"I can go no further," he sobbed. "I am tired and sick."
"But you must come," pleaded his brother. "See what a storm is gathering. If we remain here we shall be drenched. We must find shelter."
"Go alone, brother," said the little one. "I'll stay here."
There was a sudden flash of lightning, which illumined Jacob's bandaged face, pale with fear and fatigue. The trembling boys looked at each other and Jacob began to cry.
"Come, Jacob," murmured Mendel, helping his brother to rise. "We shall die if we stay here. May God protect us."
Again the waifs plodded on, Mendel supporting his brother and endeavoring to protect him from the cruel wind. Darker grew the sky. Large drops of rain began to fall and with a startling peal of thunder the tempest broke in its fury. The pitiless wind sweeping through the land from the bleak northern steppes brought cold and desolation in its train. The poor children were drenched to the skin. They clung to each other and painfully made their way across the miry fields to the highway, the ancient road of the Tartar Khans.
At last Jacob succumbed to the awful strain and sank to the ground.
"Let me die," moaned the child.
"Oh, dear brother; you must live! We will find our way back to Togarog to papa and mamma. How they would grieve if I came back alone."
The child shook his head mutely to this appeal, but rise he could not. Mendel was in despair.