"And aren't you cold, too?"
"Werner, perhaps he wants to smoke. Comrade, do you want to smoke?" asked Musya. "We have some tobacco."
"Yes, I want to."
"Give him a cigarette, Sergey," said Werner.
But Sergey was already holding out his cigarette-case.
And all began to watch tenderly Yanson's clumsy fingers as they took the cigarette and struck the match, and the little curl of bluish smoke that issued from his mouth.
"Thank you," said Yanson. "It is good."
"How queer it is," said Sergey.
"How queer what is?" asked Werner.
"The cigarette," answered Sergey, unwilling to say all that he thought.
Yanson held the cigarette between his pale and living fingers. With astonishment he looked at it. And all fixed their gaze on this tiny bit of paper, on this little curl of smoke rising from the gray ashes.
The cigarette went out.
"It is out," said Tanya.
"Yes, it is out."
"The devil take it!" said Werner, looking anxiously at Yanson, whose hand, holding the cigarette, hung as if dead. Suddenly the Tzigane turned, placed his face close to Werner's, and, looking into the whites of his eyes, whispered:
"Suppose, sir, we were to attack the soldiers of the convoy? What do you think about it?"
"No," answered Werner.
