“These were killed with knives.”
“But Kuklinovski?”
“There are no wounds on Kuklinovski, but his side is roasted and his mustaches daubed with pitch. He must have perished of cold or suffocation, for he holds his own cap in his teeth to this moment.”
“Uncover him.”
The soldier raised a corner of the rug, and a terrible face was uncovered, swollen, with eyes bursting out. On the remnants of his pitched mustaches were icicles formed from his frozen breath and mixed with soot, making as it were tusks sticking out of his mouth. That face was so revolting that Miller, though accustomed to all kinds of ghastliness, shuddered and said,—
“Cover it quickly. Terrible, terrible!”
Silence reigned in the barn.
“Why have we come here?” asked the Prince of Hesse, spitting. “I shall not touch food for a whole day.”
All at once some kind of uncommon exasperation closely bordering on frenzy took possession of Miller. His face became blue, his eyes expanded, he began to gnash his teeth, a wild thirst for the blood of some one had seized him; then turning to Zbrojek, he screamed,—
“Where is that soldier who saw that Kuklinovski was in the barn? He must be a confederate!”