Toli’s voice thundered. His voice alone was enough to make one tremble.
The brigands threw down their arms, and advanced. There were three of them. One was quite a young man, about thirty-five years of age, with a worn face, and very pale. Blood was flowing from one foot and clotting on to his white gaiters as it flowed. Toli went up to him and said:
“I have wounded you—have I wounded you?”
The brigand did not reply. Toli crossed his arms and shaking his head asked:
“Was it me you meant to rob? Was it me you meant to attack? Do you know who I am?”
They looked into each other’s eyes, they stared at each other—deep into each other’s eyes they gazed. Each one was thinking: “Where have I seen him before?” for they had surely known each other somewhere. Vague memories of their past life, of bygone years began to stir, and gradually, recollection dawned.
“Gardana,” said the brigand, “is it you?”
Mitu Tega was startled. He shivered as though iced water were being poured down his back. Who had uttered that name? Where was Gardana? He was thunder-struck by what followed: Toli and the robbers shook hands, embraced each other and conversed with each other.
“Gardana, Gardana, I thought you were dead—they told me you had died, Gardana!”
“No, brother,” said Toli. “It might have been better if I had died.”