'Why?' said Yakob softly, glancing sideways at them.
'You're an old ass,' remarked one of them.
'But,' he began again, 'I was sitting, looking at the snow….'
He had a great longing to talk to them, they looked as if they would understand, although they were so young.
'I was sitting…give me some fire…do you come from these parts yourselves?' They did not answer.
He thought of his cottage, the bread and sausage, the black horse at the cross-roads.
'They beat me,' he sobbed, covering his face with his rags.
The soldiers shrugged their shoulders: 'Why did you let them?'
'O…O…O!' cried the old man. But tears would no longer wash away a conviction which was taking possession of him, searing his soul as the flames seared the pines. 'Why did you let them? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?'
No, he was not ashamed of himself for that. But that he had shown them the way…the way they had come by…what did it all mean? All his tears would not wash away this conviction: that he had shown them the way…the way they had come by.