They would send the Raskolnik--the sectarian who was prepared to die
at any moment rather than sin in any particular against the teachings
of Jesus, who even in war abhorred attacking the enemy and wanted only
to defend himself--one of these religious enthusiasts who had to be
driven into military service with a whip. What a joke for these two
orthodox Slavs to load upon this "steed of God" the bloodguilt of their
stratagem!
They laugh--laugh till their eyes fill with water.
Half an hour later a young cavalryman trots away into the murky dawn.
The fresh wind of the steppe whistles about his ears. Over his head
flutters the little white flag, which they have fastened to the top of
his lance.
"How is it that he has found so much favor in the eyes of his commander
as to be sent as a parlamentaire to the enemy?"
But he puzzles little about that. He is glad that the poor creatures of
God who have been driven like mice out of their holes will be allowed
to go to-morrow over into the camp of their friends. He must be a real
man, the colonel, even if so far the soldiers have found little good in
him.
In the east it is getting lighter. Already a silvery wave spreads over
the plain from the edge of the horizon. By the time he arrives at the
first entrenchment it will be so light that the enemy can easily see
the flag on his lance.
"It is cold," he muses. "But yet it is already spring, and where my
horse steps the snow gives way. Soon the steppe will be green again,
just as it will be back in Russia."
And in the midst of the deep silence which surrounds him, in sight of
all the horrible traces which war and death have left upon his pathway,
there blossoms out of his innocent soul a pure, sweet memory--of home.
He recalls the straw-covered hut, the calm and mighty waves of the
distant Don, the peace of the steppe purling like a breath from heaven
through the tall grasses.
He was only a pious peasant's son--not a Cossack. But now they have put
him as a supernumerary in a Cossack regiment, and he must go along,
through all the blood, through all the horror.
With a slight shudder he puts his hand upon the crucifix beneath his
soldier's coat and crosses himself.
"God grant me His grace!"
On the other side they had caught sight of him. A sentinel advanced to
meet him. Soon he stands before the Austrian officer.
The latter is a handsome, sturdy man. Everything neat about him,
although he has lain so long with his men in the trenches. Close up to
him the soldier stands, so that he can feel the other's breath--but it
doesn't smell of brandy. The gray eyes hold him fast while he speaks.
Not a muscle moves. But suddenly he laughs in the messenger's face.
"Good. Now ride back. And say to your colonel that he has miscalculated
if he believes that I shall not open fire if you try to sneak in behind
those unfortunates. I know my duty, and should innocent blood be shed
the blame will rest on you."
He speaks and turns upon his heel. The sentinel leads the dejected
messenger back to his horse and calls scornfully after him: "Are you
really so stupid or did you think that we were so stupid?"
The latter makes no answer. But a few steps further on he strips the
white flag from his lance and throws it in the muck. Then that was the
colonel's idea. And he will stick to it. At his command they are to
hide like cowards behind the victims who are to be pushed--as a living
wall--up to the enemy's trenches!
"They are, of course, only Jews," he says to himself. "But yet--but
yet----"
Why does he feel that way about it?
Suddenly he realizes.
Like a picture it stands before him.
The sputtering fire about which the half-frozen Jews are huddled
together--women, children, grizzled old men. Here and there a sentinel
to guard them. He, too, one of the guards.