the road traversed, was growing more distinct in her memory. The number of horses capable of being stabled at Draskócs had undergone a considerable increase since they started on their journey; every hour added a step to the flight which led up to the entrance door, the avenue grew more stately, the trees loftier with each minute, until it really appeared that if the journey were prolonged for another half-day, the house of Ascelinde's ancestors would threaten to tower into the sky, and strike the beholders blind with the excess of its glory.
It was two in the afternoon when they drove past the dark wooden church with its weed-grown burying-ground, and then up the dirty street of Hadháza, which Vincenz knew from his former visit. They stopped in front of the wretched little inn to water the panting horses: the poor beasts' ragged flanks were heaving, though they had jogged so slowly, for the air was heavy as lead and hot as a furnace blast.
"How slow they are in attending," said Ascelinde impatiently, as a man leisurely filled a wooden pail with the dull water of the well. "Tell them that we are going to Draskócs, Dr Komers, and that I am mistress of the place."
Dr Komers appeared not to have heard; at least he certainly did not give the information indicated, seeing which, Ascelinde gave the information herself, but was only met by a stupid stare.
"What is that man saying, Dr Komers – I can't hear him?"
"He is saying that there will be a storm before evening, and that we had better stay here."
'How ridiculous! We shall sleep at Draskócs, of course; tell the coachman to drive on."
The landlord turned back to his inn, scratching his head, and Vincenz took his place on the box again beside the driver. The driver looked at the sky and shrugged his shoulders.
"Drive on," said Vincenz shortly; and he folded his arms and sat staring straight in front of him, with a face as expressionless and as hard-set as a face of wood. He had worn this look throughout all the journey; and throughout all the journey, too, his lips had remained so obstinately locked that it was almost with an effort that he unclosed them when some unavoidable word had to be pronounced.
When the last house of Hadháza was left behind, the road, thick with white dust and seamed with deep cart-ruts, ran along between level fields and stretches of waste land. It was the last stage of their journey, and Ascelinde, as she scanned the wide horizon, felt the solemnity of the impending moment settling down upon her soul.
"Are we near yet?" she asked at short intervals, and after a weary hour at last came the answer – "We are not far now."
The sky during this hour had grown stealthily darker, and the clouds had gathered into a huddled mass. There was no one in the fields, and there was no one along the length of the deserted road.
But Ascelinde could not see the road, however much she might crane her neck. With trembling fingers she smoothed her crape bonnet-strings, and shook out the folds of her mournful tunic, which wept its inferior quality of tears around her ample person. She began to rehearse some speeches suitable for the occasion, – a noble and dignified address wherewith to answer the welcome she expected. Some very unpronounced visions of enthu-
