A mist came before Simon’s eyes; he wanted to cry out, but he could not. It was Vassili!... Simon scrambled up the bank as Vassili, with crowbar and wrench, slid headlong down the other side. “Vassili Stepanich! For the love ... Old friend! Come back! Give me the crowbar. We will put the rail back; no one will know. Come back! Save your soul from this sin!” Vassili did not look back, but disappeared into the wood. Simon stood before the rail which had been torn up. He threw down his bundle of sticks. A train was due; not a goods train, but a passenger train. And he had nothing with which to stop it, no flag. He could not replace the rail, and could not drive in the spikes with his bare hands. It was necessary to run to the hut for some tools. “God help me,” he murmured. He ran toward his hut, faltering every now and then in his eagerness, but he soon realized that he would be too late. What should he do! In desperation, he turned back to the spot where the rail threatened disaster to the on-coming train. As he reached it, he heard the even tremor of the rails. Then an idea came into his head, literally like a ray of light. Pulling off his cap, he took out of it a cotton scarf, drew his knife out of the upper part of his boot, and crossed himself, muttering, “God bless me!” He buried the knife into his left arm above the elbow; the blood spurted out, flowing in a hot stream. In this he soaked his scarf, smoothed it out, tied it to the stick, and hung out his red flag. He stood waving his flag. The train was already in sight. The driver will not see him--will come close up, and a heavy train cannot be pulled up in a hundred _sajenes_. And the blood kept on flowing. Simon kept pressing the sides of the wound together, wanting to close it, but the blood did not diminish. Evidently he had cut his arm very deeply. His head commenced to swim, black spots began to dance before his eyes, and then it became dark. There was a ringing in his ears. He could not see the train or hear the noise. Only one thought possessed him: “I shall not be able to keep standing up. I shall fall and drop the flag; the train will pass over me.... Help me, O Lord!...” All became quite black before him, his mind became a blank, and he dropped the flag; but the blood-stained banner did not fall to the ground. A hand seized it and held it high to meet the approaching train. The engine-driver saw it, shut the regulator, and reversed steam. The train came to a standstill. People jumped out of the carriages and collected in a crowd. Looking, they saw a man lying senseless on the footway, drenched in blood, and another man standing beside him with a blood-stained rag on a stick. Vassili looked around at all; then, lowering his head, said, “Bind me; I have pulled up a rail!”