The northbound train on
the Northern Pacific Line was running away
behind her time. A Dakota blizzard had held her up for five hours,
and there was little chance of making time against a heavy wind
and a drifted rail. The train was crowded with passengers, all
impatient at the delay, as is usual with passengers. The most
restless, if not the most impatient, of those in the first-class
car was a foreign-looking gentleman, tall, dark, and with military
carriage. A grizzled moustache with ends waxed to a needle point
and an imperial accentuated his foreign military appearance. At
every pause the train made at the little wayside stations, this
gentleman became visibly more impatient, pulling out his watch,
consulting his time table, and cursing the delay.
Occasionally he glanced
out through the window across the white
plain that stretched level to the horizon, specked here and there
by infrequent little black shacks and by huge stacks of straw half
buried in snow. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a trim line
of small buildings cosily ensconced behind a plantation of poplars
and Manitoba maples.
"What are those
structures?" he enquired of his neighbour in
careful book English, and with slightly foreign accent.
"What? That bunch of
buildings. That is a Mennonite village," was
the reply.
"Mennonite! Ah!"
"Yes," replied his
neighbour. "Dutch, or Russian, or something."
"Yes, Russian,"
answered the stranger quickly. "That is Russian,
surely," he continued, pointing eagerly to the trim and cosy group
of buildings. "These Mennonites, are they prosperous--ah--
citizens--ah--settlers?"
"You bet! They make
money where other folks would starve. They
know what they're doing. They picked out this land that everybody
else was passing over--the very best in the country--and they are
making money hand over fist. Mighty poor spenders, though. They
won't buy nothing; eat what they can't sell off the farm."
"Aha," ejaculated the
stranger, with a smile.
"Yes, they sell
everything, grain, hogs, eggs, butter, and live on
cabbages, cheese, bread."
"Aha," repeated the
stranger, again with evident approval.
"They are honest,
though," continued his neighbour judicially; "we
sell them implements."
"Ah, implements?"
enquired the stranger.
"Yes, ploughs, drills,
binders, you know."
"Ah, so, implements,"
said the stranger, evidently making a mental
note of the word. "And they pay you?"
"Yes, they are good
pay, mighty good pay. They are good settlers,
too."
"Not good for soldiers,
eh?" laughed the stranger.
"Soldiers? No, I guess
not. But we don't want soldiers."
"What? You have no
soldiers? No garrisons?"
"No, what do we want
soldiers for in this country? We want farmers
and lots of them."
The stranger was
apparently much struck with this remark. He
pursued the subject with keen interest. If there were no soldiers,
how was order preserved? What happened in the case of riots? What
about the collecting of taxes?
"Riots? There ain't no
riots in this country. What would we riot
for? We're too busy. And taxes? There ain't no taxes except for
schools."
"Not for churches?"
enquired the foreigner.
"No, every man supports
his own church or no church at all if he
likes it better."
The foreigner was
deeply impressed. What a country it was, to be
sure! No soldiers, no riots, no taxes, and churches only for those
who wanted them! He made diligent enquiry as to the Mennonite
settlements, where they were placed, their size, the character of
the people and all things pertaining to them. But when questioned
in regard to himself or his own affairs, he at once became
reticent. He was a citizen of many countries. He was travelling
for pleasure and to gather knowledge. Yes, he might one day settle
in the country, but not now. He relapsed into silence, sitting
with his head fallen forward upon his breast, and so sat till the
brakeman passing through shouted, "Winnipeg! All change!" Then he
rose, thanked with stiff and formal politeness his seat-mate for
his courtesy, put on his long overcoat lined with lambskin and
adorned with braid, placed his lambskin cap upon his head, and so
stood looking more than ever like a military man.
The station platform at
Winnipeg was the scene of uproar and
confusion. Railway baggagemen and porters, with warning cries,
pushed their trucks through the crowd. Hotel runners shouted the
rates and names of their hotels. Express men and cab drivers
vociferously solicited custom. Citizens, heedless of every one,
pushed their eager way through the crowd to welcome friends and
relatives. It was a busy, bustling, confusing scene. But the
stranger stood unembarrassed, as if quite accustomed to move amid
jostling crowds, casting quick, sharp glances hither and thither.
Gradually the platform
cleared. The hotel runners marched off in
triumph with their victims, and express drivers and cab men drove
off with their fares, and only a scattering few were left behind.
