The scent of the young birch-trees filled the air, and the nightingales began to try their notes, first in broken bursts, then gathering force, and finally breaking out into foaming streams of golden euphony—wonderful trills of long-drawn music, of melody dropping like pearls; while at no great distance resounded the violin of Mr. Yacek, which accompanied the human singers so sweetly, so gently, and so powerfully at once, it seemed that it came from the rye-stalks rustling against each other, or that the soil itself were breathing that chant of May. All then sang together in ecstasies: the people, the birds, the violin; and when they paused to take breath awhile, an innumerable choir of frogs raised their husky voices all in tune and whirringly, as if hurrying them on to begin again. So the chant went on—now these singers, now those. The service lasted very long, and in the end the smith called out more than once to those behind him: “Pray, do not drag the words so!” For many of them were lengthening out the notes beyond measure. His remark to Matthias Klemba went even farther: “Don’t bellow so; you’re not following the oxen!” And at last they sang together all in harmony, and their voices were like a flock of doves soaring up in the dusky sky. “Good night, O Lily white! Good night! Mary, our hearts’ delight, Good night!” It was now black overhead, warm, and very quiet; but a few stars began to appear and sparkle and twinkle like dewdrops. The girls in couples, arms about waists, sang together as they went home. Hanka was returning alone, carrying her baby and absorbed in thought, when the smith approached and walked by her side. She held her peace until close to her home; then, seeing him still beside her, she said: “Are ye coming in, Michael?” “Only into the porch,” he answered in a low tone; “I have to speak with you.” She felt somewhat agitated. Had he any fresh misery in store for her? “You have probably been to see Antek,” he said. “Yes, but was not let in.” “’Tis what I feared!” “Say, then, what ye know!” She was shaking with apprehension. “What I know? Only so much as I could get out of the police inspector.” “And what is that?” She pressed her little one closer. “That Antek is not to be released until after the trial.” “How is that?” she stammered hoarsely. “The lawyer told me the contrary.” “’Tis because he would take to flight. In such cases, a prisoner is never set at liberty. Bear in mind that I come to you as a friend to-day.—Bygones are bygones.... Though you will see one day that I was right.... But hear what I have to say now: I am speaking the truth as in the confessional.—Antek is in a very sorry plight, and sure to be cruelly punished: perchance for ten years! You hear?” “I do, and believe not one word,” she said, with sudden self-control. “Seeing is believing; and I have told you the truth.” “After your fashion,” she replied, smiling ironically.