"I swear before God and men that they stole my horses and four hundred roubles. I caught them in the act.... At the point of the knife they forced me to swear that I would not give them away. They threatened me with revenge if I did. They are robbers of the worst sort."
"And I swear that the Gajdas stole my cow," said another man.
"And they took my sow."
"And my mare and foal," others deposed.
The assembled people listened in grim silence.
The snow suddenly ceased to fall and the wind increased, beating round the church and tearing at the swaying, moaning trees; large grey clouds flew across the sky; but the steady voices continued their accusations uninterruptedly. At intervals there was an ominous murmur and the thumping of sticks, or else the Gajdas cried:
"That's not true! They're giving wrong evidence! The thieves from Wola did all that! Don't believe it!"
But fresh people came forward, accusing them of still heavier crimes.
And finally they reproached them with the murder of the Jews and with betraying the postmaster's daughters and the priest, with committing arson, joining in drinking bouts with the police, and not going to church: any known misdemeanour was hastily raked up and thrown furiously at their miserable heads. There was a great clamour, for each man tried to shout down the other, everyone cursed and swore to avenge himself, and was so eager to beat the Gajdas that Jędrzej, unable to restrain them all, shouted angrily:
"Hold your noise, and let me have a say!"