At one end of the platform stood two men in sheepskin coats and
caps. The stranger slowly moved toward them. As he drew near, the
men glanced at first carelessly, then more earnestly at him. For a
few moments he stood gazing down the street, then said, as if to
himself, in the Russian tongue, "The wind blows from the north
to-night."
Instantly the men came
to rigid attention.
"And the snow lies
deep," replied one, raising his hand in salute.
"But spring will come,
brother," replied the stranger.
One of the men came
quickly toward him, took his hand and kissed
it.
"Fool!" said the
stranger, drawing away his hand, and sweeping his
sharp glance round the platform. "The bear that hunts in the open
is himself soon hunted."
"Ha, ha," laughed the
other man loudly, "in this country there is
no hunting, brother."
"Fool!" said the
stranger again in a low, stern voice. "Where game
is, there is always hunting."
"How can we serve? What
does my brother wish?" replied the man.
"I wish the house of
Paulina Koval. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes, we know, but--"
the men hesitated, looking at each other.
"There is no place for
our brother in Paulina Koval's house," said
the one who had spoken first. "Paulina has no room. Her house is
full with her children and with many boarders."
"Indeed," said the
stranger, "and how many?"
"Well," replied the
other, counting upon his fingers, "there is
Paulina and her three children, and--"
"Two children,"
corrected the stranger sharply.
"No, three children.
Yes, three." He paused in his enumeration as
if struck by a belated thought. "It is three children, Joseph?" he
proceeded, turning to his friend.
Joseph confirmed his
memory. "Yes, Simon, three; the girl, the boy
and the baby."
The stranger was
clearly perplexed and disturbed.
"Go on," he said
curtly.
"There is Paulina and
the three children, and Rosenblatt, and--"
"Rosenblatt!" The word
shot from the stranger's lips with the
vehemence of a bullet from a rifle. "Rosenblatt in her house!
S-s-s-o-o-o!" He thrust his face forward into the speaker's with
a long hissing sound, so fiercely venomous that the man fell back
a pace. Quickly the stranger recovered himself. "Look you,
brothers, I need a room for a few days, anywhere, a small room, and
I can pay well."
"My house," said the
man named Joseph, "is yours, but there are six
men with me."
Quickly the other took
it up. "My poor house is small, two
children, but if the Elder brother would accept?"
"I will accept, my
friend," said the stranger. "You shall lose
nothing by it." He took up the bag that he had placed beside him
on the platform, saying briefly, "Lead the way."
"Your pardon, brother,"
said Simon, taking the bag from him, "this
is the way."
Northward across the
railway tracks and up the street for two
blocks, then westward they turned, toward the open prairie. After
walking some minutes, Simon pointed to a huddling group of shacks
startlingly black against the dazzling snow.
"There," he cried with
a laugh, "there is little Russia."
"Not Russia," said
Joseph, "Galicia."
The stranger stood
still, gazing at the little shacks, and letting
his eye wander across the dazzling plain, tinted now with crimson
and with gold from the setting sun, to the horizon. Then pointing
to the shacks he said, "That is Canada. Yonder," sweeping his hand
toward the plain, "is Siberia. But," turning suddenly upon the
men, "what are you?"
"We are free men," said
Joseph. "We are Canadians."
"We are Canadians,"
answered Simon more slowly. "But here," laying
his hand over his heart, "here is always Russia and our brothers of
Russia."
The stranger turned a
keen glance upon him. "I believe you," he
said. "No Russian can forget his fatherland. No Russian can
forget his brother." His eyes were lit with a dreamy light, as he
gazed far beyond the plain and the glowing horizon.
At the door of the
little black shack Simon halted the party.
"Pardon, I will prepare
for my brother," he said.
As he opened the door a
cloud of steaming odours rushed forth to
meet them. The stranger drew back and turned his face again to the
horizon, drawing deep breaths of the crisp air, purified by its
sweep of a thousand miles over snow clad prairie.
"Ah," he said,
"wonderful! wonderful! Yes, that is Russia, that
air, that sky, that plain."
After some minutes
Simon returned.
"Enter," he said,
bowing low. "This is your house, brother; we are
your slaves."
It was a familiar
Russian salutation.
"No," said the
stranger, quickly stretching out his hand. "No
slaves in this land, thank God! but brothers all."
"Your brothers truly,"
said Simon, dropping on his knee and kissing
the outstretched hand. "Lena," he called to his wife, who stood
modestly at the other side of the room, "this is the Elder of our
Brotherhood."
