“It was true; there lay the bird upon its back among the dry leaves at the bottom of the cage.
“For a time we stood in silence, regarding it through the bars. I knew that Gavrilo and Mara were filled with emotion, and for my own part I was surprised to discover how much the death of the bird seemed to mean to me. When, a day or two before, they had spoken of symbolism in connection with the kos, I knew what they meant, but did not feel it: yet now I felt it strongly, as though I myself were a Serb, with a Serb’s vision and superstition. It was not a dead bird that I saw, but a climax in a parable—a story of scriptural flavor, fraught with uncanny meaning.
“Gavrilo was the first to speak.
“‘Poor kos!’ he said in a low, tragic tone. ‘It is free at last. It was written that it should not be captive when to-morrow dawns.’
“‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mara.
“‘I told you it was destined to die unless you let it go,’ he answered gently.
“‘And as I would not let it go,’ she retorted, ‘you desired that it should die, in accordance with your prophecy! Yes, that is it! You made it die! You placed the leaves of henbane in its cage and killed it!’
“‘You are excited, Maro,’ he returned. ‘You must know that I desired the poor bird to live. Let us dig a little grave here in the garden and bury it, and cease to speak of it until we are calmer. We are overwrought—both of us—because of the bitterness of to-morrow. Where is the spade?’
“‘Do not touch the kos!’ she commanded: ‘It shall not be buried yet.’
“‘Why not?’ I interposed. ‘It will be better for us all.’