It was no easy undertaking to translate the strangely intricate periods of official verbosity into the simple vernacular of the listeners; but Mr. Stupka, being as clever as he was small, contrived to make himself understood. The verdict amounted to a dismissal of the case, because the plaintiffs could not bring forward sufficient proof to uphold their claim. The description of the field in the t.i.tle deeds, it said, was in favour of the party in present possession, and if a number of witnesses upon their oath had given contrary evidence, their testimony was invalidated by counter-evidence upon oath likewise. It was not the court's business in civil cases to start an inquiry whether false witness possibly had been tendered; it was rather the duty of the court to decide which evidence weighed heavier in the scale, and the balance had inclined in favour of manorial rights. It seemed strange, also, that the village judge, as had been reported, should have opposed the exhortation of the witnesses by means of the pope....

Up to this point Taras had listened in silence and motionless, but now a shudder ran through his body, and he clenched his fists. "Ye adders,"

he panted; "ye deceitful adders!"

"Bear it," whispered Simeon, entreatingly, putting his arm round his reeling friend. But Taras scarcely needed the admonition as far as keeping silence was concerned, for his eyes closed; he seemed on the point of swooning.

And moreover, the clerk continued, it was a fact that among those who had given their oath in favour of the manorial claim had been several heads of families of the village, men, therefore, who tendered witness against their own interest. Such evidence could not easily be set aside. Considering all these points, therefore, the case was dismissed, the plaintiffs to bear the costs, as was meet and just.

"Just!" echoed the men in savage scorn, Taras alone keeping silence.

His hand went to his heart suddenly, he staggered and fell heavily, as a man struck by lightning.

For hours he lay in a swoon. They had carried him into his house; but neither the lamentations of his wife, nor their united endeavours to restore animation seemed to penetrate the dead darkness that had fallen on his soul. And when at last he opened his eyes his words appeared to them so utterly strange that they were more frightened still. "The very foundations are giving," he kept crying, "the holiest is being dragged low!" And he, in whose eyes no one ever had seen a tear, was seized with a paroxysm of weeping. He bemoaned his terrible fate, and between his sobs he called for his children, to take leave of them, he said.

And he repeated this request so urgently that they could but humour him. It was a pitiful scene, and one after another the neighbours went away shudderingly, Simeon Pomenko only watching through the night by the sufferer's couch. But in the village the news spread that the judge, for sorrow, had gone out of his mind.

Not till the following morning did this piece of information come to the ears of the mandatar, Mr. Hajek having spent the night at Zablotow, playing at cards with the officers of the hussars. His under-steward, Boleslaw, impatiently lay in wait against his return, never doubting but that the news would fall on delighted ears, and he was not a little surprised at the mandatar's evident dismay, Nor was this put on; for the Count, still enlarging his acquaintances at Paris, had, through his friends the usurers, got introduced to their solicitors, and Hajek knew he must send him the wherewithal to stem the scandal of a prosecution, whatever he might wish to keep back for himself. So money, more than ever, was the need of the moment; and having succeeded in one villainous trick, he might hope to develop his talents for the further fleecing of the peasantry, and it was highly important, therefore, that the community should be represented by a judge who, at the risk of whatever loss to himself, was bent on keeping the people from offering violence.

"Gone out of his mind? Dear me, I _am_ sorry," he said, honestly too.

"But I daresay report has exaggerated the fact. He may have had a blow, but I do not believe he is the man to go mad. Go to his wife and tell her, with my compliments, that I shall be pleased to send for the best doctor at Colomea at my own expense."

The man hung back. "I am no coward," he said presently, "and I think I could face any dozen of the peasants, if you wished it. But as for this woman--sir, do you know she is a regular Huzul, quite a spitfire of a temper--and a man after all has only one pair of eyes to lose!"

The mandatar did not care what risk these optics might run; the man had to carry his message. He was relieved, however, on entering the judge's house. The two elders, Simeon and Alexa were with the sufferer, and he appeared to be listening to their words. The storm had not yet subsided which tore his soul, and threatened to change the very drift of his being. He who his life long had stood like a rock against the surges of trouble, who had won happiness and prosperity through steadfast endurance, was sobbing and wailing like a child, and his friends could not but tremble for his reason as they heard his pitiful plaints. "I have striven to pa.s.s my life in honour," he would moan, "and now it must end in shame! And what of my poor children, since I have no choice but to follow the dictate of my heart?"

