That was my answer. The crowd began to hoot at the soldiers. A fight developed in which four soldiers and fifteen peasants fell. The crowd fled and we held the graveyard.
Suddenly upon a hilltop a woman appeared. She implored the crowd to turn back, not to fear nor to run away.
“Cowards! At a shot you run like rabbits. If there is a man here let him come to me! What do you think will become of you if you desert the graves of your fathers? Here! here! Now if you are such heroes fire at my breast!”
I recognized the voice of Naja, as she threw open the embroidered shirt, and uncovered a breast as white as the snow. It took me a few seconds to comprehend the sad situation. Blood pounded in my ears. My mind was dulled. A command of the captain aroused me. I saw him lying on the ground bleeding. Then I do not know exactly what happened, whether or not I gave an order—I only remember this picture—Naja, her white breast spotted with blood. Then I saw her fall.
What happened afterward I did not care. I ran to her. She knew me. She could not speak, but I threw myself down upon the grass beside her. I covered the wound with a cloth, then I bore her to the village, out of the noise. I had scarcely placed her on her bed when she died.
When I tore myself free a moment from the grief that overpowered me and got up, her wide, dead eyes were looking straight at me.
With her all my joy died, too. Could a man do worse than I did? And why was I her murderer? For the pleasure of them who are not well disposed toward the peasants. Remember: “The voice of the people is the voice of God!”
Pero had finished. We had reached his dwelling in the meantime. His thin features were white; upon them I read the greatness of his sorrow.
When two years later I read that he had been killed in the battle of Zajcar, I thanked God. But whenever I think of Naja, the peasant girl, hope brightens my heart. A nation that has daughters like her—such a nation need have no fear of the future.