Which will be a short chapter but not a very merry
one.
The young married people had now neither horse nor mule to carry
them any further. They had to look about for some sort of vehicle to
take them to Zeb, and the wagoner whom they hunted up at last swore
by hook and by crook that he would go by sledge or not at all, for
snow had fallen in Praszkinocz, and there was now a sledging track
all the way. As they could not be choosers they of course consented.
Simplex begged them to take his bundle with them, for he too wanted
to get to Eperies. He had come off the luckiest of them all, for as
he had carried his few worldly possessions slung over his shoulder,
he had not been plundered by the robbers. The wagoner granted him
his request, and even allowed him to run along behind the sledge and
hang on by the trestle when he was tired.
He ran as long as the sledge-track lasted, but, as might have been
anticipated (though the driver absolutely refused to believe in the
possibility of any such thing), when they arrived at the foot of the
mountain they saw that there was no more snow but only mud. Simplex
had now to shove the sledge much oftener than mount behind it,
especially when the road lay uphill. The clergyman also had to lend
a hand occasionally, while the countryman in front dragged the
horses along by main force. Thus, in addition to their other
troubles, they were saddled with a sledge on muddy roads.
They had fallen far behind the caravan; even the carriers with the
baggage were now a long way ahead of them. It was late in the
evening before they saw in the distance the lofty church of Zeb with
its copper roof, and the bastions of the city embowered in gardens.
The wind wafted to their ears the sound of the evening _Ave Maria_,
and a very comfortable sound it is to him who sits snugly by his own
fireside. But it is far from pleasant to those who are outside the
walls, for after the _Angelus_ all the gates are closed, the bridges
drawn up, and not a living soul that wanders in a bodily shape upon
the earth is admitted within the city.
"We are shut out," growled the wagoner, scratching his head. "Now we
shall have to sleep under some haystack. I only wish we had not
taken that vagabond student's bundle into the sledge, that was what
made us creep along so slowly."
But if Simplex had not helped to shove on the sledge they would not
have got so far as this.
"Pray let us go on a little further," said the clergyman. He was
walking along moodily by the side of the sledge. No one was inside
it but Michal.
The sun had set. Its scarlet glare still lit up the summits of the
distant Carpathians, but the only objects which they illuminated
here below were one or two mansions scattered among the hills, the
gates of the city, and a large, lonely building standing outside the
walls. The walls and roof of this building shone blood-red in the
evening twilight, but from the huge chimney issued volumes of
pitch-black smoke. Glowing red clouds, betokening wind, accompanied
the setting sun, and a flock of crows which had been startled from
their resting-place flew, loudly croaking, out of the woods toward
the town as forerunners of the approaching storm.
The flock of crows alighted on a dismal-looking scaffolding, which
stood on a hill on this side of the red house. It consisted of
roofless columns rising gauntly out of a square mass of masonry and
united by four iron bars. From each of these four columns a huge
iron hook boldly projected. The crows settled down in thick clusters
on the iron bars. Nowhere in the whole region was a tree, a shrub,
or any asylum for man or beast to be seen.
"Whatever can that be?" thought Michal.
Simplex and the wagoner dragged the horses forward. Henry walked
beside the sledge, and held it fast with one hand to prevent it from
toppling over.
"Whither are we to go now?" growled the wagoner. "We must pass the
night outside here, I suppose. There is no shelter anywhere, and
during the night the witches will do us a mischief."
"There are no such things as witches," remarked Henry dryly.
"But I say there are. I'm sure of it. Barbara Pirka is certainly a
witch. They assemble here at midnight."
"Silence!" cried Henry sternly, and with that he seized the reins of
the horses and began to lead them away from the road.
"Sir," said the carter, hesitating, "why are you going in that
direction? Here is no other house but that one yonder," and he
pointed to the lonely house which stood below the town, all lurid in
the evening twilight.
"And thither we must go."
"Jesus Christ preserve us!" stammered the wagoner, "that is the
house of the vihodar."
"And thither I say we must go."
Then he went to his wife, and wrapped her in his mantle to protect
her from the cold night air.
"Is your father's house much further?" she asked tenderly.
"There it is, straight before us," answered Henry; "my father is the
vihodar of Zeb!"