‘Do you mean it,’ said old Loyka, ‘but I am old, within a little of a hundred years’”
“A hundred years!” reiterated the neighbours, “that is a great age.”
The sexton proceeded, “Ah! Frank,” says Loyka again, after a pause, “I feel constantly as though I had a clod of earth upon me. Boy! clear off this clod of earth!” “You have not, grandfather,” said Frank to this, and again wept. “You think not? Well, then lead me out on to the balcony,” and although in the morning he still walked like a stag, and was as fresh as a fish, now he leant upon Frank as though he could scarcely take a step forward.
Frank collected his strength—you know he is thirteen years of age—led him out on to the balcony, and Loyka looked all over the court-yard and as though he bid farewell to everything, and after he had cast his eyes in this manner upon one thing after another—buildings, courtyard, granaries, implements, he said, “Well-a-day, what is the use of crying about it!” Then he made a sign to Frank to lead him back into the living room. And when Frank had led him almost into the middle of the floor, Loyka hung yet heavier upon him, and said, “Come off! come off!” just as if he wanted to tear something off with his hand, and at that moment he fell down dead on the ground beside his grandchild.
