Not until after several minutes had passed did
the young wife raise herself to her knees, and ask in a voice choked
with tears, what all this meant, what had happened.
"The master shot your Pista," replied the gardener in a tone so low
that it was scarcely audible.
"The master? Pista? Shot?" repeated Panna mechanically, absently, as
if the words which she slowly uttered belonged to an unknown,
incomprehensible language. She stared at the gardener with dilated
eyes, and her lips moved without emitting any sound. At last, however,
understanding of the present returned, and the words escaped with
difficulty from her labouring breast: "Oh, God, oh, God, how could it
happen? How could God permit such misery?" Again she was silent,
while the gardener looked away and seemed to be examining the opposite
house with the utmost attention through the panes of the little window.
But Panna was beginning to think more clearly and to recover from the
dull stupor into which the sudden shock had thrown her. Still kneeling
beside the corpse, wringing her hands, and amid floods of tears, she
began again:
"The master shot my poor Pista from carelessness?"
The gardener hesitated a moment, then he said:
"Not from carelessness, poor woman.
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