His entire figure inspired a
futile pity that recognized its own powerlessness, and gave way
to a sullen feeling of discomfort.
The wood pile blazed up; everything round about trembled and shook;
the scorched shadows flung themselves into the woods in fright. The
round face of Ignaty with its inflated cheeks shone over the fire.
The flames died down, and the air began to smell of smoke. Again
the trees seemed to draw close and unite with the mist on the glade,
listening in strained attention to the hoarse words of the sick man.
"But as a witness of the crime, I can still bring good to the people.
Look at me! I'm twenty-eight years old; but I'm dying. About ten
years ago I could lift five hundred pounds on my shoulders without an
effort. With such strength I thought I could go on for seventy years
without dropping into the grave, and I've lived for only ten years,
and can't go on any more. The masters have robbed me; they've torn
forty years of my life from me; they've stolen forty years from me."
"There, that's his song," said Rybin dully.
The fire blazed up again, but now it was stronger and more vivid.
Again the shadows leaped into the woods, and again darted back to
the fire, quivering about it in a mute, astonished dance.
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