The acquaintances he had met at the inn had been very much surprised at his behaviour. Mr. Tiralla was so quiet; he didn't brag at all about his Sophia. It was as though he had been put to silence. The priest had said a few kind words to him about his daughter, when he came to the inn for a short time after his supper; she was an excellent child, a pure soul with whom God was well pleased. But Mr. Tiralla had only smiled feebly. He had sat staring into his glass with both elbows on the table, and his red head buried in his hands, without saying a word. He had sat like that for hours. One man after the other had said good night, first the priest, then the gendarme, then the forester, then Mr. Schmielke. Jokisch, as a good neighbour, had stopped the longest with Mr. Tiralla. He had plucked at his sleeve when the others had departed and had said in a confidential tone, "Listen, old fellow, I must tell you that the others are saying that Böhnke, the schoolmaster, comes too often to see you--I mean to see your wife." "He's been to see her this evening," said Mr. Tiralla, in a calm voice. And when the other man had stared at him in a disconcerted kind of way, he had continued in a voice that was still calmer, "You envious scoundrel, _psia krew!_ Don't you know my Sophia? Do you think it's that what's oppressing me? Not that, oh God, not that!" And he had given a loud sigh, and burying his head once more in his hands had said no more. Then Jokisch had said good night. They could very well have gone home together--their roads only parted at the Boza meka[A] just before you come to the Przykop [Pg 135]--but Mr. Tiralla's company wasn't amusing enough. By Jove, the old man seemed quite stupid. [Footnote A: The wayside image of a saint.] Mr. Tiralla had remained sitting all alone. The landlord would have liked to extinguish the lights and go to bed; his wife, servant, and children had been asleep for a long time, everybody was asleep except Mr. Tiralla, who did not seem to think of going to bed. At last the landlord had fallen asleep behind the bar, and was only awakened by a dull sound. Mr. Tiralla had thrown the big, empty gin bottle at him, after helping himself to the very last drop. Was Mr. Tiralla going home alone? How would Mr. Tiralla get home? The landlord was very anxious about him. It was a night in early spring as Mr. Tiralla staggered home. A long time would elapse before the lilac-bushes near the dilapidated railings in the weed-grown herb garden would bloom; there was still no sign of buds on the trees, the plain was still bare and wintry-looking. But something was already moving deep down in the earth. The furrows, through which Mr. Tiralla tramped as he crossed the fields, were thawed, and lumps of soft earth clung to his boot-soles. He had lost his way; he could not get any further.