The tenant thought that he really meant to carry out this oft-repeated threat to lock the door in case Barka should come, and nodding assent to his plans, she gave him his rosary and cane.
Long she looked after him as he walked alone. Tears filled her eyes. She liked to watch Barka and Matýsek walk together to church, for one could tell by the very way they stepped along that they liked to be together here on earth. Poeple laughed, to be sure, and let drop a whisper here and there that they were weak in thoughts, but so few sins as those two had committed surely were to be found in no other household in the entire community.
In vain did the tenant await Matýsek’s return to dinner. Her children came running home from church without him all breathless, heated up and frightened. Matýsek, they said, had knelt down in the corridor as usual, and holding his rosary was praying for “dead Barbara,” but when, after the mass, all the people stood up, he alone did not arise. When the others had gone out from the church he alone did not leave. They tapped him on the shoulder, but he did not move, only gazed at them strangely. A terror seized the children and they began to scream. The people came running up, picked up Matýsek, tried to bring him back to life, but he remained rigid.
Matýsek had truly gone to find Barka. He could no longer wait. He had punished the longing. And it was no wonder. What is too much, really is too much! . . .
