The rattling of chains startled her from these reflections. A melancholy procession approached her, a file of men in grey coats and trousers and their feet shackled together with heavy irons. Karla felt a sudden pang of surprise and she stopped still and looked at the faces of the criminals, who were returning from their day’s labour. Her eye rested on the last of the row. It was hard to distinguish between the faces of the men: they were most of them unshaven and a look of discontent and oppression gave them a common expression. But that face in the rear drew her observation upon itself as though there were something in it she had to discover, something she understood but which was nevertheless unexpected. Yes, Karla was not mistaken. She recognized her husband, fallen, degraded as he was. They were alike only that he was more unfortunate than herself. Hurka regarded her, recognized her, and his eyes filled with tears of dismay, he trembled with remorse, on his face was depicted the question, “Who can forgive me for all the suffering I have brought upon you.” If he had dared to fall out of the line, he would have sunk at her feet and have watered with his tears her shrunken hands. Karla read all that was written in his face. She felt that her forgiveness if he knew of it would be a strength to him and a blessing in his present terrible condition.
She felt in a moment the whole weight of his misfortune. She felt herself great in comparison and that the look which pleaded for forgiveness was the expression of a soul so truthful that she would have been unworthy of the sentiment he felt for her if she had not responded to it. In an instant she tore away a small bunch of violets and going to Hurka’s side pressed it into his fettered hands, saying in a voice above measure gentle, “May God comfort thee!”
“And our little one?” asked Hurka.
“It is cared for above”, Karla answered.
Hurka went his way after the other criminals and Karla stood as if turned to stone and followed him with her eyes as the criminals wheeled round the corner. Hurka looked once again at her, pressed the violets to his lips and she saw him no more.
It was a melancholy meeting. Karla did not love Hurka, but his horrible fate evoked in a moment all her sympathy and wakened in her the consciousness that she was the wife of an unfortunate man whose fate was linked with horror. The figure of Hurka impressed itself so strongly on her imagination that even when she lay down to rest in her little chamber at Havel’s house, it
