He felt his soul extinguished, so to speak, veiled in a mist, frosted over and chilled to the core: but the deep-blue eyes were shining bright within him. Hanging his head, he dragged himself on with slow steps. More than once he glanced round, but nothing was visible beneath the poplar colonnade, save the blur of a snowy whirlwind fleeing away with a tinkling of far-off bells. Oblivion of all things came over him, as though he had lost his memory by some strange happening. He stared helplessly, not knowing what to do ... or where to go ... or what had come to pass. He was as one in a dream—a waking dream, which he cannot shake off. Almost unconsciously, he got to the tavern, passing several sledges full of folk, amongst whom he recognized no one, though he looked carefully. “Where is that crowd of people bound for?” he asked Yankel, who was standing in the doorway. “For the court. There’s a lawsuit with the Manor about a cow, and herdsmen assaulted: you know the affair. Those are the witnesses; Boryna started before.” “Will they win?” “Why should anyone lose? The complaint is against the Squire of Vola, and the Squire of Rudka is to be judge. Why should a Squire lose?—Besides, the folk will have an excursion, will improve the roads, will enjoy themselves; and the townsmen too need to do some business. So everybody will gain a little.” Antek was not listening to Yankel’s mockery. He ordered some strong vodka and, leaning against the bar, stood musing there for a full hour, without even tasting the liquor. “Is anything ailing you?” “What should ail me?—Let me into the private bar.” “Impossible. Dealers are there—great merchants, who have purchased another clearing from the Squire; that in Vilche Doly. They must have rest; nay, it may be they are sleeping now.” “I’ll pull the scurvy rascals out by their beards!” Antek cried, and rushed madly to the private bar; but ere he got there, he changed his mind, and took his bottle to the darkest nook in the room. The tavern was empty and still, save for the Jews talking together in their jargon, Yankel running to serve them, or someone coming in to order a glass, toss it off, and withdraw. It was now past noon, and the frost no doubt increasing; for the sledge-runners creaked in the snow, and the tavern grew colder. But Antek remained in a brown study, unable to make out what was going on within him and around. He took a dram, then another; but those eyes! They were always with him—dark-blue, turquoise-blue!—and so very near that his eyelids all but touched them.—A third dram, and they grew brighter still, and seemed to whirl about, as lights borne from one part of the room to another!—A cold shudder went through him; terrified, he started to his feet. “Pay up, you!” shouted Yankel, blocking the way out. “Pay up! I give you naught on trust.”