The women gathered in the other apartment with Hanka, and took tea and sweet cakes; and, the organist’s wife leading off, they sang strains so plaintive and piercing that hens about the orchard began to cackle. Thus did the company eat, drink, and weep to the honoured memory of him who had died, and sing pious hymns for his soul, as befitted such an occasion and such a man. Hanka grudged neither food nor drink, and generously pressed them all to partake. When, at noon, many of them expected to depart, a dish of _kluski_ boiled in milk was served, followed by broiled meat with cabbage and pease. “Other folk,” Boleslaus’ wife whispered, “have not such dainties even at their weddings.” “True; but what a goodly inheritance he leaves them!” “And no doubt a large hoard of ready money.” “The blacksmith talked of its having been in the cabin—and vanished somewhere.” “Aye, he complains, but knows full well where he has hidden it.” The organist, who by this time was somewhat flustered, now stood up, and, glass in hand, set to extolling the late Boryna in such high-flown terms and such a wealth of Latin quotations that, little as they understood, they wept copiously, as they did at a sermon hard to make out. The noise increased, the faces grew flushed, the glasses clinked in fine style: some were groping for these with one hand and, with the other arm round their neighbour’s neck, babbled and stammered pitiably. Some still attempted to keep up the sad tone due to such an occasion; but no one paid any heed to them. Each turned to the companions he preferred, talking with them most affectionately, and drinking to them again and again. Ambrose alone was that day unlike his usual self. He had indeed drunk as much as any, nay, perhaps more, having taken all that he possibly could get; but he sat moping in a corner now, wiping his eyes and sighing heavily. Some of them endeavoured to put him in a gay humour. “Draw me not out, I am in no mood,” he growled. “I am soon going to die. To die! Over me there will be only the dogs to whine; or perhaps an old woman may clink a broken pot for me,” he mumbled, whimpering. “Yea, I was at Matthias’ christening, and made merry at his first wedding, and buried his father. Oh, well I remember that day! O Lord! And how many others I have laid in their graves, and sounded their funeral knell. Now ’tis time for me to go!” And getting up suddenly, he went out into the orchard. Vitek afterwards said that the old man had sat down behind the cabin and wept for ever so long. But he was not one to trouble much about. Besides, just as twilight was at hand, the priest, accompanied by the Squire, came in unexpectedly. His Reverence consoled the orphans, patted the childrens’ heads, and drank some tea, made for him by Yuzka; while the Squire, after some words exchanged with various people, took a glass which the smith offered him, drank to them all, and said to Hanka: