"Come on," said Filip sternly, laying his hand upon him.
"I cannot, Master Filip — I cannot. My legs tremble so, that I cannot move a step;" and with an unexpected movement he wrenched himself free, and the legs which had refused to take him a single step in advance, now displayed remarkable agility in taking him back towards the village.
The sacristan and the old woman looked as if they would fain have copied the cow-herd's example; but Filip said "Come on" again, so sternly that they durst not disobey, — so with a sigh of resignation they followed him.
In another minute these three people stood round a fallen tree-trunk, gazing at an apparition which might well have passed for unearthly, seen thus in the moonlight. No pickaxe, no holy water, was needed here, however — only a poor, helpless woman was sitting on the trunk, gazing before her with large eyes dilated by fever.
This was the same spot where once last summer Magda had lingered too long in stick-gathering, and hither she had come again in the instinct of her delirium.
Under the large beech-tree, cushioned on the velvety moss, lay the new-born infant, covered only by a linen rag, profoundly asleep in the moonlight. On the branches overhead hung the swaddling-clothes in which it had been wrapped; and these, too, hung dazzling white as the moonbeams touched them, like a snowy pennon hoisted there to mark the abode of some beautiful sorceress.
Magda stared at them with dark, unseeing eyes, making no gesture of surprise or fright; she seemed, in fact, to be unaware of their presence, but went on singing softly to herself: —
Damp and dreary in the valley
Falls the winter snow;
Moaning loudly in the chimney,
Whirling tempests blow.
Here I sit alone, forsaken,
Watch the curling smoke,
Thinking of the days departed,
Ere my heart it broke.
Ah, my young and joyful summers,
Like the smoke, they're fled;
Would that I were laid to slumber
With the quiet dead!
"Speak to her, Master Filip! Why do you not speak to her?" said the sacristan.
Filip seemed to be struggling with himself. At last he made an effort, and said, "Magda—"
No answer; she went on singing to herself: —
God of mercy, God of pity.
Let, oh, let me die!
Give my useless days to other.
Happier maids than I.
"Magda!" he said again, and went a step nearer; but she never moved, and continued her melancholy song: —
Oh, my mother, you were cruel,
When you gave me life;
Would your milk had been my poison.
And your kiss a knife!
Had you drowned me when you bathed me,
That were kindness true —
Had you let me starve of hunger,
Ere I older grew
He touched her hand, he tried to lead her away; she let her hand remain passively in his, but she made no effort to rise — she did not seem to feel his touch, or to hear his voice.
Day by day I sit here lonely
With my aching pain;
Who will ease me of my burden.
Who will cut my chain?
The three spectators stared at each other discomfited. How were they to induce her to come home? They could not leave her there in the forest in her burning fever. Already the air was getting cold and chill, and the dew beginning to fall.
But woman's wit is sharper than man's on such occasions, and it was the old baba who hit the nail on the head.
"I will tell you what to do," she said; "the child, give it to me," and she lifted the sleeping infant from the ground.
Wherefore pine I thus forsaken,
Like a useless weed?
Death, oh, come and end my sorrow —
Magda's song came suddenly to an end. Gazing fixedly at the baby, she slowly rose, and made a step forward like a person in a dream.
The old woman carried the infant in advance, always two or three steps in front of Magda, and Magda followed step by step, always stretching out her hands before her.
In this way they led her home and laid her on her bed. She did not again attempt to leave it, though she tossed restlessly from side to side, and muttered wild things in her delirium.
She called repeatedly on her husband to stay with her, not to leave her alone; then she would cry out against St. Peter
