ven in the night.

The ladies waited up until midnight. They waited outside under the
verandah. It was a beautiful warm moonlit night.

The good grandmother, embracing Fanny's shoulder, related to her how
many, many years ago they had waited one night for the two brothers to
come, but that was a very awful night, and the waiting was very
sorrowful. The wind howled among the acacias, clouds chased each other
across the sky, hounds howled in the village, a hay-wain rattled in at
the gate--and in it was hidden the coffin.--And the populace was very
suspicious: they thought the ice would break its bounds, if a dead man
were taken over it.

But now it was quite a different world. The air was still, not a breath
of air: man and beast sleeps, only those are awake who await a bride.

How different the weather!

Then, all at once, a wain had stood at the gate: the servants hastened
to open it.

A hay-wain now rattled in at the gate, as it did then.

And after the wain, on foot, the two brothers, hand in hand.

The women rushed to meet them, Lorand was the first whom everyone
embraced and kissed.

"And your wife?" asked every lip.

Lorand pointed speechlessly to the wain, and could not tell them.

Desiderius answered in his place.

"We have brought his wife here in her coffin."

CHAPTER XXXII

WHEN WE HAD GROWN OLD

Seventeen years have passed since Lorand returned home again.

What old people we have become since then!

Besides, seventeen years is a long time:--and seventeen heavy years!

I have rarely seen people grow old so slowly as did our contemporaries.

We live in a time when we sigh with relief as each day passes by--only
because it is now over! And we will not believe that what comes after it
will bring still worse days.

We descend continuously further and further down, in faith, in hope, in
charity towards one another: our wealth is dissipated, our spirits
languish, our strength decays, our united life falls into disunion: it
is not indifference, but "ennui" with which we look at the events of the
days.

One year to the day, after poor Czipra's death Lorand went with his
musket on his shoulder to a certain entertainment where death may be had
for the asking.

I shall not recall the fame of those who are gone--why should I? Very
few know of it.

Lorand was a good soldier.

That he would have been in any case, he had naturally every attribute
required for it: heroic courage, ath