When the schoolmaster left the farm at a late hour that evening Mr. Tiralla was quite drunk. He had only enough sense left to whisper in a tender voice, "Little Böhnke, friend, take care. If Mikolai catches you, he'll chop you into small pieces, perhaps with the hatchet, perhaps with the chopper. Ugh! he's a brute--they're all brutes here--ugh! my friend, you don't know what brutes they all are. My dear, beloved friend." Mr. Tiralla fell on the other's neck, kissed him and stammered in a hiccoughing voice, while he stroked his cheek, "If I--I--ha--hadn't you--God--bless--you--it would--b--be all--up--with me." Böhnke left the room filled with a strange emotion. He was not so drunk as Mr. Tiralla--he could still collect his thoughts, if he took the trouble to do so--and he was thinking of the man who loved him as a friend and son. But very soon Mrs. Tiralla took entire possession of his thoughts. He looked around and listened for her step, and strained his eyes so in the dark that they watered. Was he to leave the house without a single kiss? _Psia krew_, he would not do that. He swore in an undertone, for he had suddenly grown brutal. He would be paid, paid for every visit. It was no pleasure to him to get drunk with that fellow. If she did not come now, then----There was still [Pg 264] time to go away and never come back, to become again as he had been before. If he were to ask to be removed and left the neighbourhood, and never more put his foot inside the door at Starydwór? Let Mr. Tiralla drink himself to death, alone. But if he were never to see this woman again? The fresh air in the yard cooled his brow as he stepped out of the house. "Ah!" He drew a deep breath; air, thank God. There was still time, still time. At that moment he heard the rustle of a dress in the dark passage, a furtive whisper of "Pan Böhnke!" and turning round he stretched out his arms in a transport of delight. "My darling, my sweet one!" She did not respond to his kisses, but he did not notice it in his joy; and he did not see either in the dark how she pressed her eyes together and screwed up her face. All he heard was her whisper in his ear, "How are you getting on? I hope you've filled his glass frequently? How is he? Please tell me, will it still last long?" He did not answer her; he had buried his mouth in her hair, and his lips were glued to its silky waves like those of a thirsty man. When she wanted to free herself in her impatience, "Speak, why don't you tell me, how much longer?" he clasped her still more closely without replying. There was no escape for her. They were standing like a pair of lovers, almost melted into one; her head was lying on his breast as though welded to it by the pressure of his arms. Thus her eyes and ears were closed, and he--he only felt her. At that moment the door of Mr. Tiralla's room was gently opened and the old man stuck his head out timidly. Had his little Böhnke, his friend, succeeded in escaping? [Pg 265]