'Let's go on,' said all the boys when the lights became visible. 'Let us take another turn!'
We went on in silence, sinking here and there in the rotten snow, not hardened by much traffic. A white darkness seemed to sway before our eyes; the clouds hung low, as though something had heaped them upon us. There was no end to that whiteness, amid which we alone crunched along the snow. The wind sounded through the bare tops of the aspens, but where we were, behind the woods, it was calm.
I finished my story by telling how a 'brave,' surrounded by his enemies, sang his death-song and threw himself on his dagger. All were silent.
'Why did he sing a song when he was surrounded?' asked Syómka.
'Weren't you told?—He was preparing for death!' replied Fédka, aggrieved.
'I think he sang a prayer,' added Prónka.
All agreed. Fédka suddenly stopped.
'How was it, you told us, your Aunt had her throat cut?' asked he. (He had not yet had enough horrors.) 'Tell us! Tell us!'
I again told them that terrible story of the murder of the Countess Tolstoy,[47] and they stood silently about me, watching my face.