At which the pope made haste to add that the Lord's goodness was being shown to him even now. "Come in," he concluded.

"It is late," said Taras; "I only wanted to have a look at you. Though, let me say, I know what you are keeping for me, happening to fall in with the two lads of Simeon by the Czeremosz yesterday, and they told me the imperial decision had arrived."

"But I daresay they have not told you correctly," said Father Leo, anxiously. "We will put off everything till to-morrow, but no false report in this respect shall grieve your heart; a minute longer than I can help. The rescript consists of a few lines only, and I have read them so often that I know them by heart. It is true that your pet.i.tion is refused, because the verdicts of the local courts had plainly shown you in the wrong. And you are warned from again appealing to the Emperor needlessly; it is condoned this once, because of your evident zeal for the good of the parish. These are the very words: 'The subject Taras Barabola is herewith instructed to refrain from again troubling His Apostolic Majesty or the Imperial magistrates, and to submit to justice.' That is all, I a.s.sure you; never a word of prison. And it is bad enough as it is."

"Bad enough," repeated Taras slowly. "What were the last words?"

Father Leo looked at him, he could see his face plainly in the moonlight; it was quite calm. So he repeated the final clause.

"To submit to justice," said Taras after him, slowly. "Good-night."

The pope would have wished to detain him, but the clock had struck one some time ago, and it was the hour for giving the children their medicine. So he shook hands with him through the window and returned to the little patients, where the phial stood by the side of a night-light.

He was just taking up the bottle, when suddenly--fearfully--a cry rang through the stillness without, half lost in the distance, but so terrible, so death-inspired that he shook violently, sending forth a cry in return. The children sat up in their beds sobbing, but he flew back to the window, trembling, and listened. Deep silence had settled without, and not again was it broken; yet he gazed out anxiously, prepared for the very worst.

But all seemed at peace; the little cottage gardens, and the street, and the fields beyond, lay swathed in moonlight, but deserted and still. Nowhere a trace of living soul, not a sound to be heard, save the whispering of the branches bending to the night air. Was it Taras?

Did ever human breast send forth such a shriek of mortal agony? The priest could not tell, but he remembered the screech owl. "The bird of night may have flown past the house," he reflected, straining his ear to catch a repet.i.tion of the sound. But all was still; only the wind kept swaying the branches.

He crossed himself and returned to his children, endeavouring to calm them; and having given them their medicine, he strove to take up the thread of his sermon. But that was well-nigh impossible. Again and again he stood still, listening; but only the gentle voices of the night reached his ear, no sound of alarm--the screech owl was silent....

The small hours pa.s.sed slowly, gloomily. With the dawn the popadja entered to take his place. "Little father," she said, "have I been dreaming, or did I hear it? A terrible cry broke upon my sleep, as of a man being strangled and crying for help...."

"I daresay you dreamt it," returned he, huskily, making haste to gain his study; there was early service at eight o'clock, and he really must collect his thoughts for his sermon.

But it was impossible, for while he was yet dressing he was suddenly seized with a burning desire to see his friend, and nothing was to be done but follow the inward compulsion. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his cloak and hurried from the house.

Entering Taras's farmyard, he found his two eldest boys in their Sunday garments, with bright plumes in their brand-new caps. They were making a desperate noise with toy trumpets. On seeing the pope they ran up to him and kissed his hand.

"Father returned last night," they cried, "and see what he brought us--a trumpet each and these beautiful caps."

"Is he at home?" inquired the priest.

"No. He is gone to see Jewgeni."

"The judge?"

"Yes--that judge," returned little Wa.s.silj, with all the contempt he was capable of. "He has business with him. He would never go and see him for the pleasure of it."

"And where is your mother?"

"Getting ready for church."

"Well, tell your father to come to me in the vestry directly after service. Do you understand?"

Wa.s.silj promised to deliver the message. "And I know what for," he added, with childish importance, "the Emperor's answer has arrived."

Full of disquietude the priest retraced his steps. "What business can he have with the judge?" he wondered.

Explanation was at hand. He came upon the judge at his own threshold.

