Nothing in this chamber called to mind the dismal business of the master of the house. Old-fashioned presses were ranged around the walls, and in the midst of the chamber stood a round table with feet resembling tigers' claws, and leather-covered chairs all round it. In a corner stood a dumb-waiter covered with glittering plate and pewter. Small pictures and clusters of weapons were visible on the walls. This chamber led into a small side-room, the door of which was so low that a person entering it had to duck his head.
"This will be your bedroom," said the woman; "it is a nice, quiet place, out of hearing of the howling dogs."
Barbara Pirka no longer recognized Henry, though they had often torn each other's hair out in the good old times.
The woman remarked that Michal's clothing was wet through, and that her shoes had suffered from her wanderings through the mountains.
"Would madam like to change her clothes?" asked the old woman obsequiously.
"I have no change," replied Michal, "the robbers have taken the whole of our baggage, and we ourselves only escaped from them by the devious mountain paths."
"D——d scoundrels! It would be as well perhaps if you were to lie down in a warm bed, and take a little hot wine. That would do you good, and you need not come to supper."
"I thank you for your kindness," said Michal, who was thinking all the while of the object of their coming thither—viz., the reconciliation with Henry's father—"but I wish to eat in company with the master of the house."
"Do you really?" remarked the woman, contracting her brows. "Are you not afraid of him, then? Have you so strong a heart? So much the better."
With that she turned and left the room, and there was but time for the husband and wife to exchange a few words, whereby Michal learnt that Barbara Pirka was an old housekeeper of the Catsriders, when back she came again with a change of raiment on her arm.