Mikolai started up out of the straw in bewilderment--what was he doing in the barn, why was he lying there? He had had such awful dreams. Was it evening, night, or already morning? It was no good looking at his watch in the dark. He got up, and rubbing his swollen eyes staggered out of the barn. The moon was already high above the farm; it must be near midnight. Who was that creeping off to the gate?

"Stop. Who goes there?"

Could that be Bohnke? "_Psia krew!_" All at once the young fellow recollected how miserable he had been.

"Heigh, stop!" He set out in pursuit of the man who had just gone out of the gate.

Bohnke heard neither the calls nor the panting man who rushed after him. He was staggering across the fields as though intoxicated with joy, repeating the words, "My darling, my sweet one!"

At that moment somebody caught hold of him by the nape of his neck, and as he was walking very shakily, he fell down without any show of resistance and without a cry, so that Mikolai, who had whirled him round and was now kneeling on his chest, had an [Pg 267] easy time of it. "It's I, Mikolai," he panted. "I'll teach you!"

Mikolai had hardly ever given anybody such a thrashing before; it was such a relief to him to get rid of his misery in this way. He flogged the man until his arm was stiff, and then threw him into the ditch at the side of the field and went home satisfied. He whistled as he walked back to the farm. There, now he had given that fellow a good reminder; he would have a few bruises to show. And if he felt inclined to bring an action against him, then let him; he would never repent of what he had done. He felt much brighter now. He looked about for Marianna; how tiresome, she was no doubt sleeping upstairs by now. He went round to the gable and began to whistle, but n.o.body opened the window, and no eager "Yes, yes!" reached his ear. How tiresome! The woman was sleeping like a badger in his hole. He would have to enjoy the thought of his successful stroke by himself, then, and he pressed his fists against his mouth and hopped about on one leg with joy.

When he came round to the front door again he noticed a light gleaming through the shutters in the big room. What, was somebody still awake?

Was his father not asleep yet? Perhaps in his drunken condition he had forgotten to put out the lamp. Then it would be smoking the whole night through, as it had done a short time before, when the smelling thing had only gone out for want of paraffin. Did the old fool really want to set fire to the whole concern? How dreadful it would be to have a fire with all that straw in the barn. The man cast an anxious look at the streak of light which found its way through the shutters; it seemed twice as broad as usual. What was the old man up to? He would be doing some mischief [Pg 268] some day, that was certain. Seized with an unaccountable uneasiness, Mikolai groped in the dark pa.s.sage for the door-handle. "_Psia krew!_" Of course, it was locked on the inside. He knocked; then he called, "Father!" He rattled the handle. "The deuce, why can't you open?"

Still no answer, and no bolt was withdrawn.

He shook the door with all his strength. "I shall break the door open if you don't unlock it at once."

The door creaked and groaned, and Mikolai's loud voice echoed through the house, so that one would have thought it would have awakened the dead--bat there was no sound in the room.

Then a fear gripped him; what should he do now? He was still pondering when he heard his stepmother's voice.

Mrs. Tiralla had gone to bed, but she had not slept. Her face had burnt like fire, for she had been rubbing and washing it, so as to wash the kisses off which she had been obliged to put up with in the dark pa.s.sage. Her forehead pained her as though there were a fresh scar on it, for the man had strained her so forcibly to his breast that his watch-chain had left a mark there. Oh, that stigma! She pa.s.sed her hand over it again and again, but however much she rubbed it did not disappear. She wrung her hands in impotent fury. But then she clenched her teeth; no, no complaint, for she had done it for Martin's sake. Was it not a joy in spite of all this agony to think that she was suffering for his sake? Who could sympathize with her feelings? No one except the Lord. He had wrestled in the Garden of Gethsemane; He had endured Judas's kiss.

"O Lord," she raised her hands in the dark to the picture on the wall of the Saviour holding His flaming [Pg 269] heart in His hand, "Thou art acquainted with every suffering, Thou seest my sufferings, have mercy!"

It was probably the first time in her life that Mrs. Tiralla had not used the prescribed form of prayer, that her heart had cried out in its own words. Then she whispered, "Martin, Martin," as if the beloved name were a form of conjuration, and stretched out her arms longingly in her cold, dark room. Oh, how warm and bright it had been at Starydwor!

Suddenly a smile spread itself over her troubled face; it was as though a feeling of sweet peace had come to her from afar, and had told her that it would be warm and bright again. The certainty of this in the near future consoled her and made her patient. She pressed her hand to her heart--hope, hope!

Then she grew calmer, the burning sensation in her face had become less acute, she had said her prayers for the night, and prepared herself for sleep with her hands folded across her breast like a child. Soon, soon!

The smile was still on her face.

At that moment the loud noise in the pa.s.sage had startled her.

What could it be so late at night? She ran out of the room in her petticoat with no shoes on her feet; she was seized with a sudden fear--Martin, if it were Martin who wanted to run away. She must go to him, take hold of him, cling to him, he must not go! But then the thought struck her that there was no need to fear, he would not be leaving with so much noise. But still, if Mikolai were holding him, if they were quarrelling, struggling with each other, the one wanting to go, the other endeavouring to hold him back? Hark, what a noise! How Mikolai was shouting!

"What is it, what is it?" cried Mrs. Tiralla, as she stood in front of her stepson, panting. Mikolai [Pg 270] had lighted a kitchen lamp, and they gazed at each other in the dim light with haggard faces.

