He crossed himself and returned to his children, endeavouring to calm them; and having given them their medicine, he strove to take up the thread of his sermon. But that was well-nigh impossible. Again and again he stood still, listening; but only the gentle voices of the night reached his ear, no sound of alarm--the screech owl was silent....
The small hours passed slowly, gloomily. With the dawn the popadja entered to take his place. "Little father," she said, "have I been dreaming, or did I hear it? A terrible cry broke upon my sleep, as of a man being strangled and crying for help...."
"I daresay you dreamt it," returned he, huskily, making haste to gain his study; there was early service at eight o'clock, and he really must collect his thoughts for his sermon.
But it was impossible, for while he was yet dressing he was suddenly seized with a burning desire to see his friend, and nothing was to be done but follow the inward compulsion. He snatched up his cloak and hurried from the house.
Entering Taras's farmyard, he found his two eldest boys in their Sunday garments, with bright plumes in their brand-new caps. They were making a desperate noise with toy trumpets. On seeing the pope they ran up to him and kissed his hand.
"Father returned last night," they cried, "and see what he brought us--a trumpet each and these beautiful caps."
"Is he at home?" inquired the priest.
"No. He is gone to see Jewgeni."
"The judge?"
"Yes--that judge," returned little Wassilj, with all the contempt he was capable of. "He has business with him. He would never go and see him for the pleasure of it."