The rye was not yet all cut down, before the oats on the uplands were more than ready for the sickle, and you could almost see how quick the barley ripened, and the wheat daily grew of an ever rustier gold. There was no time to rest, not even to eat at one’s leisure; they were all so tired, so worn out, that many would fall asleep over their meals; and yet, when they came home in the evening, Lipka thrilled to the merry din of talk and laughter, of music and songs. Yes, the hard times that came before the harvest were over and gone; the barns were full, there was corn in abundance, and everyone, poor as he might be, held up his head proudly, and looked forward in confidence to the future and the happy times he had so long desired. On one of these golden days of harvest, when they were bringing in the barley, the blind old _Dziad_, led by his dog, passed through the village. The heat was intense, yet he would not rest anywhere, being in haste to get to Podlesie. This was hard work for him to do, dragging a heavy stomach upon twisted limbs; and he could but move slowly along, stretching out his neck, and listening attentively to each sound he heard. Stopping sometimes near the reapers, he would “praise God,” offer them snuff, and—if a coin dropped into his palm—mumble a few prayers, and ask, as it were indifferently, for news about Yagna and the affairs of the village. He got little information on the first point, however; they answered him unwillingly, and told him no matter what came to their heads. But at Podlesie, on getting to the crucifix, he happened to meet Matthew, who was not far off, putting the timber for the smith’s windmill into shape. “Please take me to Simon’s hut,” the _Dziad_ asked him, swinging forward on his crutches. “Ye’ll have but little comfort there, where is naught but weeping and sorrow!” Matthew replied. “Is Yagna still ailing? They told me something in her brain had gone wrong.” “Not at all.—But she is always in bed, and has well-nigh forgotten all things in the world. Her state would move a heart of stone.... Oh, what creatures men are!” “Aye, to ruin thus the mind of a Christian!... But I hear her mother intends bringing an action against all Lipka.” “She cannot win. The decision was taken by the whole assembly: they were within their rights.” “Oh, the wrath of the multitude is a fearful thing!” The _Dziad_ shuddered as he spoke. Matthew flared up hotly. “Fearful, yes; but senseless and spiteful and unjust exceedingly!” He brought him close to the hut, and went in himself. Only for a minute, however, to come out again wiping a tear away. Nastka was spinning under the eaves. The _Dziad_ sat down by her, and produced a blue flask. “See, ye must sprinkle Yagna with this thrice a day, and also rub the crown of her head therewith; in a week, all trace of hurt will be gone. The nuns in Przyrov gave it me.”