Lena came forward,
dropped on her knees and kissed the outstretched
hand.
"Come, Margaret," she
cried, drawing her little girl of six toward
the stranger, "come and salute the master."
Little Margaret came
forward and offered her hand, looking up with
brave shyness into the stranger's face.
"Shame! shame!" said
Lena, horrified. "Kneel down! Kneel down!"
"She does not
understand how to salute," said her father with an
apologetic smile.
"Aha, so," cried the
stranger, looking curiously at the little
girl. "Where did you learn to shake hands?"
"In school," said the
child in English.
"In school?" replied
the stranger in the same language. "You go to
school. What school?"
"The public school,
sir."
"And do they not teach
you to kneel when you salute in the public
school?"
"No, sir, we never
kneel."
"What then do you learn
there?"
"We sing, and read, and
write, and march, and sew."
"Aha!" cried the
stranger delighted. "You learn many things. And
what do you pay for all this?" he said in Russian to the father.
"Nothing."
"Wonderful!" cried the
stranger. "And who taught her English?"
"No one. She just
learned it from the children."
"Aha, that is good."
The father and mother
stood struggling with their pride in their
little girl. A sound of shouting and of singing made the stranger
turn toward the window.
"What is that?" he
cried.
"A wedding," replied
Simon. "There is a great wedding at Paulina's.
Every one is there."
"At Paulina's?" said
the stranger. "And you, why are you not
there?"
"We are no friends of
Rosenblatt."
"Rosenblatt? And what
has he to do with it?"
"Rosenblatt," said
Joseph sullenly, "is master in Paulina's home."
"Aha! He is master, and
you are no friends of his," returned the
stranger. "Tell me why this is so?"
"We are Russian, he is
Bukowinian; he hires men to the railroad, we
hire ourselves; he has a store, we buy in the Canadian stores,
therefore, he hates us."
The stranger nodded his
head, comprehending the situation.
"And so you are not
invited to the wedding."
"No, we are not invited
to the wedding," said Joseph in a tone of
regret.
"And they are your
friends who are being married?"
"Yes."
"And there is good
eating and drinking?"
"Yes," cried Joseph
eagerly. "Such a feast! Such a load of beer!
And such a dance!"
"It is a pity," said
the stranger, "to miss it all. You fear this
Rosenblatt," he continued, with a hardly perceptible sneer.
"Fear!" cried Simon.
"No! But one does not enter a shut door."
"Aha, but think of it,"
said the stranger, "the feasting and the
dancing, and the beer! I would go to this wedding feast myself,
were I not a stranger. I would go if I knew the bride."
"We will take our
brother," cried Joseph eagerly. "Our friends
will welcome him."
Simon hesitated.
"I like not
Rosenblatt."
"But Rosenblatt will be
too drunk by this time," suggested the
stranger.
"Not he," replied
Simon. "He never gets drunk where there is a
chance to gather a dollar."
"But the feast is
free?"
"Yes, the feast is
free, but there is always money going. There
is betting and there is the music for the dancing, which is
Rosenblatt's. He has hired Arnud and his cymbal and the violins,
and the dancers must pay."
"Aha, very clever,"
replied the stranger. "This Rosenblatt is a
shrewd man. He will be a great man in this city. He will be your
lord some day."
The eyes of both men
gleamed at his jibes. "Aha," the stranger
continued, "he will make you serve him by his money. Canada is,
indeed, a free country, but there will be master and slaves here,
too."
It was a sore spot to
the men, for the mastery of Rosenblatt was no
imagination, but a grim reality. It was with difficulty that any
man could get a good job unless by Rosenblatt's agency. It was
Rosenblatt who contracted for the Galician labour. One might hate
Rosenblatt, or despise him, but it was impossible to ignore him.
"What say you, my
brothers," said the stranger, "shall we attend
this feast?"
The men were eager to
go. Why should Rosenblatt stand in their
way? Were they not good friends of Jacob and Anka? Was not every
home in the colony open to a stranger, and especially a stranger of
rank? Simon swallowed his pride and led the way to Paulina's
house.
There was no need of a
guide to the house where the feasting was in
progress. The shouting and singing of the revellers hailed them
from afar, and as they drew near, the crowd about the door
indicated the house of mirth. Joseph and Simon were welcomed with
overflowing hospitality and mugs of beer. But when they turned to
introduce the stranger, they found that he had disappeared, nor
could they discover him anywhere in the crowd. In their search for
him, they came upon Rosenblatt, who at once assailed them.
