Frank and Staza suddenly sang the song from the hall to the sound of harps and violins.
“Dost hear, dost hear it,” he again repeated after a pause. “For my part I had no notion the song was so merry a one when there were harps with it. And it would seem that to night there are no harps with it.”
There were no harps with it, to be sure, but all the same it was accompanied by the audible weeping of his own son.
“And it pleases me to find that they know it here in the cemetery. Prythee, lead me to those musicians, and let them play on. And if they do not wish to play, tell them that you are from Loyka’s farm, and then of course they will play, for they will remember Loyka although he rules his home no more.”
And he went with Vena several steps in the direction of the singing and crying, where Frank knelt sobbing and Staza knelt singing. When he came to them, Frank embraced his knees, and cried “Papa! Papa!” Staza was silent.
“Papa!” said Loyka. “I might have known that they would recognise me here. Where they are skilled in singing and playing, there they know old Loyka. So halloo! and play something lively that I may have a dance here.” And this poor old man here in the graveyard struck an attitude as though he would caper about, and as though he were ready for a fling.
