A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
'But the year is not over yet. And only look at her; her life hangs on a thread.'
All were still again. Pavel threw a handful of dry twigs on to the fire. They were soon charred by the suddenly leaping flame; they cracked and smoked, and began to contract, curling up their burning ends. Gleams of light in broken flashes glanced in all directions, especially upwards. Suddenly a white dove flew straight into the bright light, fluttered round and round in terror, bathed in the red glow, and disappeared with a whirr of its wings.
'It's lost its home, I suppose,' remarked Pavel. 'Now it will fly till it gets somewhere, where it can rest till dawn.'
'Why, Pavlusha,' said Kostya, 'might it not be a just soul flying to heaven?'
Pavel threw another handful of twigs on to the fire.
'Perhaps,' he said at last.
'But tell us, please, Pavlusha,' began Fedya, 'what was seen in your parts at Shalamovy at the heavenly portent?'[1]
'When the sun could not be seen? Yes, indeed.'
'Were you frightened then?'
'Yes; and we weren't the only ones. Our master, though he talked to us beforehand, and said there would be a heavenly portent, yet when it got dark, they say he himself was frightened out of his wits. And in the house-serfs' cottage
- ↑ This is what the peasants call an eclipse.—Author's Note.
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