their gaunt arms, by the grave stood his father and bade him come home with him. Frank did not at once collect his ideas; only he knew that he was with Staza and that he was not at home.
“Let him be; children are children,” said Bartos.
“But I order him,” shouted Loyka vehemently, and wanted to jump into the grave.
“Softly, softly,” said Bartos quietly; and held Loyka with his hand so that the peasant could not stir a muscle.
“Here I am master—everything only by my consent,” and he did not allow Loyka to take a step forward.
“I am master of the boy,” said Loyka.
“So you are,” said Bartos. “These children consecrated with their breath the grave of your father, and did you wish to desecrate it? Are the wrongs that you have already done him during life, then, not enough?”
These words smote Loyka’s conscience. He ceased from insisting further and in order, perhaps, to escape from hearing the recital of his own past deeds over the open grave, departed from the spot without more words.
Now the children heard the steps and voices receding; but being still frightened they once more cuddled close to one another, and before very long were again asleep, Staza on the bosom of Frank and Frank having his hand entwined around her neck.
R
