“I will go with him. And you, Seryozha, take Vasily. Go ahead.”
“Very well.”
“You and I go together, Musechka, shall we not?” asked Tanya Kovalchuk. “Come, let us kiss each other good-by.”
They kissed one another quickly. Tsiganok kissed firmly, so that they felt his teeth; Yanson softly, drowsily, with his mouth half open—and it seemed that he did not understand what he was doing.
When Sergey Golovin and Kashirin had gone a few steps, Kashirin suddenly stopped and said loudly and distinctly:
“Good-by, comrades.”
“Good-by, comrade,” they shouted in answer.
They went off. It grew quiet. The lanterns beyond the trees became motionless. They awaited an outcry, a voice, some kind of noise—but it was just as quiet there as it was among them—and the yellow lanterns were motionless.
“Oh, my God!” some one cried hoarsely and wildly. They looked about. It was Tsiganok, writhing in agony at the thought of death. “They are hanging!”
They turned away from him, and again it became quiet. Tsiganok was writhing, catching at the air with his hands.