and at intervals he heaved a heavy sigh and said in a constrained voice, “Well, then, this is my last journey.” Bartos did not tease him to converse. Moreover, they had to rest at every boundary-stone, and the walk, which, under ordinary circumstances, was easily accomplished in half an hour, was prolonged to a full hour. And then each time they sat down Loyka said, “My Lord and Master, I go to the Mount of Calvary.”
But with this great oppression which overpowered Loyka, all traces of that tempestuous spirit which had oftentimes shaken his whole inner man seemed to have disappeared. He went as though the road was one which it was impossible to avoid—he went exhausted and oppressed, but still he did not turn aside.
When they reached the Loykas’s farm it was almost dark. Loyka seated himself exhausted by the abutment, beside which long ago Frank had wept for the death of his grandfather. And as he sat by this abutment, he spoke in a voice of forced meekness, “Bend, proud knees, and entreat my son to permit me to cross his court-yard. Hands, clasp yourselves in prayer and entreat my son to open that gate for so many years barred against me. Enter his doors, ye words, and entreat and implore. For surely it is not possible that I must stifle even my words. Then forth, oh! stubborn thoughts, and learn humbleness! My son Joseph!” said he, raising his voice, “lo! Thy father stands at thy threshold, only, prithee, promise me one thing, by word of mouth and before witnesses, that thou wilt not set that dog upon me which long ago fawned upon me and which I fed with my bounty.” And more to the same effect.
At times it was like praying, at times like weeping, at times like affected humility, at times like reproach.
While he sat thus and Bartos stood beside him, the sound of harps and violins issued from the court-yard and several vocal melodies were wafted to their ears. Old Loyka was silent, raised his head and looked round about him. He listened. He looked round about him to see where he was sitting, and he listened to find out whence the music came. He saw that he was seated by the gates of Joseph’s farm, and that the music resounded therefrom.
“Whither have you led me, Bartos?” inquired Loyka, and rose to his feet, for he could not trust what he had heard and seen.
“And you said that my wife was sick unto death?” he further inquired.
“So I said.”
