At first the two men drove on in silence. The road through the village was so uneven that although they moved slowly the cart was thrown from side to side, while the priest kept sliding off his seat, settling himself again and wrapping his cloak round him.
It was only after they had left the village behind, and crossed over the trench into the meadow that the priest spoke.
“Is your wife very bad?” he asked.
“We don’t expect her to live,” answered the peasant reluctantly.
“It is in God’s, not man’s hands. It is God’s will,” said the priest. “There is nothing for it but to submit.”
The peasant raised his head and glanced at the priest’s face. Apparently he was on the point of making an angry rejoinder, but the kind look which met his eyes disarmed him—so shaking his head he only said: “It may be God’s will, but it is very hard on me. Father. I am alone. What will become of my little ones?”
“Don’t be fainthearted—God will protect them.” The peasant did not reply, but swearing at the mare, who had changed from a trot into a slow walk, he pulled the rope reins sharply.
They entered a forest where the tracks were all equally bad, and drove along in silence for some time, trying to pick out the best of them. It was only after they had passed through the forest, and were on the high road which led through fields bright with springing shoots of the autumn-sown corn, that the priest spoke again.
“There is promise of a good crop,” he said.