"How come you Slovaks
here?" he cried contemptuously.
"Where the trough is,
there the pigs will come," laughed one of his
satellites.
"I come to do honour to
my friend, Jacob Wassyl," said Simon in a
loud voice.
"Of course," cried a
number of friendly voices. "And why not?
That is quite right"
"Jacob Wassyl wants
none of you here," shouted Rosenblatt over the
crowd.
"Who speaks for Jacob
Wassyl?" cried a voice. It was Jacob
himself, standing in the door, wet with sweat, flushed with dancing
and exhilarated with the beer and with all the ardours of his
wedding day. For that day at least, Jacob owned the world.
"What?" he cried, "is it my friend Simon Ketzel and my friend
Joseph Pinkas?"
"We were not invited to
come to your wedding, Jacob Wassyl,"
replied Simon, "but we desired to honour your bride and yourself."
"Aye, and so you shall.
You are welcome, Simon Ketzel. You are
welcome, Joseph Pinkas. Who says you are not?" he continued,
turning defiantly to Rosenblatt.
Rosenblatt hesitated,
and then grunted out something that sounded
like "Slovak swine!"
"Slovak!" cried Jacob
with generous enthusiasm. "We are all
Slovak. We are all Polak. We are all Galician. We are all
brothers. Any man who says no, is no friend of Jacob Wassyl."
Shouts of approval rose
from the excited crowd.
"Come, brothers,"
shouted Jacob to Simon and Joseph, "come in.
There is abundant eating. Make way for my friends!" He crowded
back through the door, taking especial delight in honouring the men
despised of Rosenblatt.
The room was packed
with steaming, swaying, roaring dancers, both
men and women, all reeking with sweat and garlic. Upon a platform
in a corner between two violins, sat Arnud before his cymbal,
resplendent in frilled shirt and embroidered vest, thundering on
his instrument the favourite songs of the dancers, shouting now and
then in unison with the melody that pattered out in metallic rain
from the instrument before him. For four hours and more, with
intervals sufficient only to quench their thirst, the players had
kept up their interminable accompaniment to dance and song. It was
clearly no place for hungry men. Jacob pushed his way toward the
inner room.
"Ho! Paulina!" he
shouted, "two plates for men who have not
eaten."
"Have not eaten!" The
startling statement quickened Paulina's slow
movements almost to a run. "Here, here," she said, "bring them to
the window at the back."
Another struggle and
Jacob with his guests were receiving through
the window two basins filled with luscious steaming stew.
As they turned away
with their generous host, a man with a heavy
black beard appeared at the window.
"Another hungry man,
Paulina," he said quietly in the Galician
tongue.
"Holy Virgin! Where
have these hungry men been?" cried Paulina,
hurrying with another basin to the window.
The man fumbled and
hesitated as he took the dish.
"I have been far away,"
he said, speaking now in the Russian
tongue, in a low and tense voice.
Paulina started. The
man caught her by the wrist.
"Quiet!" he said.
"Speak no word, Paulina."
The woman paled beneath
the dirt and tan upon her face.
"Who is it?" she
whispered with parched lips.
"You know it is Michael
Kalmar, your husband. Come forth. I wait
behind yon hut. No word to any man."
"You mean to kill me,"
she said, her fat body shaking as if with
palsy.
"Bah! You Sow! Who
would kill a sow? Come forth, I say. Delay
not."
He disappeared at once
behind the neighbouring shack. Paulina,
trembling so that her fingers could hardly pin the shawl she put
over her head, made her way through the crowd. A few moments she
stood before her door, as if uncertain which way to turn, her limbs
trembling, her breath coming like sobs. In this plight Rosenblatt
came upon her.
"What is the matter
with you, Paulina?" he cried. "What is your
business here?"
A swift change came
over her.
"I am no dog of yours,"
she said, her sullen face flaming with
passion.
"What do you mean?"
cried Rosenblatt. "Get into your house, cat!"
"Yes! cat!" cried the
woman, rushing at him with fingers extended.
One swift swoop she
made at his face, bringing skin and hair on her
nails. Rosenblatt turned, and crying, "She is mad! She is mad!"
made for the shelter of the cellar, followed by the shouts and
jeers of the men standing about.
