| The mill
was burning out.
Cinders were flying across from the granaries; the smoke bit into the
eyes
of the people who were standing about looking upwards, with their arms
crossed.
Everything
showed up brilliantly
in the glare; the water was dripping from rung to rung of the silent
wheel,
and mixed its sound with that of the fire.
The
adjoining buildings were
fenced round with a small running fire; smoke whirled round the
tumbling
roof like a shock of hair shot through with flames. The faces of the
bystanders
assumed a metallic glow.
The wails
of the miller and
his family could be heard through the noise of battle, of water, and of
fire.
It was as
if the crumbling
walls, the melting joints, the smoke, the cries were dripping down the
wheel, transformed into blood, and were carried down by the black waves
and swallowed up in the infinite abyss
of the night.
'They beat
me....' Yakob
justified himself to himself, when the tears rose to his eyes again. No
tears could wash away the conviction that it was he who had shown them
the way by which they had come.
The first
detachment was
waiting for the arrival of the second. It arrived, bringing in
prisoners,
Cossacks. A large number of them were being marched along; they did not
walk in order but irregularly, like tired peasants. They were laughing,
smoking cigarettes, and pushing against each other. Among them were
those
who had come to his cottage; he recognized the captain and others.
When they
saw Yakob they
waved their hands cordially and called out to him, 'Old man, old man!'
Yakob did
not reply; he shrunk
into himself. Shame filled his soul. He looked at them vacantly. His
forehead
was wrinkled as with a great effort to remember something, but he could
think of nothing but a huge millwheel turning under red, smooth waves.
Suddenly he remembered: it was the young Cossack who had given him his
brother's clothes.
'The other
one,' he shouted,
pointing to his muffler, 'where did you leave him?'
Soldiers
came between them
and pushed the crowd away.
There was a
terrific crash
in the mill; a thick red cloud rushed upwards, dotted with sparks.
Under
this cloud an ever-increasing mass of people was flocking towards the
spot
where Yakob was; they were murmuring, pulling the soldiers by their
cloaks.
Women, children, and old men pressed in a circle round him,
gesticulating,
shouting: 'It was he...he...he!'
Words were
lost in the chaos
of sounds, faces became merely a dense mass, above which fists were
flung
upwards like stones.
Yakob
tripped about among
the soldiers like a fawn in a cage, raised and lowered his head, and
clutched
his rags; he could not shut his quivering mouth, and from his breast
came
a cry like the sob of a child.
The crowd
turned upon him
with fists and nails; he hid his face in his rags, stopped his ears
with
his fingers, and shook his head.
The
prisoners had been dispatched,
and it was Yakob's turn to be taken before the officer in command of
the
battalion.
'Say that
I...that I...'
Yakob entreated his guard.
'What are
you in such a hurry
for?'
'Say that
I...'
The
soldiers were sitting
round a camp-fire, piling up the faggots. Soup was boiling in a
cauldron.
'Say that
I...' he begged
again, standing in the thick smoke.
At last he
was taken into
the school-house.
The officer
in command stood
in the middle of the room with a cigarette between his fingers.
'I...I...'
groaned Yakob,
already in the door. His dishevelled hair made him look like a
sea-urchin;
his face was quite disfigured with black marks of violence; behind his
bleeding left ear still stuck the cigarette. His swollen upper lip was
drawn sideways and gave him the expression of a ghastly smile. His eyes
looked out helpless,
dispirited,
from his swollen
lids.
|
