"And then what happened?"
"Morejne, she took the spindle into her hands and stood before her zeide. I saw it from the bush. She was so white, and the spindle was white, and the people were black, and the goat kept on running amongst them and bleating."
"And then—and then?"
"Then, Morejne, I did not look any longer, but cowered down in fear, because there was such a noise in the hut—such moans. Then the people went away, and carried her, and carried her grandfather, and the goat ran up the hill bleating, and I do not know where it has gone."
Meir straightened himself, and looked up to the sky with stony eyes.
He knew everything now.
"Where did they carry them?" he asked in a dull whisper.
"There."
The outstretched arm of the child pointed in the direction where, in the gray mist, the meadow was dimly visible—and the pond. Beyond the pond were marshes and bogs, where two lifeless bodies would easily sink. There, beyond the meadows, where in spring she had gathered yellow lilies among the rushes, and unconsciously betrayed her fresh and innocent love—there, hidden from all human eyes, she was lying at the feet of her grandfather, wrapped in the wealth of her black hair.
A threefold cry of Jehovah rang out in the still morning air, and only Lejbele remained before the door, holding in his raised hand the scroll of paper.
Meir had gone into the hut.