nity of a professor of black magic giving a conjuring performance, he lifted his arm and, lowering it slowly, carefully touched with two fingers that part of the blanket under which my legs would have been, if they had not been cut off.
"And do you understand this?" he asked mysteriously.
Then, in the same solemn and significant manner, he waved his hand towards the row of beds on which the wounded were lying, and repeated:
"And can you explain this?"
"The wounded?" said I. "The wounded?"
"The wounded," repeated he, like an echo. "The wounded. Legless and armless, with pierced sides, smashed-in chests and torn-out eyes. You understand it? I am very glad. So I suppose you will understand this also?"
With an agility, quite unexpected for his age, he flung himself down and stood on his hands, balancing his legs in the air. His white working clothes turned down, his face grew purple and, looking at me fixedly with a strange upturned gaze, he threw at me with difficulty a few broken words:
"And this . . . do you . . . also . . . understand?"
"Stop!" whispered I in terror, "or else I will cry out."
He turned over into a natural position, sat down again near my bed, and, taking breath, remarked instinctively:
"And nobody can understand it."
"Yesterday they were firing again."
"Yes, they were firing yesterday and the day before," said he, nodding his head affirmatively.
