“Hark!” she said, pulling him by the arm; “Antek will be home in three days. He had been taken to the Government prison. Roch followed him with money that must be paid. Both will come home together.” On a sudden the old man sat up, rubbed his eyes, and seemed to listen; but he sank back at once, pulled the down covering over his head and fell asleep again. There was no more talking with him; besides, the mowers were just then coming into the yard. “Yesterday,” Philip told Hanka, “we mowed the meadow adjoining the cabbage-plot.” “To-day ye will go beyond the river, by the boundary-market; Yuzka will show you where.” “’Tis in Duck’s Hollow; a big piece of land.” “And the grass comes up to the waist, lush and rank: very different from yesterday’s meadow.” “Was the grass so poor there?” “Aye, all but dried up: it felt like cutting a brush.” “Then it may be tossed this very day, since the dew will soon be quite dry.” They started at once: Matthew, smoking a cigarette in Yagna’s room, was the last, and cast a rueful look behind him as he went, like a cat balked of its bowl of milk. The rest of the village, too, soon poured forth its troops of mowers. Scarcely had the sun risen, huge and ruddy, when the weather grew warm, and presently very hot indeed. On the mowers marched, in Indian file, preceded by Yuzka, dragging a pole after her. They passed the mill. The meadows were veiled in a low creeping haze, through which tufts of alders peered out like puffs of dark smoke; here and there the river peeped from under its greyish screen, glittering brightly; the dew-drenched grasses drooped their heads in the meadows, and the piping of lapwings came on the eastern breeze, scented with the bland fragrance of many blossoms. Yuzka, having taken them as far as the landmarks, measured the extent of her father’s meadow-land, stuck the pole up at the border, and scampered away home. Pulling off their spencers and tucking their breeches up, they formed into line, and thrust the scythe-handles into the ground, to sharpen the blades with their whetstones. “The grass is as thick as the wool of a fleece; some of us will sweat soundly,” said Matthew, who stood first, testing the sweep of his scythe. “Thick it is—and tall!” said his neighbour. “Well, there’ll be plenty of hay.” “Yes, if the weather be fine,” said a third, glancing up at the sky. “When you’re mowing a meadow, rain always is ready,” remarked the fourth, with a grin. “The saying’s not true this year!—Come, begin, Matthew!” They all crossed themselves. Matthew tightened his girdle, straddled forward, spat on his palms, took a deep breath, and launched his scythe far into the grass, plying it with swift strokes; the others following him one after another, in a slanting line, for fear of accidents. So they cut their way into the mist-covered meadow with a steady rhythmical advance, their cold blades glistening, with a swish at every stroke, and forming long swaths heavy with dewdrops.