"Yes; he shall not escape me." And drawing his pistol he took his position in front of the priest.
The men went on their errand.
"Now listen," said Taras, when left alone with the culprit. "The slightest movement on your part, and I shall lodge this bullet in your brain. For the rest you may spend the time as you please. It might be as well to say your prayers, since I may not be able to allow you much time presently. I have little hope that you will see the rising sun yonder in his full-day glory."
Sanecki gazed in the direction pointed at with unsteady eyes. The window opened upon the vast plain, a ridge of cloud in the far east burning with a crimson glow. But somehow he appeared to draw strength from the sight, the growing light kindling his courage. "It is well I should offer up prayer," he said; "less for myself than for you, who are in danger of dipping your hands into innocent blood."
Taras made no answer, continuing motionless with uplifted pistol. The priest folded his hands, saying prayers with a loud voice. For the space of about ten minutes they were thus left alone, after which Stas returned with Stephen, the elder, and almost immediately after Jemilian with Harassim, the judge.
"Take your oath that you will speak the truth," said Taras; and the aged witnesses lifted their right hands, swearing.
"Speak, judge; what is your accusation against this man?"
"I went to him at All Saints'," said the old man, trembling with the memory of it, "to arrange with him for the rendering of the tithes we owe him. He demanded more than his due, I refused and left him; no unbecoming word had been spoken. But that same evening I was taken up by his orders and cast into a miserable dungeon, where I spent a week in complete darkness, and all the food he allowed me was mouldy bread and rank water. My sons implored him to release me, but he said in his capacity as mandatar he must punish me because I had offended the priest. For a fine of two hundred florins, however, he would release me. Now considering my age--I am more than seventy--and because I should have perished in the damp prison, they raised the money; he took it, charging me an extra twenty florins, to refund his expenses of keeping me for a week."
"And you, Stephen?"
"My wife lay dying at the Epiphany," said the elder. "I called upon the priest to prepare her for the great change, by administering the blessed sacrament. He refused until I should have atoned for a grave offence with the payment of a hundred florins. I could not find the sum, and my poor wife had to die unaneled, and was buried like a dog outside the churchyard ... my poor wife!" sobbed the old man, hiding his face in his bands, "my good, pious wife!"