“No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,” many voices were shouting in the crowd.

But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.⁠ ⁠… Then he jumped up and flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried him out of the crowd.

“Come along, come! Let us go home,” he said to him.

“Father! Why did they⁠ ⁠… kill⁠ ⁠… the poor horse!” he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.

“They are drunk.⁠ ⁠… They are brutal⁠ ⁠… it’s not our business!” said his father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He tried to draw a breath, to cry out⁠—and woke up.

He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and stood up in terror.