Melikh-Shalim, who were lined up along the wall facing each other, ceased speaking, took the pipes out of their mouths and drew nearer together.
Lord God!—snow and cold must come in their time, but this storm—this fearful storm—for what can it be good? No one dared interpret the voice of the great storm. For each one of them it was the mighty song of destiny, which the storm-wind—the eternal wanderer—had constructed out of the sorrows of the world, out of the sighs of the helpless, and the tears of suffering. Thus thought the frightened peasants in the sakhi.
Woi—Woi—the wind grew stronger. The sakhi creaked and trembled. Sometimes it sounded as if someone were walking heavily across the roof.
“Hell has broken loose!” declared one, in order to have something to say. “I would not wish my worst enemy to be upon the mountain tonight!”
“Upon the mountain!” answered another scornfully.
“As if you had courage enough to walk to the wine garden. And you talk of the mountain! Heaven and earth are fighting each other tonight.”
Again silence reigned in the sakhi. They were busy thinking.
The door creaked ominously. All looked in that direction. In the dim light, the form of a man, wrapped in a herdsman’s cape was visible. He looked like a heap of snow.
“Good evening,” said the newcomer, shaking the snow from his shoulders.
