"Where's my valise?" Her loud, stern question coming suddenly was a surprise to herself. The peasant shrugged his shoulders and thoughtfully gave the indefinite answer:
"It's safe." He lowered his voice and continued gloomily: "Just now, in front of the girl, I said on purpose that it was empty. No, it's not empty. It's very heavily loaded."
"Well, what of it?"
The peasant rose, approached her, bent over her, and whispered: "Do you know that man?"
The mother started, but answered firmly:
"I do."
Her laconic reply, as it were, kindled a light within her which rendered everything outside clear. She sighed in relief. Shifting her position on the bench, she settled herself more firmly on it, while the peasant laughed broadly.
"I guessed it—when you made the sign—and he, too. I asked him, whispering in his ear, whether he knows the woman standing on the steps."
"And what did he say?"
"He? He says 'there are a great many of us.' Yes—'there are a great many of us,' he says."