"You had better go away from here. Your presence will help very little and may do some harm."
I understood that they wanted to get rid of me, and it hurt me. But at this time I felt that I was afraid of the gendarmes. I did not see them, yet I feared them! I knew that it was not right to leave people in their need, but I succumbed to their will. They sent me away.
I went up the mountain to the wood through underbrush, between tree stumps. I stumbled as if I was held by my heels. Behind me a young boy hurried along, Ivan Vikof, with a great pack on his back. He was sent to hide books in the wood.
We ran forward to the edge of the wood. He found a hiding place and buried his burden. He was calm, but not I.
"Will they come here?" I asked him.
"Who knows?" he answered. "Perhaps they will come here. You must hurry."
He was an awkward boy, and he looked as if he were hacked out from an oak-tree with an ax. His head was large, one shoulder was higher than the other, his long arms were out of proportion, and his voice was sad.
"Are you afraid?" I asked him.
"Of what?"
"That they will come and take you."