Hershel Mak nearly fell into the water. The red and the grey soldiers
separated by about fifty steps and a small, turbid, rain-beaten
rivulet were eyeing each other with amazement rather than with terror.
Thin scattered cries of terror and dismay were heard from the other
side, and all at once it grew still with an ominous strained
stillness.
"Listen ... eh," ... whispered Hershel Mak, touching the gun of the
Kostroma reservist. But at this very moment, the soldiers as if in
response to a command stepped back a pace or two, got down on their
knees and an uneven crackling of guns rent the damp air.
The flaxen-haired Kostroma peasant and another soldier, a father of a
large family, nick-named "uncle," threw up their arms and fell heavily
upon the soaked clay.
The first was killed on the spot, but as to the "uncle," he clutched
his abdomen, sat up and began to howl in a thin, piercing voice:
"Bro-o-thers!"
And the soldiers were seized with a savage anger, immense and
terrible, similar to the nervous fury with which one tramples upon a
snake.
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