The Jew and Other Stories | Page 6

'are you pleased with me?'
She looked at me with a smile.
'What has become of you all this time?'
She dropped her eyes.
'I will come to you to-morrow.'
'In the evening?'
'No, sir, in the morning.'
'Mind you do, don't deceive me.'
'No... no, I won't.'
I looked greedily at her. By daylight she seemed to me handsomer than
ever. I remember I was particularly struck by the even, amber tint of
her face and the bluish lights in her black hair.... I bent down from my
horse and warmly pressed her little hand.
'Good-bye, Sara... mind you come.'
'Yes.'
She went home; I told the sergeant to follow me with the party, and
galloped off.

The next day I got up very early, dressed, and went out of the tent. It
was a glorious morning; the sun had just risen and every blade of grass
was sparkling in the dew and the crimson glow. I clambered on to a
high breastwork, and sat down on the edge of an embrasure. Below me
a stout, cast-iron cannon stuck out its black muzzle towards the open
country. I looked carelessly about me... and all at once caught sight of a
bent figure in a grey wrapper, a hundred paces from me. I recognised
Girshel. He stood without moving for a long while in one place, then
suddenly ran a little on one side, looked hurriedly and furtively round...
uttered a cry, squatted down, cautiously craned his neck and began
looking round again and listening. I could see all his actions very
clearly. He put his hand into his bosom, took out a scrap of paper and a
pencil, and began writing or drawing something. Girshel continually
stopped, started like a hare, attentively scrutinised everything around
him, and seemed to be sketching our camp. More than once he hid his
scrap of paper, half closed his eyes, sniffed at the air, and again set to
work. At last, the Jew squatted down on the grass, took off his slipper,
and stuffed the paper in it; but he had not time to regain his legs, when
suddenly, ten steps from him, there appeared from behind the slope of
an earthwork the whiskered countenance of the sergeant Siliavka, and
gradually the whole of his long clumsy figure rose up from the ground.
The Jew stood with his back to him. Siliavka went quickly up to him
and laid his heavy paw on his shoulder. Girshel seemed to shrink into
himself. He shook like a leaf and uttered a feeble cry, like a hare's.
Siliavka addressed him threateningly, and seized him by the collar. I
could not hear their conversation, but from the despairing gestures of
the Jew, and his supplicating appearance, I began to guess what it was.
The Jew twice flung himself at the sergeant's feet, put his hand in his
pocket, pulled out a torn check handkerchief, untied a knot, and took
out gold coins.... Siliavka took his offering with great dignity, but did
not leave off dragging the Jew by the collar. Girshel made a sudden
bound and rushed away; the sergeant sped after him in pursuit. The Jew
ran exceedingly well; his legs, clad in blue stockings, flashed by, really
very rapidly; but Siliavka after a short run caught the crouching Jew,
made him stand up, and carried him in his arms straight to the camp. I
got up and went to meet him.
'Ah! your honour!' bawled Siliavka,--'it's a spy I'm bringing you--a

spy!...' The sturdy Little-Russian was streaming with perspiration. 'Stop
that wriggling, devilish Jew--now then... you wretch! you'd better look
out, I'll throttle you!'
The luckless Girshel was feebly prodding his elbows into Siliavka's
chest, and feebly kicking.... His eyes were rolling convulsively....
'What's the matter?' I questioned Siliavka.
'If your honour'll be so good as to take the slipper off his right foot,--I
can't get at it.' He was still holding the Jew in his arms.
I took off the slipper, took out of it a carefully folded piece of paper,
unfolded it, and found an accurate map of our camp. On the margin
were a number of notes written in a fine hand in the Jews' language.
Meanwhile Siliavka had set Girshel on his legs. The Jew opened his
eyes, saw me, and flung himself on his knees before me.
Without speaking, I showed him the paper.
'What's this?'
'It's---nothing, your honour. I was only....' His voice broke.
'Are you a spy?'
He did not understand me, muttered disconnected words, pressed my
knees in terror....
'Are you a spy?'
'I!' he cried faintly, and shook his head. 'How could I? I never did; I'm
not at all. It's not possible; utterly impossible. I'm ready--I'll--this
minute--I've money to give... I'll pay for it,' he whispered, and