He ate as though from bravado, but he ate well. They started drinking again. Yakob looked at them with eagerness, his arms folded over his stomach, his head bent forward; the hairy hand of the captain put the bottle to his mouth.
Now he could laugh his own natural laugh again, and not only from bravado, for he felt quite happy. His frozen body was getting warmed through.
He felt as if a great danger had irrevocably passed.
Gradually he became garrulous, although they hardly understood what he was talking about: 'Yes, the sausage was good… to be sure!' He nodded his head and clicked his tongue; he also approved of the huge chunks of bread, and whenever the bottle was passed round, he put his head on one side and folded his hands, as if he were listening to a sermon. From his neighbour's encircling black sleeve the old face peeped out with equanimity, looking like a withering poppy.
'Daddy,' the loquacious Cossack would say from time to time, and point in the direction of the mountains; tears were standing in his eyes.
Yakób put his swollen hand on his, and waited for him to say more.
The soldier held his hand, pointed in the direction of the mountains again, and sniffled.
'He respects old age… they are human, there's no denying it,' thought
Yakób, and got up to put more wood on the fire.
They seized hold of him, they would not allow him to do it. A young soldier jumped up: 'Sit down, you are old.'
Yakób held out his empty pipe, and the captain himself filled it.