His Reverence turned angrily upon him, but said no word, and set once more to singing along with the people; now and then casting his eyes over the vast expanse of fields, swelling out here and there like the breasts of a mother giving suck, and seeming to heave gently, as if she would gather together and feed all who came to her bosom. Sunset was gilding the corn, and the trees in bloom were throwing lengthier shadows; the mill-pond shone dazzlingly in its lovely frame of orchards, snowy with fallen blossoms. The village lay beneath them as at the bottom of an enormous dish, and so compassed about with trees that the grey barns were but seldom visible. The church alone lifted its white walls up above all the huts, its golden cross gleaming bright in the sky. “How still it is! I hope it will not rain to-night,” said the priest. “It will not; the sky has emptied itself out, and there’s a cool breeze.” “In the forenoon it was raining; and now, not a trace of water!” “In spring the water vanishes quick,” the blacksmith chimed in. Now they had come to the next mound, that formed a landmark of the commune. It was very large: they said that men lay under it who had been slain in “The War.” It was topped by a small cross of shaky timber, adorned with last year’s images and garlands, and draped with many a scarf. Close by stood a willow with forked and rotten trunk, that hid the fissures of old age under the new shoots that it bore. The place was drearily waste and sinister: no birds made their nest near it. Fruitful lands extended on every side; but among these the mound lifted up its barren flanks, with yellow streaks of sand, and abounding only in houseleeks that spread here and there in patches like a foul tetter, along with the dried stalks of last year’s mullein and nightshade. They recited the prayers against the plague, and, quickening their pace, turned on again to the left, beyond the poplar road, following a narrow and deeply rutted cartway. But Agata stayed behind a little to tear off some bits of scarf from the cross. These, as she once more went after the procession, she buried one by one in the field-paths, for some superstitious purpose of hers. The organist now began the litany, which, however, was taken up but feebly, only a few of the people responding. Meanwhile, the priest, now much exhausted, was wiping his bald head, looking round on the neighbouring lands, and conversing with the Voyt. “I see the pease have come out finely here.” “An early crop, no doubt, and well-prepared soil.” “I sowed some before Holy Week, and yet mine are only just peeping out!” “Because your Reverence’s land lies low and is exposed to the north.” “Why, the barley here sprouts up as regular as if sown with a drill!” “The Modlitsa folk are good husbandmen, and till their lands like the Manor people.” “Ah, but how wretchedly our fields have been tilled, God forgive us!” the priest ejaculated mournfully.