Then he told them how no drop of blood, nay, not one single tear, would fall in vain, nor any endeavour be without its fruit; and how on every side, as from a soil abundantly manured, new forces, new defenders, and new victims would spring forth, until that blessed day should dawn—that sacred day, the day of resurrection and of justice and of truth for all the nation!
He spoke with glowing enthusiasm; often, too, of such high matters that they could not understand all that he said; but his fire inflamed them also, and their hearts leaped up and were exalted by his words in mighty faith and longing. Antek said at last:
“O God!—Be ye our leader: I will follow you even to death!”
“We all will follow you and trample down whatever may resist us!”
“Who can withstand us and prevail? Let him but try!”
So they all spoke, till he was forced to hush their violent words and, drawing them still closer, and whispering, say what that longed-for day would be, and how its coming would be hastened by their labours.
He told them many a thing they had not dreamed of, and they listened breathless, full of dread and joy at once; and every word of his gave them the thrill of faith which one feels at the Communion Table. He opened heaven before them, and made Paradise appear visibly to their eyes; their souls fell prostrate in deep ecstasy, their eyes beheld ineffable wonders, and in their hearts the sweet, sweet hymn of Hope was heard.
“And it is in your power to realize all this,” he ended, when quite tired out. The moon was just eclipsed behind a cloud; the sky was grey, the landscape murky; the woods gave forth their inarticulate utterances, and the cornfields rustled and shook as if with fear. Afar there was a noise of dogs that barked. And still they sat there, silent and subdued, listening in rapt attention, inebriated with the words he had said, and feeling as one who has just taken some great vow may feel.
“It is time: I must go!” he said, and, rising, embraced each of them, pressing them to his heart. They could hardly keep back their tears when he knelt down, said a short prayer, and prostrated himself with both arms on the breast of that holy mother—the land which he might perhaps never see again. Yagna sobbed aloud, and the others were struggling with deep emotions.
Such was their parting.
Antek alone went straight back to Lipka, along with Yagna; the others disappeared in the shadows at the edge of the forest.
They long walked on in silence. Then he said: “Beware and say naught to anyone of that which you have heard.”
“Am I, then, a pedlar of news from hut to hut?” She was offended.
“And,” he added, with stern significance, “God forbid that the Voyt should hear anything of this!”
She answered only by hurrying on; but he would not let her go, and strode on by her side, again and again glancing at her indignant face, bedewed with tears.
The moon shone out again, silvering the narrow pathway where they walked abreast, and throwing across it the black distorted shadows of the trees. Suddenly his heart throbbed fast; his arms quivered with a sense of greedy desire, and he took a step nearer to her side.—He might have gathered her to his breast with a sweeping grasp. But he did not—he durst not. Her stubborn and disdainful silence held him back, and he only said to her bitterly:
“You seem as if you wanted to get away from me.”
“Because I do! Someone might see us together, and tongues would wag.”
“Are you in a hurry to fly to anyone else?”
“I am. What is to prevent me? Am I not a widow?”
“They say (no idle talk, I see) that you prepare to keep house for a certain priest.”
Swift as the wind, she rushed away, her tears falling in torrents down her cheeks.
XI
On the lighter soils, they were beginning to reap already; on the heavier, they were preparing all things for the harvest that was about to take place.
It was but a few days after Roch’s flight. Lipka was getting the wagons ready for use, cleaning out the barns and airing them with wide-open doors; in the shadow of the orchards, people were busily twisting bands of straw; and within doors the women were busy baking loaves and cooking food for the reapers. All this caused so much racket and turmoil that the village looked as though on the eve of some great festival.
Moreover, a great many people had come over from the neighbouring hamlets, and the roadways to and from the mill, in particular, were as crowded as on a fair-day. Most were taking their corn to be ground; and as if to thwart them, the water ran so low that only one of the falls would work, and even that very feebly. But everyone awaited his turn patiently, because all wanted the corn in their barns ground before harvest-home.
Many besides had come to the miller’s to get meal, or groats; some even loaves.
The man himself was ill in bed; but he still directed everything. He would cry out to his wife, sitting outside by the open window:
“Not a kopek’s worth on credit for the Rzepki folk! They have patronized the priest’s bull: let the priest help them now!”
He was inexorable to all prayers and entreaties: no one that had “patronized” the animal in question was lent even half a quart of flour.
“They prefer his bull to mine,” he shouted; “let them get flour out of him now!”
His wife, who was a poorly-looking querulous thing with a bandaged face, would shrug her shoulders; and, when possible, she made loans by stealth to many a one.
Klemba’s wife came to ask for half a quart of millet
