“Come home ... the cold is fearful ... come, Hanka!” He spoke with entreaty, his soul melting strangely within him. She answered nothing. Then he lifted her up and took her home. All the way, they were mute. But Hanka wept grievously. CHAPTER VIII After that Twelfth Night, Boryna’s house became like a tomb. No weeping, no clamour, no invectives: but a sinister silence dwelt there, telling of rancour and suppressed resentment. Everybody in the house was now taciturn, veiled in gloom, living in the continual expectation of some awful thing about to take place, as under a roof that one knows may at any time crash down upon one’s head. Neither on his return to the hut, nor even the next day, did Boryna say a single sharp word to Yagna. Nor did he complain to Dominikova: he kept silence about all that had happened. But the paroxysm of anger he had felt made him ill: he was unable to rise from his bed, had continual qualms, a stitch in his side, and fits of fever now and then. “’Tis nothing much; only the liver is inflamed, or perhaps the womb has changed position,” was Dominikova’s diagnosis, as she rubbed his side with hot oil. He replied nothing, but groaned heavily, staring at the rafters above. “It was not Yagna’s fault, indeed it was not!” she said, speaking low, lest they should hear her from the other room. She felt extreme uneasiness at his saying no word to her about the happenings of the night before. “Whose then?” he muttered. “What evil has she done? Ye left her, and went away to drink in the private room; the band played, and all the folk danced in the other. What then? Ought she to have sat alone in a corner? She is a young healthy woman, and needs to be amused. Well, he was urgent, and she danced with him. Could she help it? In the tavern, everyone has the right to choose his dancer. He—that wretch! choose her, and would not leave her alone ... all out of spite against you!” “’Tis good ye rub me to set me on my legs again; but I will take no lessons from you. I know the truth of the matter quite well.” “Are ye so wise? Then should ye know that a young woman in good health needs some pleasure. She is not a log of wood, neither is she an old dame: she married a man, and a man she must have. Not a decrepit veteran, with whom she can only tell her beads! No, no!” “Yet ye gave her to me in marriage: wherefore, then?” he asked, with a sneer. “Wherefore? And who was it came whining like a dog? Was it I who implored you to take her? Did I entice you ... or did she? Why, she might have wedded anyone, aye, and of the first in Lipka: so many were after her!” “After her, yes; to wed her, no.” “Yelping cur! May your tongue rot off!” “Ah! the truth is a stinging nettle to you!” “’Tis no truth, but a wicked lie!”