“Right and wrong have naught to do with you, you wife of Bartek Koziol!” she returned in a hard voice, drawing herself up to her full height. All were fluttered, and expected the two would come to blows at once; but they went no further than a defiant glare. And then Vitek came to ask them to dinner, and to take their baskets, the afternoon being a half-holiday. At dinner, which Hanka served out to them outside the cabin, they talked but little. The sun was shining bright, and everything looked beautiful, with snowy blossoms scattered all about. The day continued fine, and the breeze moved the tree-tops as gently as the hand of a mother caressing her little one’s cheeks. No more field-work, then, was done that day. Even the cattle were driven home: only a few of the poorest villagers led the hungry cow (their food-giver) by a rope to graze along the field-paths, or about the ditches. When the sun had begun to throw somewhat longer shadows, the people gathered in front of the church, conversing in tones as low as the chirping of the birds within the lofty maples and lime-trees that spread their branches, scarce covered as yet with leaves, above the church-roof. As usual when it has rained in the morning, the sun was hot. The women, in holiday garments, stood together in groups, some of them looking eagerly over the wall towards the poplar road; and the blind _Dziad_ sat with his dog at the lich-gate, droning hymns in a singsong whine, listening attentively to every sound he heard, and holding out a platter to the passers-by. In a little, his Reverence came out, clad in surplice and stole, but with uncovered head, his bald crown glistening in the sun. Pete carried the cross, for the way was too far for Ambrose; the Voyt, the Soltys, and some of the strongest girls bore the banners, which waved and flapped and gleamed resplendent with many a hue. Michael, the organist’s pupil, swung the holy-water stoup and brandished the sprinkler; Ambrose distributed the tapers; and the organist, book in hand, took his place by the side of his Reverence. So they started off in silence, through the blossom-sprinkled village; and as they went along the pond, its still waters reflected the whole pageant. On the way, many more women and children joined them; and finally the miller and the smith pressed in by the priest’s side. Last of all, lagging far behind, came Agata shaken with her churchyard cough, and the blind old _Dziad_, swinging along on his crutches; but the latter turned off at the bridge, and made for the tavern. They lit the tapers only on passing the mill: the priest donned his biretta, made the sign of the cross, and intoned Psalm XCI: “He that dwelleth....”