Forgetting the deathly peril, he
sprang to his knees, threw up his arms and cried out, as if responding
to a voice heard in the desert.
"I!... I!..."
A shot crashed; but it was only Mak's cap, that jumped up and landed
in the mud puddle. From beyond the stream and the trees a typical head
with ears projecting from under the varnished helmet looked straight
at him.
"Don't shoot!... Don't shoot!" yelled Hershel Mak in Russian, German
and Jewish all at once, waving his hands frantically. And the other
Jew, in a long light-grey cloak was also yelling something to his
fellow-soldiers. Now not one but about ten pairs of eyes looked at
Hershel Mak, with astonishment and sudden joy. A vague, faint hope was
seen in these frightened human eyes, which suddenly became simple and
sympathetic. Then Hershel Mak and the Jew in the light-grey cloak
rushed to the clearing and, splashing in the water, trustingly ran to
each other.
They met between the two ranks of still hostile gun-barrels and
embraced each other in a fit of unreasoning human gladness.
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