Raging, at the door
Paulina sought entrance, crying, "I was a good
woman. He made me bad." Then turning away, she walked slowly to
the back of her house and passed behind the neighbouring shack
where the man stood waiting her.
With dragging steps she
approached, till within touch of him, when,
falling down upon her knees in the snow, she put her head upon his
feet.
"Get up, fool," he
cried harshly.
She rose and stood with
her chin upon her breast.
"My children!" said the
man. "Where are my children?"
She pointed towards the
house of her neighbour, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.
"With a neighbour woman," she said, and turned herself toward him
again with head bowed down.
"And yours?" he hissed.
She shuddered
violently.
"Speak," he said in a
voice low, calm and terrible. "Do you wish
me to kill you where you stand?"
"Yes," she said,
throwing her shawl over her face, "kill me! Kill
me now! It will be good to die!"
With a curse, his hand
went to his side. He stood looking at her
quietly for a few moments as if deliberating.
"No," he said at
length, "it is not worth while. You are no wife
of mine. Do you hear?"
She gave no sign.
"You are Rosenblatt's
swine. Let him use you."
Another shudder shook
her.
"Oh, my lord!" she
moaned, "kill me. Let me die!"
"Bah!" He spat on the
snow. "Die, when I have done with you,
perhaps. Take me where we can be alone. Go."
She glanced about at
the shacks standing black and without sign of
life.
"Come," she said,
leading the way.
He followed her to a
shack which stood on the outskirts of the
colony. She pushed open the door and stood back.
"Go in," he said
savagely. "Now a light."
He struck a match.
Paulina found a candle which he lit and placed
on a box that stood in the corner.
"Cover that window," he
commanded.
She took a quilt from
the bed and pinned it up. For a long time he
stood motionless in the centre of the room, while she knelt at his
feet. Then he spoke with some deliberation.
"It is possible I shall
kill you to-night, so speak truly to me in
the name of God and of the Holy Virgin. I ask you of my children.
My girl is eleven years old. Have you protected her? Or is she--
like you?"
She threw off her
shawl, pulled up her sleeves.
"See," she cried, "my
back is like that. Your daughter is safe."
Livid bars of purple
striped her arms. The man gazed down at her.
"You swear this by the
Holy Cross?" he said solemnly.
She pulled a little
iron cross from her breast and kissed it, then
looked up at him with dog's eyes of entreaty.
"Oh, my lord!" she
began. "I could not save myself. I was a
stranger. He took my money. We had no home."
"Stop, liar," he
thundered, "I gave you money when you left
Galicia."
"Yes, I paid it for the
house, and still there was more to pay."
"Liar again!" he
hissed; "I sent you money every month. I have
your receipts for it."
"I had no money from
you," she said humbly. "He forced me to have
men sleep in my house and in my room, or lose my home. And the
children, what could I do? They could not go out into the snow."
"You got no money from
me?" he enquired.
Again she kissed the
little cross. "I swear it. And what could I
do?"
"Do!" cried the man,
his voice choked with rage. "Do! You could
die!"
"And the children?"
He was silent, looking
down upon her. He began to realize the
helplessness of her plight. In a strange land, she found herself
without friends, and charged with the support of two children.
The money he had given her she had invested in a house, through
Rosenblatt, who insisted that payments were still due. No wonder
he had terrified her into submission to his plans.
While his contempt
remained, her husband's rage grew less. After a
long silence he said, "Listen. This feast will last two days?"
"Yes, there is food and
drink for two days."
"In two days my work
here will be done. Then I go back. I must go
back. My children! my children! what of my children? My dead
Olga's children!" He began to pace the room. He forgot the woman
on the floor. "Oh, fatherland! My fatherland!" he cried in a
voice broken with passionate grief, "must I sacrifice these too for
thee? God in heaven! Father, mother, brother, home, wife, all I
have given. Must I give my children, too?" His strong dark face
was working fiercely. His voice came harsh and broken. "No, no!
By all the saints, no! I will keep my children for Olga's sake. I
will let my wretched country go. What matter to me? I will make a
new home in this free land and forget. Ah, God! Forget? I can
never forget! These plains!" He tore aside the quilt from the
window and stooping looked out upon the prairie. "These plains say
Russia! This gleaming snow, Russia! Ah! Ah! Ah! I cannot
forget, while I live, my people, my fatherland. I have suffered
too much to forget. God forget me, if I forget!" He fell on his
knees before the window, dry sobs shaking his powerful frame. He
rose and began again to stride up and down, his hands locked before
him. Suddenly he stood quite still, making mighty efforts to
regain command of himself. For some moments he stood thus rigid.
