Pete had grown insolent of late—no doubt the smith had tampered with him; he did no more work than he chose. Once she had been in town: he had spent the whole day out of doors; and as she threatened to call him to account before Antek on his return:
“On his return?” was the jeering reply. “Bandits are never set free in such wise!”
The impertinent words made her blood boil, and she would have longed to strike him on the mouth; but what good would that have done? She had to pocket her affronts, till the right time should come. Otherwise, the man would leave, and all would be thrown on her hands. She could hardly manage to pull through as it was, and her health was breaking down under the strain. “Steel is devoured by rust, and rocks last but for a season”; how, then, could a feeble woman hold out forever?
One day—May was then drawing to an end—the priest had driven off with the organist to a local festival. Ambrose had been drinking so deep with the Germans (who now looked frequently in at the tavern) that he was not there to toll the evening Angelus, nor to open the church-door for the May service!
It was therefore decided to have the service in the burying-ground, where, close to the lich-gate, there stood a little shrine containing a statue of the Mother of God. Every May, the girls adorned it with paper ribbons and a gilt crown, and cast wild flowers all around, doing likewise all they could to preserve it from complete ruin. It was of great antiquity, and so cracked and crumbling and dilapidated that the birds no longer made their nests in it; and if a shepherd-boy ever took shelter there, it was only during the autumn rains. To some extent it was screened from the winter storms by the churchyard trees, the old lindens, some slender birches, and a few crosses which stood near, leaning out of the perpendicular.
A good many people had assembled, and quickly decked the shrine with flowers and verdure; and, having placed a taper and some small lamps at the feet of the statue, they knelt down piously.
The blacksmith bent in front before the threshold, sprinkled with tulips and eglantine blossoms; and he struck up a hymn.
It was then much after sunset, and growing dark; but the sky was still burning and golden in the West, with pale emerald higher up. All was very still; the long locks of the birches streamed down in cascades, and the corn stooped down, as though listening to the shrill quavering of the crickets.
The herds were wending their way home; and from field and village and pathways now unseen, there floated the graziers’ noisy songs, mingled with long melancholy lowings. And the people looked into their Mother’s face, and lifted up their voices, while she stretched her hands out in benediction over the world.
“Good night, O Lily white!
Good night!”
The scent of the young birch-trees filled the air, and the nightingales began to try their notes, first in broken bursts, then gathering force, and finally breaking out into foaming streams of golden euphony—wonderful trills of long-drawn music, of melody dropping like pearls; while at no great distance resounded the violin of Mr. Yacek, which accompanied the human singers so sweetly, so gently, and so powerfully at once, it seemed that it came from the rye-stalks rustling against each other, or that the soil itself were breathing that chant of May.
All then sang together in ecstasies: the people, the birds, the violin; and when they paused to take breath awhile, an innumerable choir of frogs raised their husky voices all in tune and whirringly, as if hurrying them on to begin again.
So the chant went on—now these singers, now those.
The service lasted very long, and in the end the smith called out more than once to those behind him:
“Pray, do not drag the words so!” For many of them were lengthening out the notes beyond measure.
His remark to Matthias Klemba went even farther: “Don’t bellow so; you’re not following the oxen!” And at last they sang together all in harmony, and their voices were like a flock of doves soaring up in the dusky sky.
“Good night, O Lily white!
Good night!
Mary, our hearts’ delight,
Good night!”
It was now black overhead, warm, and very quiet; but a few stars began to appear and sparkle and twinkle like dewdrops.
The girls in couples, arms about waists, sang together as they went home.
Hanka was returning alone, carrying her baby and absorbed in thought, when the smith approached and walked by her side.
She held her peace until close to her home; then, seeing him still beside her, she said:
“Are ye coming in, Michael?”
“Only into the porch,” he answered in a low tone; “I have to speak with you.”
She felt somewhat agitated. Had he any fresh misery in store for her?
“You have probably been to see Antek,” he said.
“Yes, but was not let in.”
“ ’Tis what I feared!”
“Say, then, what ye know!” She was shaking with apprehension.
“What I know? Only so much as I could get out of the police inspector.”
“And what is that?” She pressed her little one closer.
“That Antek is not to be released until after the trial.”
“How is that?” she stammered hoarsely. “The lawyer told me the contrary.”
“ ’Tis because he would take to flight. In such cases, a prisoner is never set at liberty. Bear in mind that I come to you as a friend today.—Bygones are bygones. … Though you will see one day that I was right. … But hear what I have to say now: I am speaking the truth as in the confessional.—Antek is in a very sorry plight, and sure to be cruelly punished: perchance for ten years! You hear?”
“I do, and believe not one word,” she said, with sudden self-control.
“Seeing is believing; and I have told you the truth.”
“After your fashion,” she replied, smiling ironically.
He seemed offended, and assured her warmly that he
