"My boy Ferenz, who went to fetch him about seven o'clock. One of
my cows was sick."

Ferenz was sent for and told his story. The men listened with
great interest, and the smith, a broad-shouldered elderly man,
was particularly eager to hear, as he had always believed in the
shepherd's power of second sight. The tailor, who was more
modern-minded, laughed and made his jokes at this. But the smith
laid one mighty hand on the other's shoulder, almost crushing the
tailor's slight form under its weight, and said gravely: "Friend, do
you be silent in this matter. You've come from other parts and you
do not know of things that have happened here in days gone by. Janci
can do more than take care of his sheep. One day, when my little
girl was playing in the street, he said to me, 'Have a care of
Maruschka, smith!' and three days later the child was dead. The
evening before Red Betty was murdered he saw her in a vision lying
in a coffin in front of her door. He told it to the sexton, whom
he met in the fields; and next morning they found Betty dead. And
there are many more things that I could tell you, but what's the
use; when a man won't believe it's only lost talk to try to make
him. But one thing you should know: when Janci stares ahead of
him without seeing what's in front of him, then the whole village
begins to wonder what's going to happen, for Janci knows far more
than all the rest of us put together."

The smith's grave, deep voice filled the room and the others
listened in a silence that gave assent to his words. He had
scarcely finished speaking, however, when there was a noise of
galloping hoofs and rapidly rolling wagon wheels. A tall brake
drawn by four handsome horses dashed past in a whirlwind.