The laughter had a short life, however. It died suddenly as I remembered how Father Ambrose had spoken of Volna’s betrothal. There was something more than I knew of in that; Volna herself had spoken of an entanglement; and I was worrying over the puzzle when I reached the top of a sloping meadow and saw below me the shed I was seeking.
There was no one about as I hurried down the hill. I was glad, as I had no mind for indulgence in cabalistic signs, and all the rest of it.
But I had been seen; and as I was unfastening the door a man came round the end of the shed.
“Well?” A very blunt but significant monosyllable.
“Are you Jacob Posen?” He nodded. He was a big, heavy, black-bearded, powerful man.
“I have come for my horse.”
“What do you mean? This is my barn. I have no horse of yours.”
“I am a peasant farmer, friend.”
He laughed, giving no sign that he understood; but he was only acting, for he said with a sneer: “You seem in a hurry?”
“Immediate.”