She made the sign of the cross again and again. "Holy Mary, reconcile him to Thy Son, commend him to Thy Son, bring him to Thy Son." The saints had willed it, the saints had been gracious to him--and to her too.
Mrs. Tiralla could not help it, but she no longer felt the slightest animosity towards the man lying there. She touched his forehead with her lips, then folded his hands and tried to close his eyes, "May he rest in peace."
Then she sent the weeping servant to fetch his children whilst she remained on her knees alone with the dead. She felt no fear. It was as though a light had risen for her in the dark stables, and as though she must thank the dead man for it as well as the saints.
Mikolai was not so calm, the calamity had affected him deeply. His father, his old father. And he had died in all his sins without the consecrated candle, without a priest, and without absolution. He could not compose himself, he sobbed so.
He and Marianna vied with each other in weeping. He and she had carried Mr. Tiralla into the house, and their tears had fallen on him like warm rain, drop by drop, a constant flow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The sun had risen over Starydwór when Martin Becker awoke, disturbed by sobbing and wailing. He had slept very heavily. He had been so exhausted by emotion and the decision that he had arrived at after a long struggle that he had not heard Mikolai run out of the room when the maid's loud screams had awakened him, but had slept on like a peaceful child. He finished dressing. He was still so sleepy that he could not understand why he had gone to bed in trousers and socks. But then his eye fell on his box that stood packed and corded. Then he remembered everything. He braced himself up and left the room to announce his intention to Mikolai. Why were they weeping and wailing so?
Marianna ran past him in the passage. She pointed to the door leading into the big room with a convulsive sob, "Holy Mother, holy Mother!" What was the matter with her? What had happened? An accident? The blood suddenly rushed to his head; had anything happened to Mrs. Tiralla? Of course not--he shook off the sense of oppression which was overpowering him--she did not know yet that he intended leaving that day.
He went into the room from whence the weeping came. It was half-dark, the shutters were closed, and the only light in the room came from the candles burning on the table. He distinguished some dark figures kneeling by a bed, and on the bed an outstretched figure under a white sheet. He started and pressed his hand to his brow; he felt terrified. Who was dead?
At that moment Mrs. Tiralla came towards him with outstretched hand. "Mr. Tiralla is dead," she said.