There had been a time when this woman was beautiful. She had oval features, a dimpled chin, red cheeks, black eyebrows, sparkling eyes, and a lofty forehead, but her whole face was now full of wrinkles, and the furrows on her forehead looked like the stave lines in a music-book.

"Jesus, Mary, and St. Anna protect me!" cried the wagoner, with chattering teeth. "If it is not Barbara Pirka in the flesh!"

The woman laughed aloud when she perceived the sledge.

"What! do even the clergy ride on besoms nowadays?" she cried, with rough pleasantry, while a couple of serving-men, whose shirt-sleeves were tucked up to their elbows, drew the bridge up again behind the in-gliding sledge and then shut the groaning door.

"A pleasant evening, Mother Pirka," said Simplex, chucking the woman under the chin; "'tis a long time since we two met together. Do you recognize me, eh?"

"Hah!" stammered the wagoner, "you'll pay for chucking her chin like that. The old hag will twist your neck for you this very night. Mark my words!"

"Be off, you devil's student!" cried the woman; "why can't you get out of my way? Where, pray, is the pastor of Great Leta?"

"He is lifting his wife out of the sledge yonder. Is the master at home?" The hangman was usually styled the master.

"Where should he be? He's in his workshop of course. But your beard has grown since last I saw you."

"Since Mother Pirka regaled me with cheese soup, eh? Don't you recollect? I then promised to marry you as soon as I had grown up.

Come now, shall we have a marriage feast?"

"If you give her too much of your jaw she'll ride you, the hag,"

said the wagoner, tugging one of his horses by the mane; "she'll put a bridle in your mouth at night, and ride you to the very top of the Krivan!"[2]

[Footnote 2: One of the highest peaks of the Karpathians.]

"You shall have all you want," said Barbara to Simplex. "Let the others eat first, and then come into the kitchen. You shall have a good supper."

"I'll take good care not to eat any of it," said the wagoner.

"She'll be sure to give me something to drink which will turn me into a swine."

"You'll then at least have a finer burial than if you had remained a man," jeered Simplex.

Nothing could induce the wagoner to stir a step from beside his horses, and he was quite content to sup upon the buckwheat b.a.l.l.s which he had brought with him in his knapsack. Simplex, on turning in himself about midnight, derisively a.s.sured his snoring companion that he neighed as if he were turned into a horse already.

Meanwhile the woman led the priest and his wife into the palisaded mansion.

It was a ma.s.sive structure, consisting of numerous rooms united together by long narrow pa.s.sages with heavy iron-clouted doors. She stopped at last in a hexagonal vaulted chamber, from the central arch of which hung a huge lamp. But a far brighter light came from the hearth, whereon enormous logs were sparkling and crackling.

Nothing in this chamber called to mind the dismal business of the master of the house. Old-fashioned presses were ranged around the walls, and in the midst of the chamber stood a round table with feet resembling tigers' claws, and leather-covered chairs all round it.

In a corner stood a dumb-waiter covered with glittering plate and pewter. Small pictures and cl.u.s.ters of weapons were visible on the walls. This chamber led into a small side-room, the door of which was so low that a person entering it had to duck his head.

"This will be your bedroom," said the woman; "it is a nice, quiet place, out of hearing of the howling dogs."

Barbara Pirka no longer recognized Henry, though they had often torn each other's hair out in the good old times.

The woman remarked that Michal's clothing was wet through, and that her shoes had suffered from her wanderings through the mountains.

"Would madam like to change her clothes?" asked the old woman obsequiously.

"I have no change," replied Michal, "the robbers have taken the whole of our baggage, and we ourselves only escaped from them by the devious mountain paths."

"D----d scoundrels! It would be as well perhaps if you were to lie down in a warm bed, and take a little hot wine. That would do you good, and you need not come to supper."

"I thank you for your kindness," said Michal, who was thinking all the while of the object of their coming thither--viz., the reconciliation with Henry's father--"but I wish to eat in company with the master of the house."

"Do you really?" remarked the woman, contracting her brows. "Are you not afraid of him, then? Have you so strong a heart? So much the better."

With that she turned and left the room, and there was but time for the husband and wife to exchange a few words, whereby Michal learnt that Barbara Pirka was an old housekeeper of the Catsriders, when back she came again with a change of raiment on her arm.

It consisted of a dress of heavy purple silk, embroidered at the skirts with colored garlands, a girdle of Turkish stuff, and a broad lace collar; the bodice was fastened in front with gold clasps.

"You would do well to put on these dry clothes."

Michal allowed the housekeeper to undress her, and then help her on first with the silk dress, which had been airing all the time over the fire, and then with the golden-clasped bodice, the Turkish girdle, and the lace collar.

"Just look, now! It might have been made for her."

Then she took Michal's wet shoes from her feet and gave her instead slippers of fine red Korduan leather, and as there was no mirror in the room, she herself supplied its place by turning her round and round and surveying her from head to foot.

"Just as if it had been made to order. Don't be afraid, my dear lady pastor. No common wench ever wore that dress. It was a n.o.ble, beautiful lady who once made a brave show therein, and she only wore it twice. She looked like a flower, and was the fairest of the fair.

I chopped off her head myself."

Michal felt her knees totter. She was wearing on her body the garments of a woman who had died a felon's death.

CHAPTER VIII.

In which are described the joys of long-parted but finally reunited kinsmen, and every one learns to know exactly how he stands.

But even if Michal had wished to take off the clothes there was no time to do so, for the housekeeper now said that supper was upon the table, and that the master of the house awaited his guests in the dining-room. Michal meekly bowed her head on her husband's shoulder, and allowed herself to be led into the presence of the great and terrible man.

The dining-room was in every respect like the other rooms. It had just as many angles and arches, and was whitewashed in precisely the same way. In the middle stood a table laid for three persons, each cover consisting of two pewter dishes, one on the top of the other.

There were also two big-bellied, glazed jugs, with pewter lids, a chased silver tankard for one of the guests, a Venetian crystal gla.s.s for the other, and a wooden mug for the master of the house.

The master of the house already stood beside the table with his hands resting on the back of his chair. He was a tall, commanding figure, with very broad shoulders. He wore a brown Polish jacket with long sleeves, a broad, buckled girdle, and long jack-boots. His features were hard and angular, his hair short and bristly; but his beard, already grizzled, hung down in two long flaps, the ends of which were stuck into his girdle. His look was grave and tranquil, but without the slightest trace of human feeling.

Michal felt that her husband's hand was trembling as he approached the master of the house, though he made superhuman efforts to appear calm.

"Peace and blessing rest upon this house!" stammered Henry, whereupon the old man sighed deeply but without returning the salutation.

"Is your reverence the pastor of Great Leta?" It was the first time he had addressed Henry. His voice was deep and sonorous as if it proceeded from a bronze statue, his whole body seemed to reecho the sound.

"I have been elected the successor of the late pastor. Forgive me, master, for causing you so much inconvenience!"

"Your visit is nothing unusual," returned the old man, "the late pastor of Leta was often a guest in this sad house," and he thereupon beckoned to his guests to be seated.