On his return, he said no word to anyone, but went to bed as he was—in his boots and sheepskin coat; and when Yuzka next morning complained that he had soiled his featherbed with mud:
“Let me alone, Yuzka, let me alone!” he answered her merrily. “Such a thing may happen sometimes, even to one who has not been drinking.”
In the morning he had gone over to Yagna, and stayed all day: at home, dinner and supper waited for him in vain.
This day, too, he rose late, considerably after dawn, put on his best capote, ordered Vitek to smear his Sunday boots with grease and line them with fresh-cut straw, was shaved by Kuba, girt himself, and, taking his hat, slipped out through the fence, and was seen there no more that day.
Yuzka cried all the time. Antek was in the grip of tortures, even sharper and more agonizing, and could neither eat, nor sleep, nor busy himself in any way. He felt dazed as yet, and could not wholly realize what had come to pass. His face had grown sombre, but his eyes seemed larger, and flaming glassily—full of hardened tears, as it were. He had to clench his teeth lest he should cry out and curse aloud, and was continually walking about the cabin, or around it, or about the enclosure, or in the road; and on coming back, he would throw himself on a bench in the porch, and sit there motionless for hours, racked by sufferings that were ever growing more intolerable.
The house was dreary, and within it there continually resounded the sound of weeping, as sobs and sighs resound in a house wherein someone lies dead. The doors of the byre and the sties stood wide open, the cattle and swine wandered about at liberty in the orchard, some even looking in at the windows. No one attempted to interfere with them but old Lapa, who barked and tried to drive them in again, but unsuccessfully.
Sitting on his truckle-bed in the stable, Kuba was cleaning a gun, while Vitek, gazing at him in wondering awe, took care to keep a lookout on the yard, for fear someone might drop in.
“Oh, what a noise it made! Lord! I thought it was the Squire or the keeper shooting.”
“Ah, yes. I had not shot for ever so long, and the charge I put in was too big: it roared like a cannon.”
“Did you go in the evening at once?”
“Aye, to the manor lands close to the wood. The roebucks are fond of coming that way to crop the sprouting blades in the sown fields. It was very dark, and I had long to wait. Just at dawn, a buck came by. I was so well hidden that he was only five paces away from me. But I did not shoot. He was as big as an ox, and I knew I could not carry him off. So I spared him; and after the space of a few Paters, some does appeared. I chose the finest, and took aim. What a report there was! I had put in a heavy charge: it kicked so, my shoulder is one bruise still. And the doe fell; but she still kicked, and made such a fearful noise that I was afraid the keeper might hear, and I had to cut her throat.”
Vitek was full of enthusiasm.
“And—did you leave her in the wood?”
“Where I left her, I left her: it’s no business of yours. And if you say a single word about this to anyone … you’ll see what I shall do to you!”
“I won’t, if you forbid me; but may I not tell Yuzka?”
“The whole village would know directly. No.—But, here is a five-kopek piece, for you to buy something with.”
“Without that, I’d hold my tongue.—But, O dear, dear Kuba! take me with you some day!”
“Breakfast!” Yuzka was in front of the cabin, calling to them.
“Be easy, Vitek, I shall take you.”
“And you’ll let me shoot—once, only once?” he entreated.
“Silly one! think you they give gunpowder for nothing?”
“But I have money, Kuba, I have. Master gave me two zloty for the last fair, and I was keeping them for the Memorial offering. But. …”
“Very well; I shall teach you how to shoot,” he whispered, patting the boy’s head, and touched by his appeal.
Almost as soon as they had finished breakfast, they went together to church. Kuba limped along as fast as he could; but Vitek lagged a little behind: he was ashamed to have to go barefoot, for he had no boots.
“Is it right to go into the vestry without boots?” he queried in a low voice.
“You are foolish. Does our Lord consider a man’s boots, not his prayers?”
“True; but are not boots more respectful?” he whispered sadly.
“Oh, you will get boots one of these days.”
“That I shall! Let me but grow up to be a farmhand, I shall directly go off to Warsaw and get a place in some stable. In the town, they all wear boots, don’t they, Kuba?”
“They do.—Can you remember anything about Warsaw, Vitek?”
“Of course. I was five when Kozlova brought me here; so I recollect perfectly. … Yes, we went on foot to the station, and there I saw no end of glowing lights … and houses all one close to another, and as big as churches.”
“Nonsense!” cried Kuba, disdainfully.
“But I remember quite well. I could not see the roofs, they were so high. Windows, too, to the very ground. Whole walls of windows! And everywhere bells were ringing continually.”
“No wonder; there are so many churches there.”
“Else whence could the ringing have come?”
And now they were silent, having entered the churchyard and begun to push their way
