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Page 8
There was nothing else spoken of wherever two or three met together
throughout the village except this dreadful, unexplainable thing
that had happened in the rectory. The little village inn was full
to overflowing and the hum of voices within was like the noise of
an excited beehive. Everyone had some new explanation, some new
guess, and it was not until the notary arrived, looking even more
important than usual, that silence fell upon the excited throng.
But the expectations aroused by his coming were not fulfilled. The
notary knew no more than the others although he had been one of the
searchers in the rectory. But he was in no haste to disclose his
ignorance, and sat wrapped in a dignified silence until some one
found courage to question him.
"Was there nothing stolen?" he was asked.
"No, nothing as far as we can tell yet. But if it was the gypsies
--as may be likely--they are content with so little that it would
not be noticed."
"Gypsies?" exclaimed one man scornfully. "It doesn't have to be
gypsies, we've got enough tramps and vagabonds of our own. Didn't
they kill the pedlar for the sake of a bag of tobacco, and old
Katiza for a couple of hens?"
"Why do you rake up things that happened twenty years ago?" cried
another over the table. "You'd better tell us rather who killed Red
Betty, and pulled Janos, the smith's farm hand, down into the swamp?"
"Yes, or who cut the bridge supports, when the brook was in flood,
so that two good cows broke through and drowned?"
"Yes, indeed, if we only knew what band of robbers and villains it
is that is ravaging our village."
"And they haven't stopped yet, evidently."
"This is the worst misfortune of all! What will our poor do now
that they have murdered our good pastor, who cared for us all like
a father?"
"He gave all he had to the poor, he kept nothing for himself."
"Yes, indeed, that's how it was. And now we can't even give this
good man Christian burial."
"Shepherd Janci knew this morning early that we were going to have
a new pastor," whispered the landlord in the notary's ear. The
latter looked up astonished. "Who said so?" he asked.
"My boy Ferenz, who went to fetch him about seven o'clock. One of
my cows was sick."
Ferenz was sent for and told his story. The men listened with
great interest, and the smith, a broad-shouldered elderly man,
was particularly eager to hear, as he had always believed in the
shepherd's power of second sight. The tailor, who was more
modern-minded, laughed and made his jokes at this. But the smith
laid one mighty hand on the other's shoulder, almost crushing the
tailor's slight form under its weight, and said gravely: "Friend, do
you be silent in this matter. You've come from other parts and you
do not know of things that have happened here in days gone by. Janci
can do more than take care of his sheep. One day, when my little
girl was playing in the street, he said to me, 'Have a care of
Maruschka, smith!' and three days later the child was dead. The
evening before Red Betty was murdered he saw her in a vision lying
in a coffin in front of her door. He told it to the sexton, whom
he met in the fields; and next morning they found Betty dead. And
there are many more things that I could tell you, but what's the
use; when a man won't believe it's only lost talk to try to make
him. But one thing you should know: when Janci stares ahead of
him without seeing what's in front of him, then the whole village
begins to wonder what's going to happen, for Janci knows far more
than all the rest of us put together."
The smith's grave, deep voice filled the room and the others
listened in a silence that gave assent to his words. He had
scarcely finished speaking, however, when there was a noise of
galloping hoofs and rapidly rolling wagon wheels. A tall brake
drawn by four handsome horses dashed past in a whirlwind.
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