It was an insane asylum.

For twenty years now, the asylum had stood on its hill, a source of
superstitious terror to the villagers, but at the same time a source
of added income. It meant money for them, for it afforded a
constant and ever-open market for their farm products and the output
of their home industry. But every now and then a scream or a harsh
laugh would ring out from behind those barred windows, and those in
the village who could hear, would shiver and cross themselves.
Shepherd Janci had little fear of the big house. His little hut
cowered close by the high iron gates, and he had a personal
acquaintance with most of the patients, with all of the attendants,
and most of all, with the kind elderly physician who was the head
of the establishment. Janci knew them all, and had a kind word
equally for all. But otherwise he was a silent man, living much
within himself.

When the shepherd reached his little home, his wife came to meet
him with a call to breakfast. As they sat down at the table a
shadow moved past the little window. Janci looked up. "Who was
that?" asked Margit, looking up from her folded hands. She had
just finished her murmured prayer.

"Pastor's Liska," replied Janci indifferently, beginning his meal.
(Liska was the local abbreviation for Elizabeth.)'

"In such a hurry?" thought the shepherd's wife. Her curiosity would
not let her rest. "I hope His Reverence isn't ill again," she
remarked after a while. Janci did not hear her, for he was very
busy picking a fly out of his milk cup.