their horses' shoes resounded loudly; often the beasts slipped on the wet snow.
When Werner bent to get into the vehicle, a gendarme said to him, in a vague way:
"There is another in there who goes with you!"
Werner was astonished.
"Who goes where? Ah! Yes! Another one! Who is it?"
The soldier said nothing. In a dark corner something small and motionless, but alive, lay rolled up; an open eye shone under an oblique ray of the lantern. As he sat down, Werner brushed against a knee with his foot.
"Pardon me, comrade!"
There was no answer. Not until the vehicle had started did the man ask hesitatingly, in bad Russian:
"Who are you?"
"My name is Werner, sentenced to be hanged for an attempt upon the life of XX. And you?"
"I am Yanson. . . . I must not be hanged. . . ."
In two hours they would be face to face with the great mystery as yet unsolved; in two hours they would leave life for death; thither both were going; and yet they became acquainted. Life and death were marching simultaneously on two different planes, and to the very end, even in the most laughable and most stupid details, life remained life.
"What did you do, Yanson?"
"I stuck a knife into my boss. I stole money."
From the sound of his voice it seemed as if Yanson were
