During these odd scenes, Michal consoled herself with the reflection that the whole thing would be over in a day. Even the last day and the last night of a condemned felon must come to an end. Let them once get over this unpleasant day and they would go right away. They would have a home of their own, a quiet, peaceful parsonage all to themselves, with a large flower garden and a dove-cot.

Barbara Pirka had prophesied rightly. Soon after the last dog had quite ceased howling a man's step was heard approaching the door of the bedroom. Pirka murmured an incantation in the gipsy tongue over Michal, which might have been a blessing for all that Michal knew to the contrary. Then the old woman withdrew.

Immediately afterward Henry came in. The first thing he did was to extinguish the lamp, so that his wife might not see his face. Then he undressed and lay down beside her, for they both shared the same couch. Henry threw the bearskin coverlet off the bed; he was bathed in sweat.

The young wife was shivering, and her teeth chattered. She drew herself up like a hedgehog, and dared not close her eyes. To prevent herself from falling asleep she kept on repeating all the quotations which she knew by heart one after the other.

But Henry was in a raging fever. He kept tossing about on his couch, and murmured repeatedly, "Jesus, Maria, and St. Joseph!" and whenever sleep was about to overcome him he would almost throttle himself, and plunge with his feet till he almost kicked out the footboard.

The wife trembled, the husband groaned, the tempest outside shook the window-panes, the weatherc.o.c.ks creaked on the roof, the owls hooted in the lofts, and so the night wore on.

It was only toward morning that sleep sank down upon the young wife's weary eyelids. She had already kept vigil for two nights running, and now her slumber was tormented by frightful dreams till, when the morning was far advanced, Barbara Pirka came and woke her.

The housekeeper brought the sleeper a steaming wine-posset in a porcelain bowl.

Michal was not in the least refreshed by her repose. She felt weaker than ever. A parching thirst tormented her. All her bones ached. She was glad that Pirka had brought her drink. She cared little whether the woman was a witch or not, and she felt that it would not much matter if the hag's potion were to enchant her and change her into some b.e.s.t.i.a.l shape.

She eagerly took the bowl and drained it to the very dregs.

Then she called Barbara Pirka, and said:

"Where is my husband?"

Pirka replied:

"He has gone to town with his father."

"And what is my husband doing in town?" asked pretty Michal once more.

"He is helping his father to catch dogs."

CHAPTER XI.

Wherein is shown what terrible perils befall women who are not resigned to their fate, and do not obey their lords and masters.

Pretty Michal did not immediately expire on receiving this answer.

For a moment, indeed, she really believed her heart would have ceased to beat there and then. Everything around her seemed to be turning pitch-black, and the horror which froze her breast made itself felt even to the tips of her fingers. Then she held her breath and fancied that her last hour had come.

But she very soon found that death is not to be had for the mere asking.

And surely the old witch must have put something in her drink, some magic charm capable of producing a complete moral transformation; for how else account for the evil thoughts which now suddenly occurred to her as she sat there on the edge of the bed, thoughts which, so far from keeping to herself, she uttered quite loud? Was she speaking to the old hag at her side or to some invisible being?

Heaven only knows, but there she sat gazing steadily before her, with her fingers on her lips and her elbows on her knees.

"What then, after all, is the use of all the wisdom of the learned, of all the precepts of the saints? Why cast horoscopes, why consult the stars, if it is all to end like this? And they had said: 'How can you, a clergyman's daughter, give your hand to a man who works in blood, for he'll be bound to follow his father's trade? Will you allow your whole life to be a ceaseless bloodshedding? What! every day to rise and shed blood, and every night to lie down with blood!

Every day to trace blood on the hands of him who embraces you! To be bound for life to a man whose very calling it is to lay violent hands on G.o.d's innocent creatures!' Alas! alas! Then it was only the blood of sheep and oxen that was in question. And now! What avails it, then, all the wisdom of the wise, when such things are possible?

What if the little automatic dog had wagged his tail and stuck out his tongue by way of warning? And to think that a living wise man should have had no idea of the impending ruin of a human soul, and that soul his very daughter! What, then, is the use of amulets and talismanic necklaces? What is the good of the angelic choirs in heaven when they cannot protect the faithful from such calamities?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Barbara Pirka, "there are very many more men in this world, my jewel, than there are angels in heaven. It is not everyone that has a guardian angel to look after him, but there isn't a man in this world who hasn't seven devils all to himself. I, too, was carried off from my father's house by my husband. He told me he was a tanner, and I, silly fool! did not inquire what sort of hides he tanned. But I made him pay one hundred-fold for that one deceit, I warrant you."

Michal stared blankly at her. She did not understand a word of what Pirka was talking about.

Pirka shrugged her shoulders.

"My ruby! won't we put on our clothes?"

"No!" cried Michal, defiantly, and throwing herself back in the bed.

"Where are the clothes in which I came hither?"

"They are still very wet and hanging up to dry. They are tattered and torn, too, and want a lot of mending."

"I'll wait here till I get them."

So she stayed in bed. She would have nothing to do with the terrible finery which had belonged to the unhappy Polish lady.

And all day long n.o.body troubled her. Everyone in the house had something to do in town.

Barbara Pirka brought her her dinner; but the hag had no sooner taken it in than she had to take it out again. Michal would not touch a morsel.

Late in the afternoon the men came home. Michal again heard a horrible howling and yelping, brawling voices and heavy footsteps.

It was only when they pa.s.sed her door that they trod softly. Someone standing outside whispered to them:

"Pst! be quiet! The lady keeps her bed!"

"If she keeps her bed, she must be ill!" so thought they all.

When it was dark, Barbara Pirka came down again and lit the lamp in Michal's room.

How happy the evening hours had been to Michal at home, when she could go to her book-shelves and take down her learned folios. Then she had never felt alone.

But here there were not even books!

The night was far advanced. Every living thing had long ago gone to sleep. Cautious footsteps approached the chamber where Michal lay.

The door opened and Henry entered.

He wore a gold-embroidered doublet buckled round with a stately girdle; his sleeves were trimmed with gold lace right up to the elbows. His large, tight-fitting jack-boots were of yellow buckskin, and they too were richly embroidered with lace. No bride could have wished for a more handsomely equipped bridegroom. But he had no sooner entered the room than Michal sprang from her bed, and wrapping herself in the bearskin, shrieked in a voice hoa.r.s.e with rage:

"How dare you come in hither? This is the bedroom of my husband, the pastor of Great Leta! None else has any business here at all!"

The witch's potion must certainly have changed Michal's very nature, for language such as this was the last thing to be expected from so meek and gentle a creature in the hour of her terrible dereliction.

And some mighty spell really was at work, for that big, strong man, who could have brought the weak creature before him to her knees in the twinkling of an eye, was so frightened by Michal's repellent gesture, so timidly apprehensive of her furiously flashing eyes, that he could not utter a word, but slunk out of the chamber like a whipped cur.