Guns were thundering from the hills, the village was burning, the mill was burning…a black mass of people was surrounding him. More and more wounded came in from the fields, covered with grey mud. The flying sparks from the mill fell at his feet.
A detachment of soldiers was returning.
'Get up, old man,' cried his guard; 'we're off!' Yakób jumped to his feet, hitched up his trousers, and went off perplexed, under cover of four bayonets that seemed to carry a piece of sky between them like a starred canopy.
His fear grew as he approached the village. He did not see the familiar cottages and hedges; he felt as though he were moving onwards without a goal. Moving onwards and yet not getting any farther. Moving onwards and yet hoping not to get to the end of the journey.
He sucked his pipe and paid no attention to anything; but the village was on his conscience.
The fear which filled his heart was nob like that which he had felt when the Cossacks arrived, but a senseless fear, depriving him of sight and hearing…as though there were no place for him in the world.
'Are we going too fast?' asked the guard hearing Yakób's heavy breathing.
'All right, all right,' he answered cheerfully. The friendly words had taken his fear away.
'Take it easy,' said the soldier. 'We will go more slowly. Here's a dry cigarette, smoke.'
Without turning round, he offered Yakob a cigarette, which he put behind his ear.