Round the church the procession went, Kuba sheltering his taper well with one hand, as he doggedly limped on, close to the priest, over whom Boryna, the blacksmith, the Voyt, and Thomas Klemba bore a red canopy. Under this, the golden-rayed Monstrance shot forth its beams, and was so directly turned to the sun that you could see it shine through the semi-transparency of the Sacred Host at the centre.
He was so absorbed that he more than once stumbled or trod upon someone’s foot.
“Clumsy one, take heed!”
“You lame scarecrow, you!”
But he did not hear these invectives. Grandly the chants resounded, rising like billows of melody that dashed and broke around that pale white sun within the Monstrance. The throats of bronze overhead unceasingly rolled out their sonorous notes into the air, till the maples and the linden-trees shook their boughs, and now and then some reddish leaf flew down from their tops, like a frightened bird. And high, very high above them, over the church steeple and the drooping trees, a flock of startled doves was wheeling.
The service was over, and they all poured into the cemetery round the church, Kuba amongst the rest.
Though he knew there would be a feast that day at the farmhouse, he was in no hurry, but stayed to talk with his acquaintances, and gradually drew near his masters, where Antek and his wife were standing in conversation with others, as is the custom after High Mass.
Another group, that had met in the road outside the lich-gate, had for leader the blacksmith: a stalwart fellow, dressed town-fashion from head to foot, in a black capote (spotted with drops of wax on the back!), and a dark-blue cap; he wore his trousers over his boots, and a silver chain adorned his waistcoat. His face was ruddy, his hair curly, his moustache red, his talk loud. And his laugh too: his was the smartest wit in all the village, and when he made a butt of anyone—well, that man’s lot was not happy. Boryna watched him and listened. He could make out that the blacksmith spared not even his own people. Was he, then, likely to spare a father-in-law, with whom he was at odds for his wife’s dowry? But Boryna could not hear much: Dominikova, just leaving church with Yagna, now passed in front of him. They did not get on fast, for they stopped in the churchyard to greet or converse with many people. He heard a few words about the priest, said by Dominikova in low and pious tones; meanwhile Yagna looked about her at the people. Having the advantage of a stature as tall as the tallest there, she was also looked at by many a farmhand, who smoked cigarettes and grinned at her from outside the lich-gate. She was indeed a fine woman, and well dressed, and with such a bearing that many a country gentleman’s daughter could scarce vie with her.
The girls and married women who passed by all gazed on her, either in envy or simply with the desire of feasting their eyes on her striped skirt of rich stuff and ever-changing rainbow tints; her black highlows, laced up with red shoestrings to where the dainty white stockings appeared; her corset of cherry-coloured velvet, gold-embroidered, flaming, dazzling; and the strings of amber and coral beads she wore round her full white throat, whence a bunch of parti-coloured ribbons streamed down her back.
But Yagna took no note of envious looks. Her deep-blue eyes strayed to and fro, till they met Antek’s, fixed upon her; then she flushed crimson, and plucked at her mother’s sleeve to go home.
“Wait a little, Yagna!” the latter called after her, greeting Boryna.
She could hardly get away, for the farmhands were now crowding about her, with salutations and jests—the latter addressed to Kuba, and not without a sharp tang. For Kuba was following her, and staring as at some fair picture. With a gesture of contempt, he turned to limp home; his masters were going that way, and he had to see to the horses.
“Yes, she’s a picture!” he blurted out, when he had seated himself in the porch.
Yuzka was just then bringing the dinner in. “Who’s a picture?” she asked.
He cast his eyes down, abashed and afraid lest he should have betrayed himself. But the dinner was long and abundant; so he soon forgot all about that.
They all ate leisurely, with grave miens and in silence, until the edge of their appetite was blunted, and they could now talk and enjoy their meal with more dainty zest.
Yuzka was that day on duty as housewife, and saw to it that the platters should be always properly supplied, ever and anon bringing more food, lest the bottom of any dish perchance be seen.
The porch where they were dining was obviously the best place in such pleasant weather. Lapa ran to and fro, whining for food, and even rising up to look into the dishes, till someone threw him a bone. He carried it off, and barked for joy when his masters called him by name, and jumped at the sparrows, perched upon the hedge in expectation of crumbs to eat.
Passersby merrily wished them joy: to which good wishes they all would answer with thanks in chorus.
“I hear you have been taking some birds to his Reverence,” Boryna said.
“Yes, I have.” And, setting down his spoon, Kuba told how the priest had invited him into the room, and what a number of big books he had seen there.
“When has he time to read them all?” Yuzka wondered.
“When? Why, of an evening. He walks about the room, and drinks tea, and is continually reading.”
“Books of piety they must all be,” Kuba added.
“What else should they be? Not spelling-books, surely!”
“He reads the paper the village factor brings him daily,”
