"Cold—."
"Aren't you well, Feivke?"
The child made an effort, sat up, and looked fixedly at his father, with his black, feverish eyes, and suddenly he asked:
"Why did you cry there? Tate, why? Tell me, why?!"
"Where did I cry, you little silly? Why, I just cried—it's Yom Kippur. Mother is fasting, too—get up, Feivke, and come home. Mother will make you a poultice," occurred to him as a happy thought.
"No! Why did you cry, while they were laughing?" Feivke insisted, still sitting in the road and shaking like a leaf. "One mustn't cry when they laugh, one mustn't!"
And he lay down again on the damp ground.
"Feivele, come home, my son!"
Mattes stood over the boy in despair, and looked around for help. From some way off, from the tall bridge, came a sound of heavy footsteps growing louder and louder, and presently the moonlight showed the figure of a peasant.
"Ai, who is that? Matke the smith? What are you doing there? Are you casting spells? Who is that lying on the ground?"