The people surrounded the house. They crept stealthily through the courtyard and looked through the window and whispered, "There he is, there he is!"
The Lieutenant, the priest, the judge and Sanga-moarta's mother entered the room. Stretched across the threshold lay the girl's father, dead drunk. In his great sorrow he had drunk so much the day before that he would hardly sleep it off before another day. In the middle of the room stood the coffin made of pine, painted with bright roses by the brush of the village artist; within lay the girl of barely sixteen years. Her beautiful brow was encircled with a wreath; in one hand had been placed a wax candle and in the other a small coin: at the head of the coffin were two wax candles stuck in a jar covered with gingerbread; at the foot of the coffin on a painted chair with high back, sat Sanga-moarta, bent over with his eyes fixed on the girl's face. The priest and the judge remained standing at the door in superstitious piety. Clement walked up to the youth and at a glance recognized him as the one who had not been willing to direct him on his way.
"Hello, young man, so you are the one who does not answer people's questions?"
The youth verified his words by making no reply.
"Now listen to me and answer what I ask you; I am the Lieutenant of the district. Do you hear?"
Sanga-moarta gazed in silence at Floriza, lost in melancholy and as immovable as the dead. His mother, the worthy woman, took him fondly by the hand and spoke to him by his true name.
"Jova, my son, answer this gentleman. Look at me, I am your dear mother."
"In the name of my master, the Prince, I command you to answer," shouted the Lieutenant, his voice growing more and more angry. The Wallachian was still silent.
"I ask you whether in your wanderings through the forest you have noticed anywhere a foreign beast. I mean a beast of prey, called panther by the learned."