Perhaps he was frightened of the house-porter’s besom, or perhaps he had really recalled something; at any rate he ran off so hard that Saksaoolov almost lost sight of him. But soon the boy walked more quietly. He turned street corners and ran from one side to the other searching for, but not finding, his home. Saksaoolov followed him in silence. He was not an adept at talking to children.
At last the boy grew tired. He stopped before a lamp-post and leant against it. Tears gleamed in his eyes.
“My dear boy,” said Saksaoolov, “haven’t you found it yet?”
The lad looked at him with his sad, soft eyes, and Saksaoolov suddenly understood what had impelled him to follow the boy with such resolution. There was something in the face and glance of the little wanderer that gave him an unusual likeness to Tamar.
“My dear boy, what’s your name?” asked Saksaoolov in a tender and agitated voice.
“Lesha,” said the boy.
“Tell me, dear Lesha, do you live with your mother?”
“Yes, with mamma. Only now it’s a black mamma—and before it was a white mamma.”
Saksaoolov thought that by black mamma he meant a nun.
“How did you get lost?” he asked.