"Where, where is he?" She caught hold of her stepson's arm. But then she bethought herself. Martin was nowhere to be seen, and this was not his bedroom door; this was Mr. Tiralla's, on which Mikolai was thumping, and before which he now stooped down and tried to look through the c.h.i.n.ks.

"I don't know, I don't know," cried Mikolai, shaking the handle once more. "There's a light burning in the room; but everything is so quiet, and father isn't snoring."

"Oh, leave him!" It was no longer a matter of any importance to her, and she was going upstairs again. "He's fast asleep, that's all."

But Mikolai held her back in his fear. "Do stop," he begged, and there was a strange note of anxiety in his voice as he added, "Father always snores so at other times. I wonder if he could have had a stroke?"

Could it be possible! The woman's cold face grew hot.

"Father!" cried Mikolai once more, rattling the latch with all his might, but the bolt did not move. "I'll fetch a hatchet," he whispered; "we shall have to break open the door. You wait here and look out." He ran to the shed, where the axe lay by the block.

She remained standing in front of the door, whilst an eager desire to learn her fate almost tore her asunder. Her eyes nearly started out of her head. Everything was as quiet as death in there--at other times he always snored so--what would she see in there? G.o.d be praised! She could hardly await the spectacle.

She threw herself against the door with all her weight; she pressed her hands and knees so firmly against it that she, the weak woman, succeeded in doing what the strong man had not been able to do. [Pg 271] The rotten framework gave way, and the door, lifted off its hinges, fell with a dull crash into the room. The woman fell with it.

At first she saw nothing, stunned as she was by the fall and blinded by the dust from the rotten wood. But how soon she saw it all!

There was Mr. Tiralla hanging from the hook in the centre beam, which had once been destined to carry a chandelier, close to the table with bottles and gla.s.ses. The man had made a noose of his handkerchief; the ceiling was low and his toes almost touched the chair, but still he was dangling.

"O G.o.d!" She uttered a heartrending scream and sprang forward. There he was, dangling, quite blue in the face and with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. How awful, how terrible! She did not give herself time to consider whether he was alive or not, or whether he would recover; all she did was to look round for help.

At that moment Mikolai returned. He stood motionless, staring with open mouth, the hatchet in his hand. The woman tore it out of his hand, swung it like lightning, the sharp edge cut the noose--and Mr. Tiralla fell on the floor with a dull thud.

It was a terrible night at Starydwor. Everybody had come running, awakened by the noise of the falling door and Mikolai's cries.

Marianna howled as though she were out of her mind; both she and Mikolai had lost their self-command. Rosa had only given one short scream, and then, with upraised hands, had fallen down in a deep faint.

Mrs. Tiralla was the only one who remained calm. She had helped the two men to put the body on the [Pg 272] bed, and now she stood looking on, mute and motionless, whilst Martin rubbed the stiffened limbs and moved the man's arms up and down, as he had been taught to do when he was a soldier. Was Mr. Tiralla dead?

"He's not dead yet." It was Martin who spoke, and she heard what he said without answering a word. She closed her eyes; how compa.s.sionate his voice--the beloved's voice--sounded. Did he feel sorry for her--or himself? No, he only felt sorry for Mr. Tiralla.

She opened her eyes wide. "Fool, idiot!" she could have shouted to him in her fury. But then she hid her face in her hands and staggered to a corner, where she broke down and groaned. She was the fool, the idiot, for she had cut him down herself. Why? She did not know.

Martin carried Rosa upstairs. Mr. Tiralla was breathing again, and now the young man had a feeling as though he would have to fight once more for a life--but a young and innocent life this time.

He carried the unconscious girl tenderly in his arms. She had only very little clothing on, and he felt how thin and slender her limbs were.

Her bushy mane--not smooth and silky like his love's beautiful hair--tickled his cheek, but there was a perfume about her dry locks and about her whole person that reminded him of the perfume of the fields in spring-time, which he was so fond of ploughing. He carried her as carefully as though every movement could harm her, as though she were a soap-bubble which disappears if over-curious fingers touch it.

And still he clasped her tightly. Once he thought he could feel her nestling [Pg 273] against him; but it must have been imagination, for she had swooned and she hardly breathed.

On reaching the door of her room he entered almost timidly. A light was flickering there. There was no help for it, he had to lay her down on her bed, for the people downstairs had lost their heads, but he did it shyly. There she lay, and as he bent over her--was he dreaming?--she flung her arms round his neck.

She dragged his head down to her lips and he felt her hot breath as she whispered, "Always united--many years--and many children--my Saviour, my Redeemer--oh, my beloved one, come, kiss me."

Her whispering made him shudder. Why did she mix so strangely what was in the Prayer-book with what lovers whisper in the dark? Would she be saying any more? He could not help it, he had freed himself, but he remained standing at her bedside, listening.

"Oh, I know, I know it very well," she wailed. Then she gave a deep sigh, "Alas, alas, how beautiful you are, mother--Mary, Holy Virgin--alas, so lovely, a thousand times more beautiful than I. If only I were dead--dead like daddy." She was crying softly, and her hands were locked as though in pain or prayer. "I shall go into a convent." Then she wrung her hands and cried in a loud voice, "Have mercy on me, have mercy on me! Mary, Holy Virgin, help me, let me hold the Christ Child on my lap! Oh, don't turn away--help, have mercy on me!"

She stretched out her hands--oh, dear, was she going to catch hold of him? How her hands trembled, how red her pale face had become.

Martin heard no more, he fled in horror. Oh, this Starydwor, this Starydwor, if only he were hundreds of miles away from it!