11. They See Each Other Again

At last, with a great effort, she began in a stronger voice:

“Say to them that if Maroussia should never see them again, it will be because she is dead, and that she will die thinking of them, of her little brothers and sisters, also—of them and of Ukraine—and of him whose daughter they made her for this time of trial. I kiss my father’s hand in kissing yours, father Knich, and say farewell and thank you.”

“Ah, dear little girl,” said the old peasant, “may God be with you! But you will never be in your right place until you are in His paradise.”

If Tchetchevik had been the father of his little companion, he could not have looked more tenderly or more proudly on her.

“Do you know,” he said to Knich, “this flower will be my support?”

Knich bowed his head, and his movement seemed to say: “In truth you are right.” To himself he said, “My Tarass is still too small to be a support to me.”

He then put the théorbe in the hands of the beggar-girl.

“Come, it is time to start,” he said. “I w mt to show you the road and return home before night.”

He led them out of this underground place by another exit, which brought them into a

little back court, where were piled up old wheels, old broken wagons, tools, and old plows.

To see them going along the road, no one would have recognized in them the persons who had entered the underground passage a short time before. The old minstrel was now a poor man broken by age and poverty.

Maroussia, Maroussia with a joyful heart, was but an unfortunate little beggar-girl, and old Knich was again the slow and stupid peasant, whose inexhaustible kindness the soldier Ivan had tried to the utmost.

They walked a long time in silence as people do when they have no more to say to each other.

A detachment of Russians passed near them, without noticing them any more than if they had been the dust of the road.

They stopped. The old minstrel was seated on the grass, passing his hands over the strings of the théorbe which he had taken from Maroussia. In a low tone of voice, he sung a hymn with a monotonous refrain, a sort of evening prayer. His little companion, put to sleep by his song, no doubt, was lying at his feet. As for old Knich, he listened, musing, with his head bent down. In truth they did not desire a glance from these beautiful soldiers. The halt of these three poor people was prolonged until the last Russian had disappeared in the distance.