That bald head was beautiful, adorned with two scars: the head of an old soldier and an honest man. The candle cast a funereal gleam on the walls of the room. In the corners chirped tame titmice. With one hand the old man pressed the crucifix to his breast; his other was held by Hania, who was as pale as a lily, and she covered it with kisses.
Father Ludvik came in and the confession began; then the dying man asked for me.
"My master is not here, nor my beloved mistress," whispered he, "therefore it is grievous for me to die. But you, my golden Panich, the heir—be a guardian to this orphan—God will reward you. Be not angry— If I have offended—forgive me. I was bitter, but I was faithful."
Roused again suddenly he called in a strange voice, and in haste, as if breath failed him,—
"Pan!—Heir!—my orphan!—O God—into Thy—"
"Hands I commend the soul of this valiant soldier, this faithful servant and honest man!" said Father Ludvik, solemnly.
The old man was no longer alive.
We knelt down, and the priest began to repeat prayers for the dead, aloud.
Nearly twenty years have passed since that time. On the tomb of the honest servant the heather of the cemetery has grown vigorously.
Gloomy times came. A storm swept away the sacred and quiet fire of my village. To-day Father Ludvik is in the grave, Aunt Marynia is in the grave; I earn with the pen my bitter daily bread, and Hania—