Ilya nodded in the direction of the village with a look of hate.
"We'll get on presently," replied his uncle.
And again all was quiet round about. Ilya squatted with his knees up to his chin, supported himself against the front of the cart and began to gaze in the same direction as his uncle. The village was not visible in the dense black shadow of the forest, but it seemed to him that he saw clearly every house and all its people, and the old white willow by the well in the middle of the street. Against the willow's roots lay his father bound with a rope, his shirt torn to rags, his hands tied behind his back, his naked breast thrust forward, and his head as though it had grown to the willow stem. He lay motionless as a dead man, and looked with terrible eyes at the peasants, crowding before the house of the Starost, There were very many, all angry, they shouted, cursed him——. The memory troubled the boy, and a lump came in his throat. He felt he must soon cry for sorrow and the coldness of the night, but he did not wish to disturb his uncle, and mastering himself he huddled his little body closer together.
Suddenly a low wail sounded again. First a deep sigh, then sobs, then loud, unspeakable lamentation.
"Oh—oh! oh—oh—oh!"
The boy shivered with terror and stared round him. But the sound quivered again through the air and grew in volume.
"Uncle! Is it you crying?" called Ilya.
Terenti neither spoke nor moved.
Then the boy sprang from the cart, ran to his uncle, fell in front of him, clasped his knees, and burst into tears. He heard his uncle's voice broken by sobs.
"They've driven us out—driven us out. Oh! God! Where shall we go? Where? oh!"