Offended, she became mute. He tried in vain to bring her round with kind words, and at last he too lost his temper, snatched up his cap and strode out, slamming the door. Yagna, having supplied her distaff with flax, sat down by the window, and began to spin, with a glance from time to time at the tempest of snow that raged outside. The wind howled deafeningly. Great clouds of powdery snow, as large as houses, torn and tattered and formless, were whisked about in every direction, and again and again broke upon the cabin walls, making every beam and rafter tremble, rattling the contents of the sideboard, and swinging to and fro Yuzka’s “globes” and “stars” that dangled overhead. A draught, piercingly cold, came in through the doors and windows, making Yagna throw her apron over her shoulders, and Lapa more than once shift his place for a warmer nook. Vitek entered noiselessly, and said, not without hesitation: “Mistress!” “Well?” “Do you know, the Squire has driven over with stallions! Carriage-horses they are, black as night, with red netting and plumes on their heads, and tinkling bells about their flanks; and they shine like the gildings in the church. And how they did fly past! Oh, faster far than the wind!” “Of course.—They are not peasants’ horses: they belong to the manor.” “O Lord! I never saw such wonderful beasts!” “Could they be otherwise, with no field-work to do, and feeding on naught but oats?” “Ye are right, mistress.—But should we feed our filly so, and dock her tail, and harness her together with the Voyt’s mare, would they go as well as these?” The dog started up in alarm, and barked. “Someone is in the passage: see who it is.” But ere Vitek could do so, a man, crusted over with snow, appeared on the threshold, “praised God,” beat his cap on the leg of his boot, and looked round the room. “Pray let me breathe a space and warm myself here,” he gasped. “Be seated,” she replied, in some confusion. “Vitek, put more logs on the fire.” The stranger sat down on the hearth, warmed himself, and lit a pipe. “Is this the dwelling of Boryna—Matthias Boryna?” he asked, consulting a paper. “It is,” she answered, fearing she might have to do with someone of the police. “Is your father at home?” “My _husband_ is gone to the village.” “Allow me to wait here a little, warming myself by the fire: I am quite frozen.” “You are welcome: neither bench nor fire will lose thereby.” He took off his sheepskin coat, but had evidently been chilled to the marrow, for he shivered all over, rubbed his hands, and drew nearer and nearer still to the fire. “This year,” he remarked, “we have a bitterly hard winter.” “Of a truth, it is not mild.—May I heat a little milk for you?” “No, thanks; but I should like some tea.” “We had some not long since, in autumn, when my goodman had pains inside, and I got some from town for him; but it is all run out, and I cannot say where I could obtain any here.”