"If people
are killed by the thousands day after day working so that their
masters may throw money away for sport, what else do you want?"
"It's endlessly wearying to listen to him," said Ignaty in a low
voice. "When you hear this sort of thing once, you never forget it,
and he keeps harping on it all the time."
"But everything is crowded into this one thing. It's his entire
life, remember," remarked Rybin sullenly.
The sick man turned, opened his eyes, and lay down on the ground.
Yakob rose noiselessly, walked into the cabin, brought out two
short overcoats, and wrapped them about his cousin. Then he sat
down beside Sofya.
The merry, ruddy face of the fire smiled irritatingly as it
illumined the dark figures about it; and the voices blended
mournfully with the soft rustle and crackle of the flames.
Sofya began to tell about the universal struggle of the people for the
right to life, about the conflicts of the German peasants in the olden
times, about the misfortunes of the Irish, about the great exploits
of the workingmen of France in their frequent battling for freedom.
In the forest clothed in the velvet of night, in the little glade
bounded by the dumb trees, before the sportive face of the fire, the
events that shook the world rose to life again; one nation of the
earth after the other passed in review, drained of its blood,
exhausted by combats; the names of the great soldiers for freedom
and truth were recalled.
Pages:
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375