He saw the under-steward enter cautiously, and his pale face grew crimson at the sight. Simeon rose hastily to send away the unwelcome visitor, but Taras interfered. "Glad to see you, friend Boleslaw!" he cried, cuttingly. "What good news has brought you hither?"

The giant delivered his errand, stammeringly.

"Send for a doctor--indeed--at his own expense!" repeated Taras. "Well, I did not require this proof to tell me that the mandatar is an honest man!" And therewith he closed his eyes, lying still like a sleeping babe.

Boleslaw paused. "Shall I----" he began presently, addressing the elders. But at the sound Taras opened his eyes. "Leave this house!" he cried, with a voice of thunder, and the powerful man quaked, making good his escape.

Taras watched his retreat, smiling strangely. "This message is something to be thankful for! You, my friends, could not help me, but this insult brings me back to myself. I shall fight against my ghastly destiny while yet I may!"

"What destiny?" said Simeon, soothingly. "Do look at it calmly. You have, in a just cause, done your utmost to see us righted; and you have failed honourably. What else could there be said?"

"What else?" reiterated Taras. "And since it is a just cause--but what use in talking!... I daresay you thought I had lost my reason, because I have cried and wailed like a woman--did you?" His friends endeavoured to look unconcerned. "But, I tell you," he continued, with trembling voice, "it will be well if you never have occasion to find out that, though reeling, my mind was terribly clear!... I will try to spare you the discovery. I want to see that clerk again."

"He has left," returned Simeon; "he thrust his papers into my hand when you had fainted, and turning his horses' heads he made the utmost speed to leave us. The poor creature was really quite frightened; never in his life again would he carry a verdict to savages, he said."

Taras could not help smiling. "Then I must ask the pope to read me that letter," he said. "Leave the room, I shall be ready to join you in a few minutes."

"Do not exert yourself just yet," entreated Simeon.

But Taras looked up sternly. "Do not hinder me, man," he cried, "cannot you see that my very fate is at stake!"

The men left him misgivingly.

"What do you think of it?" said Alexa, as they stood waiting in the yard.

"G.o.d knows!" replied Simeon, troubled. "But I cannot forget how he refused to uncover when the verdict was being read."

The voice of a.n.u.sia was heard, who would not let her husband go from the house. "You will be fainting again!" she lamented. But Taras, though white as death, stepped forth, treading firmly.

The three men walked away to call on Father Martin; but on entering the manse his housekeeper, Praxenia, met them with a tearful face. She was an elderly spinster from the village who had presided over his domestic concerns since the popadja had departed this life, leaving the pope a widower.

"G.o.d o' mercy," she sobbed, looking at Taras, "it's a blessing that you, at least, have got back your wits. They said in the village that you had lost them. But you are all right, I see--would I could say as much for the poor little father. _He_ is quite off his head, I a.s.sure you; regular mad if ever man was!"

"He will come round again, no doubt," said Taras. "I daresay he has had a gla.s.s too much."

"Ah, no," wept the good spinster; "that were nothing since we are used to it! He has not had a drop since yesterday, poor old man, who never could do without his tipple; it is that which frightens me! He is lying quite still now, staring blankly, and talking a heap of nonsense between whiles."

"Humph," grunted Simeon, "that certainly looks alarming. I have known him these twenty years, he never showed such symptoms."

"Didn't I say so--a very bad sign, surely! And all on account of that sermon, would you believe it? But let me tell you how it happened. I had gone to his room quite early yesterday morning--would I had bitten my tongue off first! though my going in was quite innocent-like.

'Little Father,' I said, 'there's a thaw setting in, and the parish is just beside itself with joy.' 'Beside itself? dear! dear!' he said, 'I must go and see,' and off he trotted. But very soon he came back again, his eyes positively shining. 'Naughty, naughty, little father,' I said, 'you have gone and been at Avrumko's--very naughty, so early in the day, and before reading ma.s.s!' But he insisted that he had not been near the inn, and that nothing but the common delight had so excited him. 'Ah! Praxenia,' he said, 'what a day to have seen--all the village is praising the Lord for His goodness. I must give them a sermon to-day, I must, indeed!' 'Little Father,' I said, severely, 'you had better not attempt it; you know it is beyond you now, and the people will only laugh at you; don't you remember how it was five years ago?'

