When Vladimir did not return with the old peasant a half-hour later, the girl threw a shawl over her shoulders and ran out into the field. It was now completely dark. With difficulty she made out his figure, dim and uncertain in the distance.
She continued to run until she was a few feet away from him, and then she slowed down into a leisurely walk.
“Your plane all right?” she asked.
But there was no answer.
The girl’s hands felt for the man’s face.
“Why do you cry?” she demanded as her hands fell to her sides.
“Because I can never fly again.” The man’s answer was low and bitter.
“And why not?”
“You felt the answer with your hands. Can a man fly who bursts into tears like a baby?”
“You are afraid of something,” the girl said.