But it was still impossible to rouse Radionek sufficiently to make him take the refreshing tea which Horpyna had prepared.
His face burned like fire; his eyes, half open, shone with a strange light. The fever and delirium were evidently increasing.
In the silent forest, under the sombre branches of the old pine-trees, was about to be enacted the last scene of this drama of love,--this rustic drama, which would perhaps be improbable, if it were not strictly true in every detail, true in its sad simplicity.
The day after the one on which he had gone to sleep in the forester's hut, Radionek opened his eyes for a moment, recognized and smiled upon the old man, who rejoiced and began to hope; but this smile was like the last flicker of a dying lamp.
The child began to amuse himself, to talk in a low voice, telling of all he meant to do when he should get rested and well again; he proposed to go to work immediately, spoke in turn of Popielnia, Huluk, the widow, the happy days of the past, Malyczki, and the sorrowful days of trial. He tried especially to reassure and cheer the old man, who wept bitterly; but while he was speaking, he grew weaker and fell again into a doze, then a violent fever came on, during which he threw himself about, cried, trembled, as though he thought himself pursued by some invisible enemy, and so he died in the arms of Iermola, upon whose breast he sought shelter, and who held him tightly in his embrace.
The old man strained to his bosom a long while the beautiful, pure young form, now still and cold, which he could not make up his mind to surrender to the grave; he did not utter a word, but the big tears fell from her eyes,--silent, bitter tears. At last his breast heaved, and a great sorrowful cry escaped him.
"My child! my child!" Then he buried his hands in his gray hair, and fled like a madman into the depths of the forest.
In the cemetery of Horodyszcz may still be seen the tomb of Radionek, whose history the people relate, embellishing it with a thousand wonderful, almost superhuman circumstances. Not even a poor cross of black wood marks this neglected tomb; but the white and pink thorn gives it the fragrance of its flowers and the velvety verdure of its leaves.
At the door of a neighbouring church there has stood for a long time a little old man, bent, decrepit, called by the people of the vicinity old Father Skin-and-Bones, because it seems that his skin, yellow, wrinkled, and sadly withered, alone holds his bones together.
On Sundays the villagers gather round him to laugh at and tease him; for who would not laugh to see him constantly hugging in his arms an old doll, wrapped in rags like a baby swaddled in its long clothes? He rocks it on his heart, and sings it to sleep, now and then kissing it, talking to it in a low voice, and often weeping over it. He thinks he is still caring for, rocking and petting his darling child, the poor old beggar, skin and bones, Iermola, the poor old father.