"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 chinks. "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? God 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 glasses. 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 God!" 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 Starydwór. Everybody had come running, awakened by the noise of the falling door and Mikolai's cries.