The merry-making was all over now, and the people were going to their homes, for it was late. The tavern had now emptied itself, but there were, along the road, a few shouts and cries. No one remained but the folk of Rzepki, who were to spend the night there, and to whom Mr. Yacek was playing such weirdly and wailingly mournful airs that they sighed as they sat listening, elbows on table and arms propping chins. Antek moped all alone in a corner, apart from the others: talk with him was out of the question; for when they spoke, he would not answer. There, then, he sat dazed and stunned, and the Jew reminded him in vain that the house was about to close: he neither made out nor heard what was said. It was only at Hanka’s voice, who had been told he had again come to blows with his father, that he roused himself. “What do you want?” he snarled. “Come home. It is late,” she said beseechingly, restraining her tears. “Go yourself. With you I will not go.—Away, I tell you!” he cried in a threatening voice. Then, on a sudden, moved by some unaccountable impulse, he came close and hissed in her ear: “Were I chained and fettered in a prison cell, I should still be more free than with you beside me—far more!” Hanka withdrew at once, weeping bitterly. The night was moonlit and serene. The trees threw long bluish-silvery shadows. The frost nipped very hard, making the fence-hurdles crackle from time to time, and a sort of quiet rustling sound rise up from the scintillating snow. Save for this faint susurration in the still night, all the land lay silent. The villagers slept; no light came from any window, not a dog barked, mill and mill-stream were alike soundless. Antek could just hear—faint like a sound heard in sleep—the husky voice of Ambrose, singing (according to his wont when drunk) in the middle of the road. With slow and heavy steps, he plodded round the mill-pond, stopping at times to cast bewildered looks from side to side, and listening with dread to his father’s awful words, that were still ringing in his ears. Still, too, did he see those stern, fierce, baleful eyes: they pierced him like a knife! Instinctively he winced before them: terror gripped him by the throat, his heart sank within him, and his hair stood on end. And they blotted out from his thoughts all the impetuosity of erewhile—all his headstrong love and passion—everything but mortal dread, trembling dismay, and a wretched sense of weakness and despair. After a time he unconsciously set his face homewards. As he went, a pitiful cry, a voice of lamentation, reached him from near the church. Someone just beneath the statue which stood in front of the lich-gate lay on the snow, with arms outstretched as one crucified; but in the shade which fell from the churchyard wall, he could not discern who it was. He stooped down, thinking it was some homeless wanderer, perhaps overtaken by drink. And there, imploring the mercy of God, lay Hanka!