Sunset was gilding the corn, and the trees in bloom were throwing lengthier shadows; the millpond shone dazzlingly in its lovely frame of orchards, snowy with fallen blossoms. The village lay beneath them as at the bottom of an enormous dish, and so compassed about with trees that the grey barns were but seldom visible. The church alone lifted its white walls up above all the huts, its golden cross gleaming bright in the sky.
“How still it is! I hope it will not rain tonight,” said the priest.
“It will not; the sky has emptied itself out, and there’s a cool breeze.”
“In the forenoon it was raining; and now, not a trace of water!”
“In spring the water vanishes quick,” the blacksmith chimed in.
Now they had come to the next mound, that formed a landmark of the commune. It was very large: they said that men lay under it who had been slain in “The War.” It was topped by a small cross of shaky timber, adorned with last year’s images and garlands, and draped with many a scarf. Close by stood a willow with forked and rotten trunk, that hid the fissures of old age under the new shoots that it bore. The place was drearily waste and sinister: no birds made their nest near it. Fruitful lands extended on every side; but among these the mound lifted up its barren flanks, with yellow streaks of sand, and abounding only in houseleeks that spread here and there in patches like a foul tetter, along with the dried stalks of last year’s mullein and nightshade.
They recited the prayers against the plague, and, quickening their pace, turned on again to the left, beyond the poplar road, following a narrow and deeply rutted cartway.
But Agata stayed behind a little to tear off some bits of scarf from the cross. These, as she once more went after the procession, she buried one by one in the field-paths, for some superstitious purpose of hers.
The organist now began the litany, which, however, was taken up but feebly, only a few of the people responding.
Meanwhile, the priest, now much exhausted, was wiping his bald head, looking round on the neighbouring lands, and conversing with the Voyt.
“I see the peas have come out finely here.”
“An early crop, no doubt, and well-prepared soil.”
“I sowed some before Holy Week, and yet mine are only just peeping out!”
“Because your Reverence’s land lies low and is exposed to the north.”
“Why, the barley here sprouts up as regular as if sown with a drill!”
“The Modlitsa folk are good husbandmen, and till their lands like the Manor people.”
“Ah, but how wretchedly our fields have been tilled, God forgive us!” the priest ejaculated mournfully.
The blacksmith laughed sneeringly. “Tilled by charity! One must not look a gift-horse in the mouth!”
“You little rascals! If you don’t leave off, I’ll pull your ears!” the priest cried out to some urchins who were shying stones at partridges.
The conversation ceased, for the organist began to chant, the smith accompanying him, and the women’s voices rising up in a dolorous chorus; and the litany floated across the land like a bevy of birds that, tired by a long flight, sink slowly down towards the ground.
On they pushed through the green plots, and the men of Modlitsa, and even those farther away, stopped work to take off their caps or even kneel down in the fields, while the cattle raised their horned heads and lowed.
They were about a furlong away from the third mound and the poplar road, when someone gave a loud shout:
“There are peasants, coming out of the wood!”
“Our own people, perchance!”
“Our own! our own!” they cried, and there was a rush forward.
“Stay!” the priest commanded severely. “God’s service first!”
They obeyed indeed, but stamped on the ground with impatience. All now crowded together behind the priest, who, though he kept them back, hurried his steps himself.
A breeze had sprung up, putting the tapers out, waving the banners, and making the rye, the brushwood, and the trees in bloom to bow before the procession as it passed. The people sang more loudly, and were almost breaking into a run, peeping the while between the roadside trees to make out the peasants’ white capotes.
“They will not run away from you!” the priest said, reprovingly, for they were pressing close, treading on his heels.
Hanka, who walked in the ranks of the goodwives, cried out aloud on perceiving the white capotes. And though without hope to behold Antek with the others, the sight filled her with the most intense delight.
Yagna too, who was walking by her mother’s side, felt impelled to run forward. A fever of desire had taken hold of her, and her teeth chattered so that she could not clench them. Nor were the other women less eager to meet their loved ones. More than one of the lasses and lads could not hold back any more, and, though called back, ran on by a shortcut to the road, their legs twinkling as they ran.
The procession was soon at Boryna’s cross, just in front of the mound which formed the boundary between the Lipka territory and the Manor lands.
And there, under the birches that overshadowed the cross—there they stood all—their goodmen—their sweethearts! On seeing the procession, they had uncovered their heads, and all the women could see the long-desired faces of their husbands and fathers and brothers and sons: emaciated and haggard, but shining with joy!
“The Ploshkas!”—“The Sikoras!”—“Matthew!”—“Klemba!”—“Poor dear ones!”—“Our best-beloved!”—“O Lord Jesus!”—“O Holy Mother!”—Invocations, cries, whispers of love filled the air: every eye blazed with gladness, every hand was stretched forth, every mouth uttered shouts of exultation. But the priest silenced them all with a word, and, advancing towards the cross, he calmly read the prayer: “From fire. …” But he could not read fast; he was unable to help looking