The woman, who had been
kneeling all the while, crept to his feet.
"My lord will give his
children to me," she said in a low voice.
"You!" he cried,
drawing back from her. "You! What could you do
for them?"
"I could die for them,"
she said simply, "and for my lord."
"For me! Ha!" His voice
carried unutterable scorn.
She cowered back to the
floor.
"My children I can
slay, but I will leave them in no house of
lust."
"Oh!" she cried,
clasping her hands upon her breast and swaying
backwards and forwards upon her knees, "I will be a good woman. I
will sin no more. Rosenblatt I shall send--"
"Rosenblatt!" cried the
man with a fierce laugh. "After two days
Rosenblatt will not be here."
"You will--?" gasped
the woman.
"He will die," said the
man quietly.
"Oh, my lord! Let me
kill him! It would be easy for me at night
when he sleeps. But you they will take and hang. In this country
no one escapes. Oh! Do not you kill him. Let me."
Breathlessly she
pleaded, holding him by the feet. He spurned her
with contempt.
"Peace, fool! He is for
none other than me. It is an old score.
Ah, yes," he continued between his teeth, "it is an old score. It
will be sweet to feel him slowly die with my fingers in his
throat."
"But they will take
you," cried the woman.
"Bah! They could not
hold me in Siberia, and think you they can in
this land? But the children," he mused. "Rosenblatt away." With
a sudden resolve he turned to the woman. "Woman," he said, in a
voice stern and low, "could you--"
She threw herself once
more at his feet in a passion of entreaty.
"Oh, my lord! Let me live for them, for them--and--for you!"
"For me?" he said
coldly. "No. You have dishonoured my name. You
are wife of mine no longer. Do you hear this?"
"Yes, yes," she panted,
"I hear. I know. I ask nothing for
myself. But the children, your children. I would live for them,
would die for them!"
He turned from her and
gazed through the window, pondering. That
she would be faithful to the children he well knew. That she would
gladly die for him, he was equally certain. With Rosenblatt
removed, the house would be rid of the cause of her fall and her
shame. There was no one else in this strange land to whom he could
trust his children. Should death or exile take him in his work--
and these were always his companions--his children would be quite
alone. Once more he turned and looked down upon the kneeling
woman. He had no love for her. He had never loved her. Simply as
a matter of convenience he had married her, that she might care for
the children of his dead wife whom he had loved with undying and
passionate love.
"Paulina," he said
solemnly, but the contempt was gone from his
voice, "you are henceforth no wife of mine; but my children I give
into your care."
Hitherto, during the
whole interview, she had shed no tear, but at
these words of his she flung her arms about his knees and burst
into a passion of weeping.
"Oh, my lord! My dear
lord! Oh, my lord! my lord!" she sobbed,
wildly kissing his very boots.
He drew away from her
and sat down upon a bench.
"Listen," he said. "I
will send you money. You will require to
take no man into your house for your support. Is there any one to
whom I could send the money for you?"
She thought for a few
moments.
"There is one," she
said, "but she does not love me. She will come
no longer into my house. She thinks me a bad woman." Her voice
sank low. Her face flamed a dark red.
"Aha," said the man, "I
would see that woman. To-morrow you will
bring me to her. At dusk to-morrow I will pass your house. You
will meet me. Now go."
She remained kneeling
in her place. Then she crawled nearer his
feet.
"Oh, my lord!" she
sobbed, "I have done wrong. Will you not beat
me? Beat me till the blood runs down. He was too strong for me.
I was afraid for the children. I had no place to go. I did a
great wrong. If my lord would but beat me till the blood runs
down, it would be a joy to me."
It was the cry of
justice making itself heard through her dull
soul. It was the instinctive demand for atonement. It was the
unconscious appeal for reinstatement to the privileges of wifehood.
"Woman," he said
sternly, "a man may beat his wife. He will not
strike a woman that is nothing to him. Go."
Once more she clutched
his feet, kissing them. Then she rose and
without a word went out into the dusky night. She had entered upon
the rugged path of penitence, the only path to peace for the
sinner.
After she had gone, the
man stepped to the door and looked after
her as if meditating her recall.
"Bah!" he said at
length, "she is nothing to me. Let her go."
He put out the light,
closed the door and passing through the crowd
of revellers, went off to Simon's house. |