clasp yourselves in prayer and entreat my son to open that gate for so many years barred against me. Enter his doors, ye words, and entreat and implore. For surely it is not possible that I must stifle even my words. Then forth, oh! stubborn thoughts, and learn humbleness! My son Joseph!” said he raising his voice, “lo! thy father stands at thy threshold, only prythee, promise me one thing, by word of mouth and before witnesses, that thou wilt not set that dog upon me which long ago fawned upon me and which I fed with my bounty.” And more to the same effect.
At times it was like praying, at times like weeping, at times like affected humility, at times like reproach.
While he sat thus and Bartos stood beside him, the sound of harps and violins issued from the courtyard, and several vocal melodies were wafted to their ears. Old Loyka was silent, raised his head and looked round about him. He listened. He looked round about him to see where he was sitting, and he listened to find out whence the music came. He saw that he was seated by the gates of Joseph’s farm, and that the music resounded therefrom.
“Whither have you led me Bartos?” enquired Loyka and rose to his feet, for he could not trust what he had heard and seen.
“And you said that my wife was sick unto death,” he further enquired.
