“You rogue, you are lying like a gipsy!—But come to-morrow, and you shall have the calf.... What I am asked for, I may give; but claim it as a right, and you’ll get only a broken cudgel—or worse.” They continued their potations, the smith now treating Boryna, and inviting Ambrose to join them. This he did very willingly, and told many a merry tale and jest, so that they presently roared with laughter. The two separated on good terms. But neither trusted the other a jot.—Each was transparent to each as a pane of glass, each as easy to know as a horse with a star on the forehead. Ambrose remained, expecting gossips and acquaintances willing to offer him the least little drop. For “a hungry dog will try even to catch a fly.” The fair was drawing to its close. For a moment the sun had shone out at noon, flashing on the world like the glint of a brandished mirror; then it plunged anew behind the clouds. Before evening had come, everything was in profound gloom; heavy masses of vapour rolled down, almost touching the house-roofs, and a fine rain drizzled as though sifted through a sieve.... The folk therefore hastened to drive away, anxious to get home before nightfall and a heavy downpour. Twilight fell, swift, louring, and dank: the town was once more empty and silent. Only along a wall here and there, some _Dziads_ were moaning, and the voices of revelling and quarrelling were loud in the taverns. Evening was well advanced when Boryna drove away with his people. They had sold all they brought, purchased various articles, and enjoyed the fair to the full. Antek flogged the horses with all his might, and the cart hurtled athwart the depths of the mud; for he felt cold, and they had all drunk plentifully. The old man, stingy though he was, and ready to make a fuss for a _grosz_[16] had that day treated them so well with things to eat and drink, and friendly words, that they were all amazed at him. ----- Footnote 16: _Grosz_—the smallest Polish coin—about one-fourth of an American cent.—_Translator’s Note._ When they reached the forest, it was black night—so dark that nothing could be seen. The rain was falling, ever in larger drops. Along the road a clatter of wagon-wheels, the brawling howl of a drunken song, or the sucking steps of someone plodding in the mire, were to be heard. But, in the middle of the poplar-road, whose trees murmured and muttered as though shivering with cold, Ambrose, now quite drunk, staggered along from one side to the other, now stumbling against a tree, now falling into the mud; but he would quickly rise and go on, singing, as was his wont, with noisy vociferation. CHAPTER VI The rain had now begun to come down in earnest. Ever since the fair, all things had been drowned in a grey turbid shimmer, through which only the dim outlines of the forest or the hamlet loomed, embroidered, as it were, on a ground of wet canvas.