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"No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices were

shouting in the crowd.

But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming,

through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her

bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the

lips.... Then he jumped up and flew in a frenzy with his little

fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his father, who had been

running after him, snatched him up and carried him out of the

crowd.

"Come along, come! Let us go home," he said to him.

"Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!" he sobbed, but

his voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting

chest.

"They are drunk.... They are brutal... it's not our business!"

said his father. He put his arms round his father but he felt

choked, choked. He tried to draw a breath, to cry out--and woke

up.

He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with

perspiration, and stood up in terror.