Exhausted, he crosses his arms upon the table, and his head drops down upon them. Relaxation steals over his weary nerves, and his mind wanders in the strange visions of illness.
George—Easter eve—criminals—Jassy—a little safe rest-house in the Market square—a thriving business—health. He falls asleep.
Sura and the child are no longer in the house. Leiba walks to the door of his hotel and surveys the street along which they must come. Life is busy in that great street, along which the carriage wheels spin, accompanied by the rhythmic tread of horses' feet upon shining asphalt.
Suddenly the traffic is held up and from Copou—a suburb of Jassy—a crowd of foot people approach, all gesticulating and hollering. They seem to accompany some one: soldiers, watchmen, spectators. In all the windows and doors are crowds of greedy observers.
“Ah, ha,” thinks Leiba. “Now they have caught a robber!”
The crowd comes nearer. Sura slips out of the crowd and comes up to where Leiba is standing on the rest-house steps.
“What's up, Sura?”
