“Are ye seeking the Voyt? He is not at home, but at the miller’s,” said Yagustynka, appearing unexpectedly.
He turned suddenly, and made for the mill; he could not bear that old mischief-maker.
She, however, following and walking fast at his side, said in a low whisper:
“Pray look in at the Prycheks’—and at Philip’s too—I beg you.”
“If I can be of any use. …”
“They begged me so to ask you.—Pray visit them!”
“Good, but I must see the Voyt first.”
“Thanks, and God bless you!”
He felt her lips tremble as she kissed his hand. He was amazed: she had usually been on skirmishing terms with him.
“To everyone,” she said further, “there comes a time when, like a stray dog, driven away by all folk, one is glad to be caressed by some kindly hand.” And ere he could find a word to reply, she hurried away.
He was told that the Voyt was no longer at the miller’s, but had driven over to town with the gendarmes. And Franek ushered him into his own little room, where several people from Lipka and the neighbouring villages were sitting to have their corn ground. Roch would have waited there, but Tereska, the soldier’s wife, who sat with the others, came to him timidly and in secret, to get news of Matthew Golab.
“Ye were with the prisoners, and must know, surely. Is he in good health and spirits? … When will they let him out?” She put these questions, however, with downcast eyes.
He looked at her with stern sorrow. “And your goodman in the army, how is he? Is he well? and like to come home soon?”
She blushed deeply and fled away into the mill.
He shook his head. “Poor blind creature!” he thought, and went after her. But the lamps were burning dimly in a dusky air, full of meal-dust, and he could not find where she had hidden herself from him. The mill went clattering on; the waters hurled themselves upon the wheels with such incessant din; the wind roared round the roof and walls, so like wheat pouring out of some enormous sack, that all was in a quiver, and, it seemed, about to fly to pieces. Roch then gave up the search, and went to see those poor people according to his promise.
Now the night had fallen; here and there lamps twinkled amongst the tossing trees like wolves’ bright eyes. But, all around, it was strangely luminous; the huts were seen clear-cut in the distance; the sky hung aloft, bluish-black and cloudless, save for a few flying scuds like scattered snowflakes; and the stars oversprinkled it in ever denser multitudes, while the gale waxed mightier and mightier, and reigned over all the land.
So, all night long, it continued blowing. Few could close their eyes. It made such a terrible draught in the huts, and smote the boughs against the walls, and broke the windowpanes, and tore and beat on the huts like butting rams, till they feared it might carry Lipka away bodily into space!
It subsided a little before dawn; but hardly had the crowing cocks sung daybreak, and the weary inhabitants fallen asleep, when the thunders uttered their roars, the lightnings blazed across the sky with bloodred streaks, and a torrent of rain poured down. It was said afterwards that a thunderbolt had then fallen somewhere in the forest.
But when morning had fully come, it cleared up gloriously; the rain ceased, warmth came steaming up from the fields, the small birds chirruped cheerily; and though the sun was hidden still, the white low-sailing clouds fell asunder and the azure sky appeared. And folk predicted fine weather.
All through the village now arose lamentations and outcries. Very much harm had been done by the gale; the roads were so strewn with rows of fallen trees across them, and fences blown over the ways, with portions of torn-off roofs, that they were impassable.
At the Ploshkas’, the sties had fallen, crushing all their geese to death! There was no hut but had suffered in the storm: so the enclosures were filled with women as full of tears as a showery day.
Hanka had just sallied forth to inspect the farm-buildings and see what damage had been done, when she met Sikora’s wife, who came rushing into the yard.
“What! have ye not heard? Staho’s hut has fallen! By a miracle, they have escaped being crushed,” she cried from afar.
“Jesu Maria!”
The news petrified her.
“I have come for you.—Those folk are clean out of their wits!”
Throwing an apron over her head, Hanka ran to the spot.
It was quite true. Nothing of Staho’s cabin remained but the walls. All the roof had gone, except a few broken rafters, still hanging above. The chimney, too, had fallen: only a ruined fragment of it stood there, like the snag of a decayed tooth. The floor was covered with splinters and bits of thatch.
Veronka, sitting outside the wall on a heap of fallen rubbish, was embracing her little ones, who wept aloud with her.
Hanka rushed to comfort her through the crowd she was surrounded with; but she saw nothing, heard nothing, and her sobs continued, violent and convulsive.
“O my poor, my miserable children!” she moaned, and several other women shed tears of compassion, to hear her.
“Whither shall we wretched creatures go? where lay our heads?” she cried frantically, clasping her children in her arms.
Old Bylitsa, meanwhile, shrunken, haggard, livid as a corpse, went about the ruins, now driving the fowls together, now giving a few wisps of hay to the cow, tethered to a cherry-tree, now crouching close to the wall, whistling to the dog, and staring at the people like a man demented.
They thought, indeed, that he was out of his mind.
With a sudden movement, they all made way, bowing to the very ground: it was the parish priest, come upon them unexpectedly.
“Ambrose has just informed me of this calamity. Where is Stahova?”
They drew aside for him to see her;
