“‘Lo, you are too thin—naught but skin on your bones! Eat you we will not, nor wear out our teeth to no purpose: but we shall take pity on you, and help you.’ “They took him with them, and the next morning led him to his master’s fields, and put him to the plough that was standing there. “‘They will plough with you, and make you wax stout; and in the autumn we shall come and unharness you!’ So they spake. “The widow came to the field later; but though she cried, ‘A miracle!’ seeing him back and about to plough, the bitter memory of what he had done soon made her revile him and beat him as hard as she could. And this she did the next day, and after, continually punishing him for his crime. All the summer he toiled hard and in patience, knowing that he suffered justly. Only after several years, when the widow had taken another husband, and also purchased some more land from a neighbour, did she relent towards the horse, saying unto him: “‘You did us a grievous wrong; but since by your means the Lord has blessed us with good harvests, and I have got an able husband, and have bought some fields, I fully and freely forgive you.’ “And behold, in that same night, while they were celebrating a christening-feast, the wolves, messengers of our Lord, came, took that horse out of the stable, and led him to the fields of Paradise.” They wondered exceedingly at the narrative, and were greatly exercised, thinking how the Lord always punishes evil and rewards good deeds, and watches carefully over all things, as this tale about the horse clearly showed. “Not even the worm that bores in this wall is hidden from His eyes.” “Nor even,” Roch swiftly added, “is any most secret thought concealed from Him, nor any foul desire.” Yagna started at the words; for Antek had just come in, though noticed by few. Valentova was at the time relating such wonders about an enchanted princess, that the spindles ceased from turning, and all sat motionless, listening in charmed silence. And thus they spent that bleak February evening. All their minds were on fire, and blazed like roaring resinous faggots; murmurs of emotional outbursts—fancies, dreams, desires—fluttered about the cabin like butterflies—living, flying flowers. They wove themselves such a web of marvels—so bright with changing prismatic hues—that for the moment it quite shut out the sad, grey, miserable world they lived in.