Therese lay there, pale as a broken stemmed lily, her long black eyelashes closed, her feet covered with the famous tulip embroidered fur cloak.
She was beautiful even though now dying, an angel saying good-bye to this world. Where is she hurrying? To the heaven from which she once came.
It may be that she will never again open those charming eyes of hers, which could glance so archly, or those lips of hers which to kiss was such supreme bliss.
Filcsik stood mute, motionless, as if in thought, but only for a minute; then he boldly stepped up to the dying, and took off that cloak for which she had pined so much. It may be that she would have no use for it any more.
The dying angel did not even move. Filcsik's hand did not even tremble. He did not even cast a last glance on his dying daughter. Mute, without uttering a syllable, he went out as if nothing could pain him.
He did not even turn back when the Judge, as he was crossing the threshold, savagely addressed to him the epithet, "Heathen!"
Outside, he hung his rightful property around his neck, and notwithstanding that it had become dark, he started for home by an unused route. He did not want to meet with men just then. He probably felt that he was no longer a man.
From his face naught could be read; seemingly it was calm. Probably it even expressed some satisfaction on account of the regained fur cloak. Truly there must be a stone in the place of the heart of this man.
When he reached the rivulet at the foot of the Majornok mountain opening, (just there where, it is said, the soul of Mistress Gebyi rides nightly on frightened horses) he stumbled over something in the way.
It was a beggar's bag filled with pieces of dry bread. Its owner must have prayed successfully—there was enough of the daily bread there even for tomorrow.