“Not even do I dream of going. Why should I? Am I so ill off, though alone?” Throwing her apron over her head, she looked cautiously round. “’Tis late; I must hurry away.” “Wherefore in such haste? Will anyone come from your home for you?” “But for you ’tis time: Hanka has made the bed, and yearns sorely!” The words made him snarl like a dog. “Of him that is waiting for you down there at the tavern,” he said venomously, “I do not remind you.” “Know, then,” she said, with biting emphasis, “that more than one is waiting: aye, and are ready to wait even till morning! You would have it you are the only one, forsooth! You are too saucy!” “Then off with you—go! Go, even to that old Jew!” he almost spat the words at her. But she stood there still. They were both together, panting heavily, staring one at the other out of eyes full of hate, each seeking what words might wound the other most deeply. “Ye had something to say to me: say it now, for never will I meet you again.” “Fear not: never will I ask you!” “I would not, were you to come whining at my feet!” “Without doubt; you are too busy, having to meet so many every night.” At that, crying: “May you die the death of a dog!” she leaped over the stile and into the field. He did not follow, nor call after her, but looked on as she ran through the fields and disappeared like a shadow among the orchards; rubbed his eyes, as if only just waking, and grumbled in sullen ill humour: “My wits are clean gone from me! Lord! how far astray a man can be led by a woman!” On his return to the hut, he somehow felt extremely ashamed. He could not pardon himself for what he had done: it obsessed and haunted him cruelly. His bed—made in the orchard, the heat and flies within doors being intolerable—was awaiting him. But he could not sleep. He lay looking up at the stars that twinkled overhead, and listening to the quiet footsteps of the night ... and ... making up his mind about Yagna. “Neither with nor without her can I live!” He cursed her under his breath, and sighed in pain, turning from side to side, throwing off his covering, and wetting his feet to cool them in the long dewy grass. But no sleep came, and his thoughts persecuted him as before. In the hut, one of the children set up a wail, and Hanka murmured some words. He lifted his head; but soon all was still again. And then his mind began to swarm with thoughts; the memories of past joys came floating about him, like fragrant spring breezes. But he was not now to be their slave any more; now he could resist their charms, and contemplate them with calm deliberation, and in their very presence take a firm resolve, as solemn as if he were at Holy Confession. “This must cease—and for ever!—’Tis a foul offence against God!—Would I have folk speak about me anew?—Am I not a landed man, a father?—Aye, I must—I must—end all this now.” He felt the resolve to be unutterably painful to keep; but he took it nevertheless.