Soon afterward Barbara Pirka returned, and with a sly grin whispered in Michal's ear:
"Don't fret, darling, the old man has made it all up, and now they are hugging and kissing each other."
But still Henry did not come back to his wife.
The howling of many dogs resounded through the courtyard below. The hideous din penetrated the thick vaults and double corridors and reached the very room where Michal lay.
"They will soon be quiet," said the housekeeper grimly.
Michal, in order to change the subject to something more agreeable, asked Pirka whether there was any garden to the house.
"You can't keep one," answered Pirka. "Here neither tree nor flower will flourish. The master's wife found that out long ago, when she tried to garden. The first summer after she came here, all the branches of the trees curved inwardly as if they would have crept under the ground, and the roots were devoured by worms. Nothing prospers but the black elder-tree, and even that produces red berries."
Meanwhile, the howling of the dogs grew fainter, as if the number of them was gradually growing smaller.
"What a long time Henry remains away," sighed the young wife.
"He'll very soon be here now, my pretty sweetheart!"