This advice sat hard upon Tring’s temper, but he was so much influenced by the scholar that he finally bowed his head in consent.
“And further than this I might say, Johann Tring, that such occurrences bring you no credit. I know not much of your studies these days, though I think sometimes that you keep company more with necromancers and astrologers of little merit than with such worthy men as Pan Kreutz and his equals. These are dark days when men look with suspicion upon all who engage in investigation whether it be honest or dishonorable, godly or selfish. Are you still at Kreutz’s?”
“I am.”
“Then come with us since we are bound for his dwelling. This Pan and his wife are taking the rooms below Kreutz’s.”
The young man tried to peer into the darkness beyond the lantern light to see who the new tenants might be, but none of the Charnetskis were visible.
They walked ahead a few steps until they came to the door where Joseph had been in the afternoon. Jan Kanty reached up and pulled the wire which hung down from above the door, and in a few minutes an old bent woman with a lantern scrutinized their faces from the open doorway and admitted them.
“All will be well now,” said Joseph’s father. “We need not trouble you further.”
“It has been otherwise than trouble,” protested the scholar. “You will be well and comfortable, I am sure, for all the arrangements have been made. To-morrow I shall send you the man who will tell you of your new duties. And now good night to you, Pan Andrew—Kovalski”—he hesitated a bit over the assumed name—“and may peace be with you.”
“And with you.” They all repeated it.
The kindly figure of the gentle, loving, saintly old man passed out into the darkness again. The woman slammed the door and bolted it heavily when the Charnetskis—now the Kovalskis—Johann Tring, and the dog were inside.