Martin Becker was filled with aversion as he looked at him; it was a shame, a disgrace to drink like that. He turned his eyes away. Then he flashed a tender glance at Mrs. Tiralla; poor, dear woman, if only he could carry her away in his arms, away from him, away from all this foulness! Would to God he could get away from it all! But they could not run away together, and so he, too, must stay to please her. It was not easy; it was no honour to serve such a fellow, as he had done now for well-nigh three-quarters of a year. But he was doing it to please Mikolai and her--yes, her. He had to stop. The woman now cast a look at him as though she had guessed his thoughts. She did not thank him in words, but the thanks lay in her eyes. Mrs. Tiralla's eyes had always been beautiful, velvety, deep, speaking eyes, but now there was a soft gleam in them, instead of the restless flickering that had so often been there--the gleam of love. She gazed at Martin Becker with a deep, warm look. When they went to the Przykop together, as they had arranged to do as soon as Mr. Tiralla was asleep, she would say to him, "I thank you." How she longed to say to him, "I thank you for coming to Starydwór, I thank you for coming as a deliverer. Look, I've become cleansed through you. Oh, how I love you, [Pg 234] how I thank you!" But would he understand her? No, how could he, for what did he know? If she were to say to him, "I've become cleansed through you," he would look at her with big, astonished eyes, for he did not know of any guilt. But was she really guilty? No, she was not--the woman raised her head with a confident air--no, she knew of no guilt either. The memory of all those years with all those bad days and bad thoughts had disappeared as though they had never existed. She was once more as young and as innocent as she had been when she sat in her priest's study. It had been quite a different woman who had sighed at Starydwór for so many years, who had wept and had again and again endeavoured to free herself from this hateful husband. Poison? She had to smile; how kind the saints had been to her; they had preserved her from the poison. Now Mr. Tiralla drank. And if he continued to drink as he was doing, so much Tokay and beer and gin, then he would soon drink himself into the grave. God be gracious to his poor soul! The look that the woman cast at her husband was almost compassionate; he never disturbed her now. She nodded with a smile to her lover and then pushed the bottle, which was not yet empty, nearer to her husband. "Won't you finish it?" He mumbled something unintelligible as he gazed into his glass, but did not look at her. Then she filled his glass to the brim, and as he still did not drink and did not even stretch his hand out to take it, she took hold of it, sipped a little, and then almost pushed it into his hand. "Your health! Much good may it do you!" * * * * * * * * * * * * * [Pg 235]