| 'That is a
lie, a lie, a
lie!' he cried, beating his chest; his hair stood on end. The soldiers
sat down in a row on the stones. They were young, cold, tired.
'But now
they'll play the
deuce with you.'
'Why?' said
Yakob softly,
glancing sideways at them.
'You're an
old ass,' remarked
one of them.
'But,' he
began again, 'I
was sitting, looking at the snow....'
He had a
great longing to
talk to them, they looked as if they would understand, although they
were
so young.
'I was
sitting...give me
some fire...do you come from these parts yourselves?' They did not
answer.
He thought
of his cottage,
the bread and sausage, the black horse at the cross-roads.
'They beat
me,' he sobbed,
covering his face with his rags.
The
soldiers shrugged their
shoulders: 'Why did you let them?'
'O...O...O!'
cried the old
man. But tears would no longer wash away a conviction which was taking
possession of him, searing his soul as the flames seared the pines.
'Why
did you let them? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?'
No, he was
not ashamed of
himself for that. But that he had shown them the way...the way they had
come by...what did it all mean? All his tears would not wash away this
conviction: that he had shown them the
way...the way
they had come
by.
Guns were
thundering from
the hills, the village was burning, the mill was burning...a black mass
of people was surrounding him. More and more wounded came in from the
fields,
covered with grey mud. The flying
sparks from
the mill fell
at his feet.
A
detachment of soldiers
was returning.
'Get up,
old man,' cried
his guard; 'we're off!' Yakób jumped to his feet, hitched up his
trousers, and went off perplexed, under cover of four bayonets that
seemed
to carry a piece of sky between them like a starred canopy.
His fear
grew as he approached
the village. He did not see the familiar cottages and hedges; he felt
as
though he were moving onwards without a goal. Moving onwards and yet
not
getting any farther. Moving onwards
and yet hoping
not to get
to the end of the journey.
He sucked
his pipe and paid
no attention to anything; but the village was on his conscience.
The fear
which filled his
heart was nob like that which he had felt when the Cossacks arrived,
but
a senseless fear, depriving him of sight and hearing...as though there
were no place for him in the world.
'Are we
going too fast?'
asked the guard hearing Yakób's heavy breathing.
'All right,
all right,' he
answered cheerfully. The friendly words had taken his fear away.
'Take it
easy,' said the
soldier. 'We will go more slowly. Here's a dry cigarette, smoke.'
Without
turning round, he
offered Yakob a cigarette, which he put behind his ear.
They
entered the village.
It smelt of burning, like a gipsy camp. The road seemed to waver in the
flickering of the flames, the wind howled in the timber.
Yakob
looked at the sky.
Darkness and stars melted into one.
He would
not look at the
village. He knew there were only women and children in the cottages,
the
men had all gone. This thought was a relief to him, he hardly knew why.
Meanwhile
the detachment
of soldiers, instead of going to the manor-house, had turned down a
narrow
road which led to the mill. They stopped and formed fours. Every stone
here was familiar to Yakob, and yet, standing in the snow up to his
knees,
he was puzzled as to where he was. If he could only sleep off this
nightmare...he
did not recognize the road...the night was far advanced, and the
village
not asleep as usual...if they would only let him go home!
He would
return to-morrow.
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