“Down with him!” the others echoed, thirstily.
Orlovsky was pulled off and the group of belated rioters, re-enforced by some others, rushed at the cask savagely.
Pavel was in another section of the same street. An old little Jewess whom he saw run out of a gate struck him as the most pathetic figure he had seen that day. Her fright gave her pinched little face something like a pout, an air of childlike resentment, as it were. A Gentile boy snatched off her wig and held it up, jeering to some bystanders, whereupon she covered her gray head with her bony hands, her faith forbidding her to expose her hair, and ran on with the same childlike pout. A sob of pity caught Pavel in the throat. He was about to offer to take her to a place of safety, when an elderly rowdy, apparently provoked by her outlandish anxiety about her bare hair, struck her a vicious blow on the head, accompanying it with profanity.
“Cur!” Pavel shrieked, springing up to him and landing a smart whack in his face.
The rioter looked round with surprise, muttered something and joined the looters.
“Come with me, don’t be afraid of the scoundrels,” Pavel said, taking her by the hand. His heart was melting with pity for all the Jews at this moment. He felt a rush of yearning tenderness for Clara, and he wished she could see him taking care of this woman of her race.
When he saw two marauders hand out gold and silver watches—the spoils of a raid—to the patrol, his blood was up again.
“Is that what you are here for, thieves, vermin that you are?” he shouted.
“Who is that fellow? Run him in!” somebody said.