"It is a pity. Perhaps he has a mother, a sister, or a wife. I wish I could be permitted to see him."
"What is he to you? What have we Jews in common with the Poles? Have you forgotten their conduct toward our people?"
"I do not forget that we are born on the same soil," said the old man. "And our immortal lawgiver orders us to raise the burden from the weary beast. Should we have less compassion for a man, even if he were a pagan?"
"I am under the surveillance of a thousand evil eyes. You can, however, buy my soldiers with brandy or money. For money these wretches would sell their own father and mother. And then you may do what you can for the unfortunate man."
"You will permit it? I will send my kinsman in my place. He will be safe, will he not?"
"I permit nothing. I will shut my eyes, and I wish to know nothing of it."
Jankiel left the colonel for a moment to tell Jacob, and found him dressed ready for any emergency. He had already arranged a plan with an old Jew named Herszko, nicknamed the Madré. He put on his old clothes, with two bottles of rum in his pockets, and they went out on the street. The hour was late, the soldiers snored, and the sentinel walked slowly on his beat. Before the house where the prisoner was shut up an under officer watched, seated on a bench. He cursed and swore between his teeth. Fortunately, he was a confirmed drunkard, by name Fédor Michailovitch Chelmenko. As soon as he saw the two Jews in the distance he immediately thought that this might bring him a rouble, or at least a glass of brandy.
"Good-evening, officer," said the Madré; he saw that this was only an underling, but gave him the full title, hoping thereby to tickle his vanity.
"Pass thy way, Jew!" cried Chelmenko.
"You must be weary, seated on this bench."