And now she was alone: quite, quite alone! The patient follower, the persistent watcher, the masterful lover, was there no more. The Voyt indeed caressed her, dallied with her among the hedgerows, or went with her for drinks to the tavern, and would fain have taken Antek’s place. But she only allowed him such liberties because they flattered her senses, and there was no one else at hand: who could compare him with Antek? Besides, she had another motive in this: to flout the village—and Antek not less! Ah! in the last three days after the fight, how shamefully he had slighted her! Had he not sat all day, all night, at the old man’s bedside, nay, even slept upon her own bed, scarce ever leaving the hut; and yet seemed not to see her, though she was always by his side, looking like a dog with wistful eyes for any sign of love? Never had he once looked upon her: he had eyes only for his father, for Hanka, for the children—and for the dog! It was that, possibly, which had quenched all her love for him. And so, when he was taken away in irons, he had appeared to her as someone else—as a stranger. She could not find it in her heart to grieve for him; and she eyed with grim pleasure Hanka, tearing her hair, beating her head against the wall, and howling like a dog when her puppies are drowned. She spitefully enjoyed her agonies, while turning away in disgust from the dreadful madness in Antek’s face. The man he was now she could not so much as remember distinctly, any more than the face of some person she had seen but once: so great was the estrangement between them! But she recollected all the more clearly the Antek of old—of those loving days—days of trysts and embraces, of kisses and raptures—him for whom her whole being yearned again and again when she woke at night, and her heart, bursting with passionate grief, cried out aloud to him, wildly moaning and longing. To him of those past days of bliss did her soul cry out; though, indeed, was he anywhere now in the wide world? Just then he was present—living in her mind—a most sweet vision, when suddenly Hanka’s shrill voice drove him from her. “That woman makes a din like a dog flayed alive!” was her mental comment as the vision faded. The sun’s rays were peeping in obliquely, reddening the murky room; birds warbled; and as the warmth increased, the night’s white frost fell in crystal drops from the roof, while she could hear the geese screaming and splashing in the pond. She set the room in order, for it was Sunday, and she would presently have to get ready for church, and prepare the palm-boughs for the ceremony. She had the red osier shoots, cut the day before, and covered with silvery buds, standing there in a water-jug; and she was about to bind and adorn them carefully, when Vitek shouted through the door: “Mistress says your cow is lowing for want of food, and you are to feed her.”