What then took place within her, she was never able to understand. Such a fire ran through all her limbs, and with such penetration, that she was ready to cry aloud with the delicious pain of it. Shudders came over her like swift lightning flashes; she felt a burning whirlwind rushing away with her; wild cries, impatient to break forth, thronged all her being, tense with an unspeakable longing. She wanted to crawl towards him—nearer—nearer—but only to lay her lips on his white hands—kneel to him—gaze on him close at hand—pray to him as to some holy image! Yet she held back, deterred by a feeling of mystic dread, and the vague fear of some horrible evil. “O Jesus! O merciful Jesus!” escaped her lips in a stifled moan. Yanek rose, bent out of the window, and said, as though he had perceived her: “Who is there?” In mortal alarm, she held her breath. Her heart stopped beating, she was paralysed with a sort of sacred terror. Her soul, as it were, fluttered in her throat, as it fluctuated in the throes of suspense—and rapturous disquiet! But Yanek saw nothing save the fence. He shut the window, undressed quickly, and put out the light. Then the night fell upon her. She still remained there a long time, gloating upon the blackness of the silent window. The chill of the darkness struck through her, sprinkling its silver dew over her hot desires, quenching the ardour in her blood, and shedding over her a sense of unutterable happiness! A sweetly solemn calm pervaded her soul—the calm of the flowers which dream before sunrise—and she burst forth into a wordless prayer of bliss—the marvellous sweetness of that ecstasy which the mind’s unsullied dreams bring forth—unspeakable joy like that of a spring day which dawns—and with it came glad tears in big beads—beads from the rosary of thanksgiving offered to the Lord! CHAPTER III “Pray, Hanka, may I go home?” Yuzka entreated, laying her head down upon the pew-seat. “Aye, do: run about everywhere like a silly calf!” said Hanka, rebuking her, and looking up from her rosary. “But I feel so faint, so weary!” “Do not be so restless: it will be over soon.” His Reverence was just ending a low Mass for Boryna’s soul, which the family had retained for the octave of his death. All his nearest relations sat in the side-pews. Yagna and her mother alone were kneeling in front of the altar. Somewhere in the choir, Agata was pattering prayers aloud. The church, cool and quiet, was dark, except for one streak of light that shot in through the open door, and lit up the place as far as the pulpit. Michael, the organist’s pupil, served Mass, jingling the tiny bells very loud, as usual, and also as usual continually turning his head about after the swallows which were darting in and out of the place. The priest having ended Mass, they all went out to the churchyard; but as they were going past the belfry, Ambrose called them. “His Reverence wishes to speak to you.”