Then they returned to the settlement to partake of the funeral meal. But as they entered the enclosure Taras perceived a youth standing by the hedge, at the sight of whom he gave a stifled cry.
It was young Halko, the farm-servant, who, with glistening eyes, now burst upon his master and kissed his hand. "Thanks be to God," he cried, struggling with tears, "we shall all be happy again! The mistress and the children have been set free! They are waiting to see you at the hamlet of Magura, at the lower end of the valley."
"My horse!" cried Taras, turning to his men. "And why have they not come all the way?"
"Because of the two gentlemen. It was they who refused to come further, lest you might think they wished to discover your encampment--our little Father Leo, I mean, and that old lawyer of Colomea who was your counsel in the suit."
"And what have they come for?"
"To bring you good news, master--really. The men of Zulawce are to have their field back, and the wrong is to be righted."
Taras grew white and then crimson, and again the glow yielded to a deadly pallor. But he asked no farther question, and, mounting his horse, he raced down the valley at a pace which left Halko fax behind him.
The meeting between husband and wife was deeply affecting. Taras flew towards her without giving a glance at the men, and Anusia, with a wild cry, buried her face on his shoulder. And they stood clasping each other speechless, only their tears kept flowing. At length Taras freed himself from her arms, and turned to his children, little Tereska beginning to cry with fear when that strange-looking grey-haired man caught her up, kissing her wildly; the little girl did not recognise her father, nor did the younger boy. Wassilj only clung to him sobbing, "Oh, father dear, you look so ill--so ill!"
Taras made no answer, he took the boy on his knee, fondling him and closing his month with kisses when he would have spoken. It was as though he feared human words might destroy the blessedness of this meeting. And almost anxiously he avoided the eye of either the pope or the lawyer; still less could he have offered them greeting. He kept lifting, now this child to his knee, now that, pressing them to his heart closely; and drawing his wife down beside him, he passed his hand tenderly over her grief-worn face. "Do not speak," he whispered, and she nodded, hiding her head in his bosom, to weep her sorrows away.
Father Leo and Dr. Starkowski had withdrawn modestly, watching that most touching scene from a distance only. "There is every hope of his yielding," whispered the lawyer. "God grant that it be so," returned the priest, less confident, evidently.