He took from his usual hiding-place some silver and copper money, so that in case death should come suddenly on the road or among strangers, enough would be found on his person to bury him decently and pay for a Mass for the repose of his soul; he made up a bundle of clothing and put it on his shoulder, put some linen in two bags which he tied together with cords and threw over his back after the fashion of a beggar's sack, and when thus ready to start, he called Huluk. The latter, as he came out of his room and saw his old master dressed as a beggar, trembled and felt confused, as though his thought had been divined. His heart beat violently; he began to pity Iermola sincerely, to be disgusted with his favourite project for the future and the business.
"You see I am going to wander about the world, my child," said the old man, gently. "I leave you all I have; live for God and according to God's command. May God grant you happiness here, a longer happiness than mine! Everything here is yours; if some day I should return, you will not refuse me shelter and a piece of bread. But no one need fear; I shall not trouble any one long."
Huluk then burst into tears, and fell at the old man's feet, for this generous gift was a great thing for the poor orphan; and Iermola felt touched when he saw him weeping.
"Are you going now?" cried the young man.
"What should I do here?" sighed the old man. "They have just buried the widow; Chwedko is ill, and perhaps may never get up again. I have not a single friend now in the whole village, and worse than all, I no longer have my child, my child!"
As he spoke, he wiped away his tears, which filled his eyes and flowed over his cheeks; he went forward, stepped over the threshold, and started off, feeling as though he saw everything moving around him,--the fields, the cottages, the hedges, the trees. Huluk watched him go slowly through the village; the dogs that knew him barked around him; then he plunged into the forest and disappeared, taking the road leading to the town.
Three days later, when the child, ill in bed, was found to be in real danger; when a physician, wiser than the others and better acquainted with his past life, told his parents plainly that old Iermola must be sent for, that the child must be sent back to his old life, to the work and food to which he had been accustomed,--then the father and mother hastened with him to Popielnia. But what was their astonishment and Radionek's despair when they found that the old man was no longer there, and learned that he had gone away, begging his bread and seeking to forget the past and his sad memories.
The terrible and touching grief of the poor foster-father at last moved the hearts of the parents, who had been too slow to recognize their error, and were beyond measure frightened by the tears and regrets of the child, thunder-struck and desperate at the disappearance of his father. Messengers were sent in every direction to bring Iermola back, but they returned disappointed; all their efforts had been fruitless. The parents, then going back to their first opinion, were not really sorry; they said to themselves that in the end Radionek would forget.
But Radionek, who had been called Jules since his return to his parents' house, continued to grow weaker, and faded away in spite of the tenderest care; nothing interested or amused him. He did not complain, he even tried to smile; but he was silent and sad. It was evident that he was longing for something; an indefinable and unknown malady wore him away by degrees. He seemed to find a little pleasure only when allowed to wander alone in the garden or the woods, or when permitted to ride on horseback; but his parents, being anxious lest these airings were too lonely and tiresome for the child, kept him always near them.