"Glad to meet your reverence," said Jewgeni. "I have called for your advice. My brother is against it, but all the people are for it."

"For what?"

"It is Taras's proposal. He came to me this morning saying: 'I want you to call together the general meeting directly after service--not merely the heads of families, you know, but all the community. You are aware that the final decision has arrived from Vienna. I want to render an account to the people. Now whether you are my enemy or my friend is nothing. You are the judge, and I claim this as a matter of right,' I need not tell your reverence that his friend I certainly am not. For, firstly, he is against the Emperor; secondly, he is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d; thirdly, he is only a lowlander who has sneaked into our village; and, fourthly, that wife of his----"

The man involuntarily put his hand to his face. Father Leo understood the gesture, but his heart was too heavy for a smile.

"I know," he said quickly, "you are not exactly his friend, good man though he is. But what answer did you give him?"

"None at all," replied the judge, rather bashfully. "How could I without first consulting my brother Constantine, and he is against it.

'Do you want him to talk the people over?' he said. 'What have we to do with his pet.i.tion to the Emperor? If he has lost his case it serves him right,' said Constantine."

"For shame!" cried the honest pope. "But what of the people? You said they are for hearing him. I hope they are."

"Well," returned Jewgeni, "my brother ought to know, being a corporal!

But the elders and others of the men who heard of it think differently.

'He shall have the meeting,' they said; 'it is due to him in simple justice.' And what may be your reverence's opinion?"

"Call the meeting, by all means!" cried Father Leo, warmly. "Shall this man, who has sacrificed so much of his time, his money, his powers, for the good of the people, not be permitted to render his account, because he has stood up for your right, even beyond his duty? Of course you must hear him!"

"Very well, then," said the judge, meekly, kissing the priest's hand, "the meeting shall be called. The people can be informed after the service, but I will send a message to Taras at once. Yet I am not sure my brother, the corporal----" he scratched his head and went his way.

It was high time for Father Leo to repair to church for early ma.s.s. He hastened to his vestry, where the sacristan stood waiting to a.s.sist him with the vestments. And Father Leo began his duties.

The church was one of the United Greek community, in which ma.s.s was read according to the Roman Catholic rite, but in the language of the people, consequently the worshippers were able to follow intelligently.

It was a good congregation, and they appeared to listen prayerfully whilst Father Leo with his choristers chanted the antiphony. But the good father himself had trouble in centering his thoughts on his sacred occupation. His eyes had scanned the people, and he knew that neither Taras nor a.n.u.sia were present. But Taras's companions had come--Jemilian, Sefko, and Wa.s.silj Soklewicz, looking haggard and worn.

Ma.s.s over, the priest returned to his vestry to put off the heavy garments before mounting the pulpit. He was on the point of re-entering the church, when the outer door leading to his sanctum was torn open, little Wa.s.silj bursting in, sobbing.

"What is it?" cried the priest, white with apprehension.

"Little father," sobbed the child, lifting his hands beseechingly, "mother entreats you to come to us at once--at once! It is a matter of life and death, she says."

"Good G.o.d--what is it?"

"Alas!" cried the boy, "I cannot tell you! I only know that mother is in despair."

"Is your father at home?"

"Yes! We were just starting for church, when a messenger from Jewgeni arrived, saying, 'The judge will comply with your desire, and the general meeting shall be called,' Thereupon father turned to mother, saying, 'Then we cannot go to church, for I owe it to you to tell you before telling the others.' And to us he said, 'Run into the yard, children.' But we remained in the hall ... and ... we never did it before!" sobbed the child.

"Did you listen?"

"Yes! We heard father's voice, he spoke lowly and we could not understand. But presently mother gave a sharp cry, as though she were suffering some fearful pain. I could not help bursting in, Fedko and Tereska after me. Mother was on her knees before father. 'Don't do it--oh!' she sobbed. 'But I _must_!' he said, 'not even pity for you and the children must prevent me!' And we began to cry, and mother said, 'Yes, children ... come and kneel to him! Perhaps he will listen to your tears, if he will not to mine!' Ah, little father, her face was streaming...."

"Go on; what else?"