That evening, Loyka and Bartos wended their way to the farm, at Frishetts, which Loyka still supposed to be in the possession of Joseph. It must have been a very crushing pilgrimage for him, for let Bartos begin any topic of conversation, Loyka did not listen to him, but remained shut up in his own sombre reflections, and at intervals he heaved a heavy sigh and said in a constrained voice, “Well, then, this is my last journey.” Bartos did not tease him to converse. Moreover, they had to rest at every boundary stone, and the walk, which under ordinary circumstances, was easily accomplished in half an hour, was prolonged to a full hour. And then each time they sat down Loyka said, “My Lord and Master, I go to the Mount of Calvary.”
But with this great oppression which overpowered Loyka, all traces of that tempestuous spirit which had oftentimes shaken his whole inner man, seemed to have disappeared. He went as though the road was one which it was impossible to avoid—he went exhausted and oppressed, but still he did not turn aside.
When they reached the Loykas’ farm it was almost dark. Loyka seated himself exhausted by the abutment, beside which long ago Frank had wept for the death of the grandfather. And as he sat by this abutment, he spoke in a voice of forced meekness. “Bend, proud knees, and entreat my son to permit me to cross his courtyard. Hands
