"Maybe God will grant you escape somehow,"
she said with sunken voice.
"No," said the son kindly, but decidedly. "I cannot lie to you.
We will not escape." He smiled. "Now go to bed. You are tired.
Good night."
Left alone, she walked up to the window, and stood there looking
into the street. Outside it was cold and cheerless. The wind
howled, blowing the snow from the roofs of the little sleeping
houses. Striking against the walls and whispering something,
quickly it fell upon the ground and drifted the white clouds of
dry snowflakes across the street.
"O Christ in heaven, have mercy upon us!" prayed the mother.
The tears began to gather in her eyes, as fear returned persistently
to her heart, and like a moth in the night she seemed to see fluttering
the woe of which her son spoke with such composure and assurance.
Before her eyes as she gazed a smooth plain of snow spread out in
the distance. The wind, carrying white, shaggy masses, raced over
the plain, piping cold, shrill whistles. Across the snowy expanse
moved a girl's figure, dark and solitary, rocking to and fro. The
wind fluttered her dress, clogged her footsteps, and drove pricking
snowflakes into her face.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67