“Have you sought for our Kuba?” cried Vitek, greatly touched. “Then ye are surely brother to the Squire of Vola.” “How do you know that?” “People have often told me his brother was back from a far-off land, and seeking a certain Kuba in all the country-side: but no one could tell who that Kuba was.” “Soha was his other name; I learned only to-day that he was dead, and had been in your service.” “Yes,” Vitek sobbed; “he was shot, and died—died of loss of blood!” “Was he long with you?” “Ever since I can remember.” “An honest fellow, I suppose?” he asked hesitatingly. “Oh, the whole village will tell you how honest he was: all wept at his funeral, all, even his Reverence, who would take no money for the burying.—He taught me my prayers, and how to use a gun, and was like a father to me.... Sometimes, too, he would give me a five-kopek bit.—Religious he was, and a quiet man, a hard worker, and one that his Reverence has praised many a time.” “Is he buried in your churchyard?” “Where else should he be?” Vitek returned. “I know the place; Ambrose set up a cross there, and Roch wrote about him on it. Even were it covered with snow, I could find it for you.” “Then let’s start at once, to get there ere nightfall.” The stranger put his sheepskin on, and stood there in a brown study for a time. A man of many years, somewhat stooping, grey-haired and withered. His rugged face had a clayey tint, with a deep scar in one cheek from a bullet, and another, long and fiery, on his brow. His nose was long, his beard tufted and scanty, his eyes dark, deep-sunk and glowing; a pipe was always in his mouth, and he was always refilling it.—Waking up at last from his reverie, he bethought himself of offering money to Yagna, who put her hands behind her back, and flushed crimson. “Pray take it: nothing in the world is given for nothing.” “In the world, that may be the fashion,” she retorted, with wounded pride. “Am I a Jewess or a trader, to take money for a little fire and water?” “Well, God reward your hospitality! Tell your husband that Yacek from Vola has been here: he will remember me. I shall be here again some day, but am now in haste, for night is near. God be with you!” “And with you also!” She would have kissed his hand, but he snatched it away, and hurried out of the cabin. The darkness was coming down slowly over the land. The great gale had gone down, but from the hillocks of drifted snow that lay across the road, there blew a dry powdery dust, like flour shaken out of a cloth. Above, all was now tranquil: huts and gardens came clear and distinct out of the livid blur of the uprising dusk.