"Yes, Taras, yes--it was all your doing!"
And then only the excited answers of individuals were heard.
"Yes, indeed," exclaimed an old man, "just eight years ago Taras built us the first cattle-fold, and the gain since has been double!"
"Long live Taras!" cried Simeon, half choking with sobs.
"Yes! yes!" broke in Wassilj, the butcher, "if we feed better, it is because he showed us how!"
"And it is all true concerning the plough--I ought to know!" chimed a voice like that of a little boy. It was Marko, the smith, a giant to look at, who owned this queer little voice.
"Long live Taras!" repeated Simeon; one after another joining in the cry--"Yes, Taras for ever!"
But the unhappy man stood trembling, his bosom heaved, and tears ran down his haggard face. He tried to speak, but the words would not rise to his lips, nor could he have made himself heard for the people's wild acclamation. At last he succeeded, and, holding out his folded hands to them, he cried with a voice so rent with agony that his listeners grew white with dread.
"Stop! stop! for pity's sake, stop! Let not your thanks overwhelm me, lest your reproaches presently be the harder to bear. For pure and honest as my intention was, you will come to see I have lived to be a curse to myself and my family; a curse, also, to you!..."
There was a deep silence when he had thus spoken, a solemn pause, and all the harsher sounded the spiteful voice of the corporal which broke it: "A curse? ah, you own it! but you took care it should fall lightly on yourself, you who fooled an heiress and sneaked into the judgeship!"