How else could she explain the peculiarities of the past few days?
He closed the rest-house and lighted the candles just as Shabbes was drawing to a close. Three times guests knocked on the doors and friendly voices asked admittance. At every knock he jumped up and kept his wife from opening the door, while he whispered, his eyes rolling with terror: “Don’t move—I won’t let a Christian in tonight.”
Then he went into the passageway and began to sharpen the ax on the threshold. He trembled so he could with difficulty keep to his feet. He answered his wife harshly and at length sent her to bed, with command to put out the light. At first she refused but he repeated the command so strangely that she did not dare disobey, but she made up her mind that later she would find out the cause.
Sura had put out the lamp and now she was sleeping beside Strul.
Sura was right; Leiba is seriously ill.
It is night now—black night. Leiba sits beside the step that leads to the passageway and listens—What is he listening to?
Far, far in the distance there is an indistinguishable sound like horses’ feet—a dull mysterious murmur as of conversation. When night makes the eye useless then the ear takes upon itself increased distinguishing power.
There’s no mistake about it now. Upon the road that leads from the highway here is heard the beat of horses’ hoofs. Zibal gets up and tiptoes to the great door of the passageway. It is well protected by a bar shoved into the masonry on both sides. At the first step sand creaks under his shoes. He takes off his shoes and walks in his stockings. He reaches the door just at the moment the horsemen go by. They are talking. He catches the following words:
“He got up early.”
“But what if he had gone away?”