The effect of the drink was passing off. He rubbed his eyes, drew his rags across his chest. 'What was he doing, leading these people about on this night?'
He suddenly stopped where the field-road crossed theirs; the soldiers in front and behind threw themselves down. It was as if the ground had swallowed them.
A black horse was standing in the middle of the road, with extended nostrils. Its black mane, covered with hoar-frost, was tossed about its head; the saddle-bags, which were fur-lined, swung in the breeze; large dark drops were falling from its leg to the ground.
'Damn it!' cursed the captain.
The horse looked meekly at them, and stretched its head forward submissively. Yakób was sorry for the creature; perhaps one could do something for it. He stood still beside it, and again pointed out the road.
'I have done enough, I shan't go any further!' He scratched his head and smiled, thinking that this was a good opportunity for escape.
'Come on,' hissed the captain so venomously in his ear that he marched forward without delay; they followed.
A dull fear mixed with resentment gripped him with terrible force. He now ran at the head like a sheep worried by watch-dogs.
They stopped in front of the cottage, silent, breathless, expectant.
Yakob looked at his companions with boundless astonishment. Their faces under their fur-caps had a tense, cruel look, their brows were wrinkled, their eyes glittered.