Boryna had hitherto stood patiently apart, close to the grating; but he now approached Paches to greet her; for she was no other than Dominik’s widow, Yagna’s mother. “Let the defendant come up to the grating.” A low-statured peasant pushed forwards. “Are you Bartek Koziol?” The peasant, seemingly bewildered, scratched his thick hair, of roundhead cut; a silly grin twitched his dry clean-shaven face, and his small red-fringed eyes kept leaping like squirrels from one judge to the other. As he answered nothing, the judge repeated the question. “Aye, aye, that he is; he is Bartek Koziol, an’t please the most honourable court!” cried an unwieldy woman, forcing her way inside the grating. “What do you want?” “An’t please you, I am the wife of this poor thing, Bartek Koziol”; and extending her hands, palms downwards to the floor, she bowed till her frilled cap touched the magistrates’ table. “Are you a witness?” “A witness, did you say? No, but please....” “Usher, outside the grating with her.” “Get out, woman; this is not your place.” He seized her by the shoulders and forced her back. “An’t please this most honourable court,” she cried, “my husband is hard of hearing!” “Out, before I treat you roughly!” Yacek roared, pushing her against the grating till she groaned with pain. “Go peaceably; we shall speak loud enough for your Koziol to hear.” The examination began. “What is your name?” “My name? Surely you know it, since you have called me. Is it my nickname you want?” “Dolt! give your name,” said the inexorable magistrate. “Bartek Koziol, most honourable court,” his wife replied for him. “How old?” “How am I to remember? Mother, what age am I?” “Fifty-two next spring, I think.” “A farmer?” “Oh, yes: three acres of sandy land and one head of cattle; a fine farmer I am!” “Ever sentenced?” “Sentenced?” “Were you ever put in prison?” “Is it convicted you mean?—Mother, was I ever in prison?” “Yes, Bartek, you were—through those rotten manor folks, on account of a dead lamb.” “Ah, so I was.—I found a dead lamb in a pasture-meadow. Well, was it to be eaten by the dogs? So I took it; and they lodged a complaint against me, and swore I had stolen the beast, and the court passed sentence. They put me in prison, and there I had to lie.—But it was unjust—unjust!” he said in a low voice, and casting a side-glance at his wife. “You are accused of stealing a sow, the property of Martianna Paches: of taking it out of the field, driving it to your hut, and killing and eating it. What defence have you?” “I never ate it. If I did, may God forsake me at my dying hour! I eat it?—Well, I declare!” “What defence have you?” “Oh ... defence?—Had I aught to say, Mother?—Ah, I remember now.—Yes: not guilty. I did not eat the sow, and this same Martianna Dominik’s widow is even as a barking dog!” “Oh, what liars some men are!” the Dominik woman sighed. “Explain how Paches’ sow got into your hut.”