Some pointed out that if the bandits overtook them in the open steppe they would undoubtedly all perish.
Others, that there was, after all, a faint chance of salvation in flight.
Yet others, confident that the Germans would be the victors, insisted that they should wait for the end of the battle.
When a clattering again reached them from over (the hills, all fell silent, straining their eyes to gaze at the place, where nothing could be seen but the lazily revolving sails of the windmills.
Obruchev uttered a concise speech, in the course of which he enumerated all these conflicting ideas.
The two ladies hung upon his lips as if he were a prophet.
Coming to no conclusion, they all stood there among the hens and sparrows in the deserted street, where there was not a soul to take pity on their fellow countrymen—on Russians.... Not a soul!
A woman with uncovered head looked out of the window, yawned, and turned away.
An angry-looking peasant, coming round the corner with his shirt unbelted, passed the prisoners without a glance, picking up a lump of clay to throw with all his might at somebody's boar.
Some hawks soared above the village, looking down indifferently on the plundered and unwanted townspeople.
A cloud of dust rose from beyond the hills.
The horseman galloped away from the windmills and disappeared from view.
One of the passengers suggested going back to the Volost office, where they had all spent the night.
The two ladies were the first to act on the suggestion, but when the carts, each with three horses, came galloping headlong over the crest of the hill, the rest of the prisoners followed their example.
Only Katya and the teacher of physics, his arms folded heroically beneath his mackintosh, remained in the street.
There were some four or five carts.
Skirting the lake, they appeared in the village.
They were bringing back wounded.
The first of them drew up in front of the windows of a hut.
The driver, a tall guerrilla fighter in an unbuttoned leather jacket, cried out:
"Nadezhda—here's your man!"
A woman rushed out of the hut, tearing off her apron, and threw herself upon the cart with low wails.
A lad with a sickly greenish countenance got off the cart, put his arm round the woman's neck and staggered into the hut, his head drooping, his body doubled up.
The cart went on to the next house, from which sprang three gaudily attired girls.
"Take your man, my doves—he's slightly wounded," cried the driver to them gaily.
After this, he reined in the horses to a walk, looking for a place to take his last wounded to.
In the cart sat Mishka Solomin, blinking, his head bound with the bloodstained fragments of a shirt, his teeth set.
The driver suddenly halted his horses.
"Whoa.... Good heavens!
Ekaterina Dmitrevna, can it be you?"
Katya was taken completely by surprise.
Gasping in her agitation, she ran towards the cart.
In it stood none other than Alexei Krasilnikov, his feet set well apart, one fist doubled against his side, the other holding the reins.
His cheeks were partially concealed by a curly beard, his eyes were joyous.
He had hand grenades in his belt, a machine-gun belt slung across his leather jacket, a cavalry rifle at his back.
"Ekaterina Dmitrevna... what are you doing here?
Whose hut are you living in?
That one?
Mitrofan's? He's my third cousin, his name's Krasilnikov, too.
Look—poor Mishka—his head's half blown away by shrapnel."
Katya walked beside the cart.
Alexei was still hot and excited after the battle.
His eyes and teeth gleamed....
"We beat the Germans into a cocked hat.... The silly fools.... They threw themselves three times against our machine guns.
They're lying all over the field, poor devils! Now the Old Man has something to dress the army in.... Whoa! Mitrofan!
Come out of your den! Take in a wounded hero. And you, Ekaterina Dmitrevna, mind you don't go away from this house.
It's not healthy for you here...."
Mellow strokes pealed from the belfry. AM over the village, wicket gates banged, shutters were opened, women ran into the street, peasants came out cautiously, a regular crowd of people appeared from nowhere; singing and talking they went out into the steppe to meet the victorious Makhno army.
Katya helped Alexei Krasilnikov to lift the half-dead Mishka into the Mitrofan yard, and carry him into the cool shed, where they laid him on Alexandra's cot.
Katya set about changing his bandages, with difficulty removing the blood-stiffened rags from his hair.