When the count drove back over the moor, the weather changed for the worse. Rain and snow fell together, freezing as soon as they touched the ground; and the coachman drove along the slippery road at snail's pace. But the count was no longer cold. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes bright, and it had been long since he had felt so well. He had marked out a straight, narrow path in which to tread; but he felt it would make him at peace with himself, and perhaps eventually lead to happiness. The rain fell heavier than ever, accompanied by a cutting north wind. Twilight was approaching, and honest Fedko was obliged to stop occasionally to make sure he had found the right road. "The weather is not fit for a dog. My lord," he said, apologetically, "I know the moor and its tricks, but I never knew it to be so bad as this, except once, that day when--" Suddenly he remembered that the allusion to the day when the Jewess threw herself into the water might not be pleasing to his master. In his confusion, he lashed the horses so that they broke into a furious gallop. In the dimness, Fedko overlooked a small cart with a linen covering, which was creeping along ahead. He drove so close to it that the wheels became interlocked. He dismounted, cursing, to free the wheels; and the other coachman, evidently a Jew, cursed too. "You are driving as if you had the emperor," he cried. "I have not the emperor," Fedko answered, with pride; "but his lordship, Count Baranowski, would like to get on a bit faster." "I," said the Jew, "am only driving a poor sick Jewish woman and her child, but they are human." "Well, well," said good-natured Fedko, gently, "this little delay will do them no hurt," and, lashing his fiery steeds, he soon lost sight of the other vehicle. Fedko had reached the castle long before the cab came in sight of the lights of Roskowska. The Jew turned. "Woman," he called, "here we are in Roskowska. You can get milk for the child in the inn." "Praise be to God!" answered a feeble voice. "Please stop. I am afraid the child has taken more cold, he is so restless." "But you have put all your wraps on the little one, and are cold yourself. You are sinning against your own health. However, I should be a fool to quarrel with a mother." A baby's voice sounded from the cart. "Only two minutes longer. Where shall I drive?" There was no answer. "Woman, don't you hear? Where shall I stop?" "In the street. I will get out in the street," answered a gentle, trembling voice. "Because you are so warmly clad?" growled the man. "But just as you like. Here is the inn." He aided her to alight, but when he saw how she tottered he attempted to take the child from her. She resisted, and so he took her into the tap-room. The large, dismal place was crowded with peasants and cattle-drivers. The air was foul and heavy with the smell of oil, bad tobacco, and steam generated by the stove-heat acting on the dripping garments.