Page:Poet Lore, volume 26, 1915.djvu/350

 Bětuška.—I! Bětuška Kyral.

Výrava.—Is it you, child?

Bětuška.—But where are you? In the village everyone is waiting for you

Výrava.—No one needs to wait for me any longer. I finished everything before I began and let no one again speak the name, Výrava.

Bětuška.—Jeroným did not come—did he? And that is why such grief has fallen upon you. I told you, uncle, that it would be so—it was vain for you to hope.

Výrava.—He did not come. And you knew, he would not come?

Bětuška.—I knew it.

Výrava.—How did you know it?

Bětuška.—It was just a notion,—you made a gentleman of him—how then was he to separate from them?

Výrava.—I? I?—Silence, don’t speak a word

Bětuška.—You. You wished to have him rise high above us—even above yourself.

Výrava.—He rose—he soared—so high he soared that I had to shoot at him lest he be lost in the clouds.

Bětuška.—Holy Virgin Mary! Uncle, you shot at Jeroným?

Výrava.—Yes.

Bětuška.—But missed!

Výrava.—I did not miss. The glede fell!

Bětuška.—In God’s name! You—Jeroným

Výrava.—I shot him,—as I would a bird of prey—a wild beast.

Bětuška (Bursts into bitter, heart-breaking weeping).—O Jeroným! Jeroným! you are dead, murdered, my Jeroným!

Výrava.—Why do you cry for him? Let no one weep a single tear for him!

Bětuška (Lamenting).—You yourself planted—you yourself sowed—and now you have reaped—and out of your wrath over the harvest you have spilled your own blood, in the striking down of your son. May God be merciful to you and save you from a terrible punishment. (Goes away sobbing.)

Výrava (To himself).—I myself planted, I myself sowed, I