He seized the reins and lashed the horses; they plunged madly. Following the sound, he succeeded in getting back to the road, where he could see through the mist the red cross at the entrance of the town. Five minutes more and the magistrate would have the letter. But it was destined to be much longer than that. He had only reached the first detached houses when he met a crowd of people. "Make way!" he shouted; but he was obliged to drive at walking pace, and when he came into the built-up street his horses were brought to an entire standstill. The thoroughfare was filled with a compact body of people. It was as if the entire population were wedged together. Christians and Jews, men and women, now pushing forward, now backward, but without noise or tumult. They whispered to one another, and when Tedko made an effort to push his way through they only said, under their breath, "Don't you see it's a funeral?" With this he had to be content; so he drove up close under the monastery wall. He did not ask who was dead--that was no concern of his. And perhaps it was well that he did not ask, and well that he did not wear the livery of his master, Count Agenor Baranowski. They were the poorest of the people who waited to join the funeral procession--grooms, day laborers, and beggars, a rough lot, who generally eke out a cheerless existence, without any particular pleasure or pain, unless it be the care for their daily bread. There must have been a close tie between them and the deceased, for if one of them raised his voice or pushed forward at all noisily he was instantly hushed into silence. There was not one of the Jews who had not a deep rent in his garment. As this mode of grief is seldom observable except in the case of relations, the dead man seemed a connection of all. So, too, it was easy to read in the excited faces, and in the murmurs which now and then ran through the crowd, that their sorrow was strongly mingled with indignation. Weeping and wailing came from the house of mourning. "It is his sister and her children from Tarnopol," whispered the crowd. "His son has not come yet." Suddenly a weird sound arose, increased in volume, and ceased. It was the short prayer said by the burial guild before they enter the house to carry out the corpse. "Make way!" resounded through the ranks, and the people pressed together to leave the middle of the street free. Some climbed on the count's carriage. The coachman made no objections. He sprang from his seat, and busied himself about the horses. Poor, rude serf as he was, he was no more in fault than the horses he drove, the same with which, four weeks before, he had driven his master and Judith to the retired lodge in the Carpathians; but he could not feel comfortable on his raised seat, for he now knew who was about to be borne to his last home. But before this, another incident was to intensify the excitement. A piercing shriek was heard and a cry, "Raphael has come!"