Then, in the same solemn and significant manner, he waved his hand towards the row of beds on which the wounded were lying, and repeated,-- "And can you explain this?" "The wounded?" said I. "The wounded?" "The wounded," repeated he, like an echo. "The wounded. Legless and armless, with pierced sides, smashed-in chests and torn-out eyes. You understand it? I am very glad. So I suppose you will understand this also?" With an agility, quite unexpected for his age, he flung himself down and stood on his hands, balancing his legs in the air. His white working clothes turned down, his face grew purple and, looking at me fixedly with a strange upturned gaze, he threw at me with difficulty a few broken words,-- "And this ... do you ... also ... understand?" "Stop!" whispered I in terror, "or else I will cry out." He turned over into a natural position, sat down again near my bed, and taking breath, remarked instinctively,-- "And nobody can understand it." "Yesterday they were firing again." "Yes, they were firing yesterday and the day before," said he, nodding his head affirmatively. "I want to go home!" said I in distress. "Doctor, dear fellow, I want to go home. I cannot remain here any longer. At times I cannot bring myself to believe that I have a home, where it is so good." He was thinking of something and did not answer, and I began to cry. "My God, I have no legs. I used to love my bicycle so, to walk and run, and now I have no legs. I used to dance my boy on the right foot and he laughed, and now.... Curse you all! What shall I go home for? I am only thirty.... Curse you all!" And I sobbed and sobbed, as I thought of my dear legs, my fleet, strong legs. Who took them away from me, who dared to take them away!