“He asked only about Kuba and the figures stuck upon the wall.” “‘To find the road, he walks along a side-path.’ Yes, in all this there is some trick or other of the manor-folk. What? the brother of the Squire troubling about Kuba? ’Tis true, this Yacek is, they say, not quite sound of mind—always wandering about the villages, playing his violin where holy figures stand, and talking senseless talk.—Did he say he would come again?” “He did, and asked about you.” “Well, well, this is beyond me.” “And had you a talk with the Squire?” she asked him pleasantly, wishing to turn his mind away from what had just occurred. He winced, as though stung in some most tender part. “No. I was at Simon’s.” And he said no more. So they sat together in gloomy silence until supper-time, when Roch came in. He sat down by the fire, according to custom, but would not eat. When they had done, he said, in a low tone: “I have not come here for myself. They tell me, the Squire is deeply offended with the Lipka folk and will not employ one peasant of the village to hew down his trees. I have come to ask if this is the truth.” “In God’s name, my man, how should I know? It is news to me!” “But a council was held at the miller’s to-day; the news has come thence.” “The Voyt, the miller, and the smith were there: not I.” “How so? They tell me that the Squire was here to-day to see you, and you went out with him.” “I have not seen him, and I speak the truth: believe me or not, as you choose.” But how this truth had stung him, and the fact that he had been slighted had stung him, he did not say. The very thought exasperated him; he held his tongue nevertheless, ruminating over the bitter grievance, and controlling himself with a great effort, lest Roch should guess at what he felt.