, they should be!”
Bewildered, they sought words in vain: Magda burst out crying.
“Defend what’s yours, boys! No giving way!”
His voice had risen to a shout. Suddenly he stopped, and rocked to and fro so violently in Hanka’s arms that the smith and his wife tried to take her place. But though her arms and back were aching, she held him nevertheless. All three gazed on him, awaiting his next words.
“The barley must be sown first.—To the rescue, boys! Rally round me!” he shrieked all at once in an awful voice, and fell stiffly back, while his eyes closed, and something gurgled in his throat.
“O Lord! he is dying—dying!” Hanka screamed, and shook him with all her might, unconscious of what she did.
Magda put a consecrated taper in his hand, and lit it.
“Michael! The priest!—At once!”
But ere her husband could go out, Boryna opened his eyes; and the taper fell from his hand and broke.
“It has passed. … Look, he seeks something,” Michael whispered, bending over him. But the old man, now quite himself again, pushed him aside unhesitatingly, and called:
“Hanka! Send these folk away!”
Magda, in tears, fell down before him; but he seemed not to know her.
“None of that. … No use. … Send them out,” he repeated obstinately.
“Do pray go—into the passage at least; do not vex him,” she said imploringly.
“Magda, you go: I will not budge hence,” the blacksmith hissed, guessing that Boryna had something to tell Hanka.
But the old man heard and, raising himself up in bed, gave him so terrible a glance as he pointed to the door, that Michael shrank back with a curse and rejoined Magda, who was weeping outside. But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he slipped round as close as he could to the window that was just by the head of Boryna’s bed, and did all he could to make out what was said within.
After the smith had gone, “Sit down here, by my side,” Boryna commanded Hanka. Greatly moved, she obeyed him.
“You will find some money in the larder: hide it, lest it be snatched from you.”
“Where is it?” she asked, trembling with excitement.
“In amongst the corn.”
He spoke distinctly, stopping at every word. Mastering her fear, she looked into his eyes, which glistened strangely.
“Defend Antek … rather sell half the property. … He must not be forsaken. …”
He said no more, but fell back on to the pillow, trying to stammer a word
