In the evening they rode out to Szwaby on the sleigh, Kapturak and Jadlowker. Jadlowker wrapped himself in a sheepskin coat with a high collar so that no one would recognize him.

It was already pitch-dark when they arrived and drove in through the wide, open gate of the border tavern. Jadlowker knocked on the back gate, the high-arched gate, painted red, which gave onto the road. Kapturak went straight into the inn.

There were only a few guests that day, being a Tuesday. It took a long time before Onufrij heard the knocking and went out to open the back gate.

‘It’s me,’ said Jadlowker, ‘let me in quickly. Is the gendarme there?’

‘Come in, sir,’ said Onufrij, who had no idea that Leibusch Jadlowker belonged to the dead. ‘Have you escaped from prison?’

‘Yes, get a move on!’ said Jadlowker, and then, as they neared the lamp, ‘Will I be recognized?’

‘Only by your voice, sir!’ said Onufrij.

‘Where’s Euphemia?’ asked Jadlowker.

‘Still in the shop!’ whispered Onufrij. ‘And Sameschkin’s standing outside the shop with his chestnuts.’

‘Good,’ said Jadlowker. ‘Go inside!’

The dog, Pavel by name, welcomed Jadlowker, joyfully sniffing up at him with raised muzzle and wagging tail. ‘Don’t bark! Don’t yell!’ Jadlowker whispered to him. The dog jumped up at him, quietly and silently, and licked his hands.

Jadlowker first looked in through the windows which gave on to the yard. The inn was almost empty. He had not forgotten, on the way, to climb out of the sleigh when he and Kapturak were driving by the frozen Struminka, and to dig out of the snow one of the large angular stones which were to be found there in abundance. This stone he now tied in his handkerchief.

He stepped back from the window and lay in wait by the gate. He was filled with a monstrous, irresistible lust to kill. He no longer thought of the real purpose of the murder but only of the murder itself. He gave no thought at all to his own safety but only to the killing. A great wave of voluptuousness, of hate and lust to kill, went through his heart. Everything was without pity in this night and in this world. The stars that stood in the sky that night were strange, cold and made of silver, a frosty, almost spiteful silver. From time to time Jadlowker looked up. That day he hated the sky and the stars. And in prison he had yearned for them so!