And Boaz never ceased from purifying our blood, and clearing our brain. And woe unto us! We did not believe any more in the good angel that looked down upon us from above. We realized that it was only a fairy-tale, an invented story by which we were fooled into going to Boaz's "_Cheder_." And we began to sigh and groan because of our sufferings under Boaz. And we also began to make plans, to talk and argue how to free ourselves from our galling slavery. * * * In the melancholy moments between daylight and darkness, when the fiery red sun is about to bid farewell to the cold earth for the night--in these melancholy moments, when the happy daylight is departing, and on its heels is treading silently the still night, with its lonely secrets--in these melancholy moments, when the shadows are climbing on the walls growing broader and longer--in these melancholy moments between the afternoon and the evening prayers, when the teacher is at the synagogue, and his wife is milking the goat or washing the crockery, or making the "_Borsht_"--then we youngsters came together at "_Cheder_," beside the stove. We sat on the floor, our legs curled up under us, like innocent lambs. And there in the evening darkness, we talked of our terrible Titus, our angel of death, Boaz. The bigger boys, who had been at "_Cheder_" some time, told us the most awful tales of Boaz. They swore by all the oaths they could think of that Boaz had flogged more than one boy to death, that he had already driven three women into their graves, and that he had buried his one and only son. We heard such wild tales that our hair stood on end. The older boys talked, and the younger listened--listened with all their senses on the alert. Black eyes gleamed in the darkness. Young hearts palpitated. And we decided that Boaz had no soul. He was a man without a soul. And such a man is compared to an animal, to an evil spirit that it is a righteous act to get rid of. Thousands of plans, foolish, childish plans, were formed in our childish brains. We hoped to rid ourselves of our angel of death, as we called Boaz. Foolish children! These foolish plans buried themselves deep in each little heart that cried out to the Lord to perform a miracle. We asked that either the books should be burnt, or the strap he whipped us with taken to the devil, or--or.... No one wished to speak of the last alternative. They were afraid to bring it to their lips. And the evil spirit worked in their hearts. The young fancies were enkindled, and the boys were carried away by golden dreams. They dreamed of freedom, of running down hill, of wading barefoot in the river, playing horses, jumping over the logs. They were good, sweet, foolish dreams that were not destined to be realized. There was heard a familiar cough, a familiar footfall. And our hearts were frozen. All our limbs were paralysed, deadened. We sat down at the table and started our lessons with as much enthusiasm as if we were starting for the gallows.