'I do,' he said, ruefully, 'but I shall do better to-day.' There was no convincing him, he locked himself into his study, and through the door I could hear him at his sermon--pacing his floor I mean--vigorously, till the bells began ringing for service. I went to church, not a little anxious, you will believe me, and when he mounted his pulpit, as he had threatened, I said to myself: 'You'll stick fast, little father, and be sorry that you ever went up.' But not he--well you were there yourselves, and you know how beautifully he got through it, never once blowing his nose or scratching his ears--the beautifullest sermon ever spoken, though I say it, and moving all the parish to tears! I walked home proudly to look after his dinner, poor man, and said to myself he should have as many gla.s.ses now as he liked. But what was my surprise on going to his room presently, to find him weeping there, shedding the biggest tears. I ever saw. 'Ah, Praxenia,' he sobbed, 'to think of the Lord's goodness in giving me this day. I have not deserved it, miserable old tippler that I am!' What was I to answer? I got his dinner ready, putting his bottle beside it; and he sat down at my bidding, but never a morsel he touched, his eyes looking brighter and queerer than ever. 'Have a drop, little father.' I said, 'I'm afraid you are faint-like.' 'No,' he said, sharply, pushing the bottle from him. Then I knew that something was wrong. And all the rest of the day, till late in the evening, he kept walking about his room, muttering the beautifullest words--preparing his sermon, he said, when I asked him.

Not till late at night could I get a spoonful of soup down his throat, making him take to his bed--no great battle, for although he is hardly more than sixty, he is just a child for weakness when the schnaps is out of him. 'Now you must go to sleep,' I said, sternly. But not he! He folded his hands, lying still, with his shining eyes, muttering at times. He is going to die, I tell you!"

The men were endeavouring to dissuade her from this mournful view, but were less certain of their own opinion when they stood by the bedside.

The poor pope's appearance had changed alarmingly since yesterday. The face was worn and white, the wrinkles had deepened, and there was a strange light in his eyes.

But he knew Taras. "Ah--is it you?" he murmured.... "'And he judged Israel in the days of the Philistines twenty years.' ... The bells are ringing.... I must preach to the people.... What is it you want?"

"I came to ask you to read a letter to me, but I am afraid you are not well, and it is rather a closely-written epistle."

"Epistle? yes," returned the pope, catching at the word. "The first of the Corinthians.... 'Though I speak with the tongues of angels, and have not charity.... believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.... Charity never faileth.' ..." And on he wandered.

The men saw it was hopeless, and left him. "It is strange," said Simeon; "our pope never spoke such edifying words while he had his wits about him. It does seem alarming."

But Taras's thoughts ran on a different track. He started. "I must go to Colomea," he said. "There could not be much in a mere letter, after all. I must see the lawyer myself as soon as possible."

He appeared so fully determined that his friends could but listen in silence, and even a.n.u.sia saw he must have his way, though she demurred.

"It were far better to leave the thing alone," she said. "If you are bent on making a sacrifice for the parish, give them the field we bought two years ago, it will make up for their loss, and it were better than losing everything through the lawyers."

"You are the best of wives," he said, "but you do not understand. It is not merely about the field which is lost: but my fate, and yours, and the children's is at stake."

"What is this you are saying?" she cried, alarmed; but he had touched his horse, and the sledge was flying along the road towards the district town.

He entered the outer office of Starkowski's the following day, but no sooner had Mr. Stupka caught sight of him than he flew from his chair, disappearing in an inner chamber with the startled cry: "Heaven help us! a ghost ... the dead judge!"

But the attorney came forth undaunted. "I am pleased to see you," he said, shaking hands. "I felt pretty sure my clerk had been exaggerating in reporting you dead. I suppose it was the painful disappointment which stunned you?"

"More than this," said Taras, "it was the bitter consciousness that this verdict must change all the future current of my life, unless, indeed, it can be annulled. I have come to find out whether this is possible. Maybe your letter said something about it--I cannot read."

"No, the letter was only to tell you the costs," explained Dr.

Starkowski, "one hundred and twelve florins. But there is no hurry whatever, you may pay me at your convenience. I had nothing further to tell you, for I never advise carrying a suit into a higher court unless there be some hope of a successful----"

"Sir," interrupted Taras, speaking slowly, and his voice was hollow, "think well before you tell me--you do not know how much there is at stake."