It was a cold and windy night. The poplars were rocking noisily; sometimes a bough struck him across the face; and when the gale fell, there came a cold thin March rain that drizzled in his eyes. But Antek went on his way unheeding, bewildered, amazed, filled with unspeakable awe. “Things are now at their worst!” he muttered at last, coming to a standstill. “Yes, he was right! he was right!” “O Jesus! My Jesus!” he shrieked, seizing his head in his hands with a sudden clutch. At that instant he had seen as in a flash all the horror of his sins, and was torn with an unearthly sense of humiliation. He sat for a long time brooding under a tree, gazing into the night and listening to the low, tremulous, eerie music of the waving trees. A convulsion of rage and hatred seized him. “It is all through that man—that man!” he exclaimed, his former resentment springing up anew, and all those cravings for revenge spreading over his mind again, dark as the clouds that overspread the sky. “Never will I forgive him! no, never!” he bellowed, his recklessness returning. And he at once started up, to go back to the village. The church was now locked; the cabin-windows shone bright. As he went by, he passed several knots of people, who, in spite of the rain, stood engaged in eager talk. On passing the tavern, he looked in at the window, saw there was plenty of company inside, and went in boldly, as if there had been nothing amiss. But when he approached the largest group with greetings, only one or two shook hands with him; the others hastily withdrew and left the place. In a minute, he was all but alone in the tavern. Besides the Jew behind the bar, there was only a _Dziad_ sitting by the fire. He had driven them all away! It was a bitter pill, but he swallowed it, and ordered some vodka; then, laying down the glass untouched, he rushed out. He strayed along the banks of the pond, eyeing with a vacant stare the long fiery streaks which, from the lighted windows, swept over the wet snow and glistened on the water with which the ice was now covered. Gentler thoughts came to him. His heart felt unspeakably heavy: he was so terribly alone, so much in want of human converse, of some fireside to sit by, that he went straight to Ploshka’s cabin, the first along his way. A large assembly was there; but, when he entered, they all started to their feet in dismay. Even Staho, who was there too, could not find a word to say to him. He muttered: “Ye stare at me as if I were a murderer!” and went out to the next hut, which was Balcerek’s. Here they received him with the utmost frigidity, mumbling some inarticulate words in response to his greeting, and not even asking him to be seated.