His fear grew as he approached the village. He did not see the familiar cottages and hedges; he felt as though he were moving onwards without a goal. Moving onwards and yet not getting any farther. Moving onwards and yet hoping not to get to the end of the journey. He sucked his pipe and paid no attention to anything; but the village was on his conscience. The fear which filled his heart was nob like that which he had felt when the Cossacks arrived, but a senseless fear, depriving him of sight and hearing...as though there were no place for him in the world. 'Are we going too fast?' asked the guard hearing Yakob's heavy breathing. 'All right, all right,' he answered cheerfully. The friendly words had taken his fear away. 'Take it easy,' said the soldier. 'We will go more slowly. Here's a dry cigarette, smoke.' Without turning round, he offered Yakob a cigarette, which he put behind his ear. They entered the village. It smelt of burning, like a gipsy camp. The road seemed to waver in the flickering of the flames, the wind howled in the timber. Yakob looked at the sky. Darkness and stars melted into one. He would not look at the village. He knew there were only women and children in the cottages, the men had all gone. This thought was a relief to him, he hardly knew why. Meanwhile the detachment of soldiers, instead of going to the manor-house, had turned down a narrow road which led to the mill. They stopped and formed fours. Every stone here was familiar to Yakob, and yet, standing in the snow up to his knees, he was puzzled as to where he was. If he could only sleep off this nightmare...he did not recognize the road...the night was far advanced, and the village not asleep as usual...if they would only let him go home! He would return to-morrow. The mill was burning out. Cinders were flying across from the granaries; the smoke bit into the eyes of the people who were standing about looking upwards, with their arms crossed. Everything showed up brilliantly in the glare; the water was dripping from rung to rung of the silent wheel, and mixed its sound with that of the fire. The adjoining buildings were fenced round with a small running fire; smoke whirled round the tumbling roof like a shock of hair shot through with flames. The faces of the bystanders assumed a metallic glow. The wails of the miller and his family could be heard through the noise of battle, of water, and of fire. It was as if the crumbling walls, the melting joints, the smoke, the cries were dripping down the wheel, transformed into blood, and were carried down by the black waves and swallowed up in the infinite abyss of the night. 'They beat me....' Yakob justified himself to himself, when the tears rose to his eyes again. No tears could wash away the conviction that it was he who had shown them the way by which they had come.