"The train is slowing up now, Kaya, come! Follow me close, and look neither to the right nor the left."
The two sprang from the train, and hurrying into the customs-room of the station were soon lost in the crowd. The minutes dragged slowly.
"Do you see that paling, Kaya? The other side of it is Germany—is freedom."
"I know, Velasco—I know!"
"Your heart is beating and throbbing, Kaya; your jacket tosses like a ship in a storm. Fold your arms over its fluttering, little one, that the guards may not see. They are coming now."
"Pray—Velasco!"
"To whom should I pray? The Tsar perhaps—or the Icon over yonder?" The gypsey laughed, holding out the passports. He was swaggering with his hands in his pockets, and when the official spoke to him, he shrugged his shoulders and answered in dialect.
"Bohemian!" he said, "Yes—gypsies! We earn our living on the road, my comrade and I—eh, Bradjaga?" With that, he clapped Kaya on the shoulder, showing his white teeth and laughing: "No baggage, Bárin, no—no, only this—and that!"
He pointed to the knapsack swung from his shoulder and the violin in his hand.
"What does this ragamuffin do?" demanded the official, looking narrowly at Kaya, "He is fair for a gypsey."