Antek alone went straight back to Lipka, along with Yagna; the others disappeared in the shadows at the edge of the forest. They long walked on in silence. Then he said: “Beware and say naught to anyone of that which you have heard.” “Am I, then, a pedlar of news from hut to hut?” She was offended. “And,” he added, with stern significance, “God forbid that the Voyt should hear anything of this!” She answered only by hurrying on; but he would not let her go, and strode on by her side, again and again glancing at her indignant face, bedewed with tears. The moon shone out again, silvering the narrow pathway where they walked abreast, and throwing across it the black distorted shadows of the trees. Suddenly his heart throbbed fast; his arms quivered with a sense of greedy desire, and he took a step nearer to her side.—He might have gathered her to his breast with a sweeping grasp. But he did not—he durst not. Her stubborn and disdainful silence held him back, and he only said to her bitterly: “You seem as if you wanted to get away from me.” “Because I do! Someone might see us together, and tongues would wag.” “Are you in a hurry to fly to anyone else?” “I am. What is to prevent me? Am I not a widow?” “They say (no idle talk, I see) that you prepare to keep house for a certain priest.” Swift as the wind, she rushed away, her tears falling in torrents down her cheeks. CHAPTER XI On the lighter soils, they were beginning to reap already; on the heavier, they were preparing all things for the harvest that was about to take place. It was but a few days after Roch’s flight. Lipka was getting the wagons ready for use, cleaning out the barns and airing them with wide-open doors; in the shadow of the orchards, people were busily twisting bands of straw; and within doors the women were busy baking loaves and cooking food for the reapers. All this caused so much racket and turmoil that the village looked as though on the eve of some great festival. Moreover, a great many people had come over from the neighbouring hamlets, and the roadways to and from the mill, in particular, were as crowded as on a fair-day. Most were taking their corn to be ground; and as if to thwart them, the water ran so low that only one of the falls would work, and even that very feebly. But everyone awaited his turn patiently, because all wanted the corn in their barns ground before harvest-home. Many besides had come to the miller’s to get meal, or groats; some even loaves. The man himself was ill in bed; but he still directed everything. He would cry out to his wife, sitting outside by the open window: “Not a kopek’s worth on credit for the Rzepki folk! They have patronized the priest’s bull: let the priest help them now!” He was inexorable to all prayers and entreaties: no one that had “patronized” the animal in question was lent even half a quart of flour.