"Well or not well," shouted Mr. Tiralla--he banged the table, and Rosa began crying--"to the devil with her if she doesn't come down. I've had enough of it now She's to come down at once. Psia krew!"
H'm, his son's arrival had evidently given him courage; how would he otherwise have dared behave like that? So rough, so brutal. Good!--she put her fingers once more into her pocket and gripped the little box--she would soon come.
First of all, however, she went into the yard to look for her white hen. Where was it lying? Where had it crept to? She sought for it in every corner; she trembled whenever she saw something white gleaming, a piece of paper, a rag, or a little chalk that had crumbled off the wall--could this be it, or that? She felt so miserable that she at last did not know if she wanted to find it or not.
She wept as she sought her beautiful white hen. But as she could neither find it nor the cock nor any of the chickens in the corners or on the dunghill, she at length crept back into the house. But she dared not go into the room; she feared her child's eyes. She would bring Mr. Tiralla something to drink when Rosa had gone to bed. "Your health. Much good may it do you!"
But it seemed as though Rosa would never leave her father, and the listening woman neither heard her husband's drunken jokes, nor the maid's ribald laughter that evening. What could the two be doing? She crept downstairs in her stockings; the kitchen door was ajar and Marianna was asleep by the fire, and perfect peace and calm reigned in the sitting-room. It was as though an angel were sitting at table with Mr. Tiralla.
Then Mrs. Tiralla perceived that she could do nothing that evening. Besides, would it not really be better to wait until the early morning? At daybreak she would find the poultry dead, and before the sun stood high in the heavens Mr. Tiralla would have received his coffee.
Mrs. Tiralla watched and prayed quietly the whole night through. When she crept downstairs next morning there was nobody up. The eastern sky was only faintly streaked with red, the morning light was still very wan and pale, but she could see a little, nevertheless. She groped her way across the yard, holding up her dress so as to prevent it from getting wet. There was not a sound to be heard. But hark, what was that cry that sounded so shrill and penetrating in her ear? She gave a sudden start and let her dress fall on the wet grass. Why, it was the cock! The crowing came from the hen-house. She ran there. Was he really alive? She tore the door open, and out walked the cock, stretching his gleaming neck to its utmost extent and crowing shrilly. The cock was alive. But what about the hen, her beautiful white hen? She had eaten much more--was she alive too?
The woman's eyes almost started out of her head, and she stretched out a trembling finger. There, there came the hen out of the house, shook herself, put her claws first through one of her outspread wings and then through the other, smoothed her white feathers with her beak, and cackled long and proudly. She had already laid her egg that morning.
And the others? Mrs. Tiralla hastily stuck her head into the hen-house. There they were, all sitting on the perch; not one of them was missing, not one dead.
Suddenly a heavy load fell from the woman's heart. There was nothing the matter with her beautiful white hen. She caught hold of the bird, and, pressing it in her arms, caressed and stroked it in spite of its struggles.