Trembling seized him and he gripped his hair; he had never in his life felt fear like this, though he had looked death in the face more than once. He had suddenly caught a glimpse of the power the Germans were exercising, and it scared him. They had destroyed all his life's work, and yet you could not bring it home to them. They had lived like others, ploughed, prayed, taught their children; you could not say they were doing any wrong, and yet they had made his home desolate simply by being there. They had blasted what was near them as smoke from a kiln withers all green things. Not until this moment had the thought ever come to him: 'I am too close to them! The gospodarstwos farther off do not suffer like this. What good is the land, if the people on it die?' This new aspect was so horrible to him that he felt he must escape from it; he glanced at his wife, she was asleep. The cadence of the priest's voice began to haunt him again. Steps were approaching through the yard. The peasant straightened himself. Could it be Jendrek? The door creaked. No, it was a strange hand that groped along the wall in the darkness. He drew back, and his head swam when the door opened and Zoska stood on the threshold. For a moment both stood silent, then Zoska said: 'Be praised.' She began rubbing her hands over the fire. The idea of Maciek and the child and Zoska had become confused in Slimak's mind; he looked at her as if she were an apparition from the other world. 'Where do you come from?' His voice was choked. 'They sent me back to the parish and told me to look out for work. They said they wouldn't keep loafers.' Seeing the food in the saucepan, she began to lick her lips like a dog. 'Pour out a basin of soup for yourself.' She did as she was told. 'Don't you want a servant?' she asked presently. 'I don't know; my wife is ill.' 'There you are! It's quiet here. Where's Magda?' 'Left.' 'Jendrek?' 'Sent up for trial.' 'There you are! Stasiek?' 'Drowned last summer,' he whispered, fearful lest Maciek's and the little girl's turn should come next. But she ate greedily like a wild animal, and asked nothing further. 'Does she know?' he thought. Zoska had finished and struck her hand cheerfully on her knee. He took courage. 'Can I stop the night?' Uneasiness seized him; any other guest would have been a blessing in his solitude, but Zoska.... If she did not know the truth, what ill wind had blown her here? And if she knew?...' He reflected. In the intense silence suddenly the priest's voice started again: 'I was a stranger and ye took me not in.' 'All right, stop here, but you must sleep in this room.' 'Or in the barn?' 'No, here.' He hardly knew what it was that he feared; there was a vague sense of misfortune in the air which was tormenting him.