A warm dark night. In the sombre depths of the sky a few stars twinkled. Upon the marshes lay a thin white film of haze; and there the frogs set up their croaking, and the stray piping of affrighted lapwings sounded now and then. The slumbering trees stood out against the sky, the orchards loomed grey, as though lime-sprinkled, and wafted fragrance as from censers: cherry-blossoms, half-open lilac-buds, water, dew-drenched soil—all breathed perfumes; each particular flower gave out its own sweet scent, all mingling in a deliciously intoxicating aroma. There were still a few sounds of talk within the village, on the door-steps, about the dwellings now plunged in shade; and people swarmed in the roadways, overshadowed by the trees, and only traversed in places by streaks of light from the windows. Yagna’s intention had been to call on her mother, but she turned aside towards the mill-pond, stopping very frequently; for at every step she met couples, arm about waist, conversing eagerly and in subdued tones. There were her brother and Nastka, embraced and kissing passionately. She also came unintentionally upon Mary Balcerek and Vavrek, standing close to a hedgerow, kissing tenderly and forgetful of everything in the world. There were others whom she knew by their voices. From every shadow about the pond or the fences came whispers, words softly breathed, burning sighs, and sounds of rustling and struggling. The whole village seemed boiling over with tender passion; and even flappers and mere boys were playing at love-making down in the lanes. A sudden feeling of disgust came over her, together with the resolve to go on at once to her mother’s. On the way she met Matthew face to face, but he took no more notice of her than of a tree-stump. He was walking with Teresa, in rapt conversation, both clinging close together; they passed her by, and she still heard their voices and smothered laughter. Turning back brusquely, she took to her heels as if pursued by a whole pack of dogs, and ran for her cabin. The evening meanwhile flowed on tranquilly, redolent of spring, instinct with the gladness of all these meetings and all the unearthly serenity of immense happiness. Far away in the night, either among the sweet-smelling orchards or out in the fields, a flute was twittering a love-tune—the accompaniment, as it were, to all those murmurs and kisses and raptures. And in the marshes the frogs had set up a grand croaking concert, interrupted at times, while others replied to them from the mist-covered pond with long slumberous snoring croaks, fainter by degrees; and the youngsters who played about the lanes caught up their song, vying with them with doggerel mimicry. “The stork’s bad, bad, bad: May he choke, choke, choke! He shall croak, croak, croak, And be glad, glad, glad!” CHAPTER VIII