As soon as I stopped talking, Fedka began to urge me to tell some more, and in such a beseeching and excited voice that it was impossible not to yield to his request.
"Now keep out from under my feet, you," said he, sternly, to Pronka, who was trying to run ahead. He was carried even to cruelty—it was so unusual and so pleasant to hold my finger, and no one should presume to dare to disturb his content!
"Now, more, more!" he said; "here is a good place!"
We had passed through the woods, and had entered the village at the other end.
"Let us go back," said they all as soon as the lights began to appear. "Let us go back once more!"
We walked without speaking, occasionally slumping through the soft, ill-trodden path; the white darkness was so dense as to seem to shake before the eyes; the clouds hung low as if something dragged them down upon us; there was no end to that peculiar whiteness in which we alone crunched over the snow; the wind soughed in the bare tops of the poplars, and silence reigned in the woods. I finished telling how the Abrek, when he had been surrounded, sang his songs, and then threw himself on his dagger.
All were silent.
"Why did he sing his song when he was surrounded?" asked Semka.
"Have n't you just been told?" exclaimed Fedka, scornfully. "So as to get courage to die!"
"I should think that he would sing a prayer, then," added Pronka.
The rest agreed with him.
Fedka suddenly stopped.
"But how did you say that your aunt was killed?" he asked,—he still felt a little afraid. "Tell us! tell us!"
And I told them again that terrible story of the murder of the Countess Tolstoï; and they silently stood around me looking into my face.
"And so the galliard was captured," exclaimed Fedka.
