"Because—I—was—so—frightened," stammered Schmule.
The young man lowered his riding-whip, and after a few moments' thought, burst into a loud laugh.
"You're afraid of the horse, are you?" he asked; "very well, then, go and stand there," pointing to the middle of the road. "Don't you hear me? There!" he repeated, angrily; and the boy obeyed with manifest terror. "Now, then," he continued, "don't move from there till I allow you—do you understand? It'll be the worse for you if you move," and snatching up his gun, he went on. "I swear, by all the saints, that I'll shoot you down like a mad dog if you move!"
After saying this he rode on, and then turned again, and galloped down the drive straight at the boy.
Schmule watched the horse approaching him with the fascination of terror—a mist came over his eyes—in another moment he jumped out of the way and—the horse, instead of hitting him, only knocked the basket of sweetmeats from his back, scattering its contents all over the dusty road. The boy also fell, but only from nervous fear.
"You did move, you scoundrel!" cried Baron Wladislaus, putting his gun to his shoulder. Suddenly he changed his mind, and restoring his fowling-piece to its place, rushed at the boy with his riding-whip. The latter, in order to avoid as much as possible the violent blows that were aimed at him, now with the end and now with the knob of the whip, threw himself at the young man's feet.
All at once Schmule uttered a heart-rending shriek, and fell senseless on the ground.
And then Baron Wladislaus rode away.
An hour later a kind-hearted peasant took the unconscious boy in his hay-cart to the little Jewish town, and gave him to his mother. It is unnecessary to say what the poor woman felt when she saw her boy's disfigured countenance and senseless state—such things are better not described.
The doctor came, restored Schmule to consciousness, and washed and bound up his wounds. He said that the boy would soon be quite well again, but that the sight of his right eye was gone for ever.