Tchelkache, erect,
spare, like a wild beast, showed his teeth wickedly and laughed
harshly, while his moustache worked nervously on his sharp, angular
face. Never, in his whole life, had he been so deeply wounded, and
never had his anger been so great.
"Well! Are you happy, now?" asked he, still laughing, of Gavrilo, and
turning his back to him, he walked away in the direction of the town.
But he had hardly taken two steps when Gavrilo, crouching like a cat,
threw a large, round stone at him, crying furiously:
"O--one!"
Tchelkache groaned, raised his hands to the back of his neck and
stumbled forward, then turned toward Gavrilo and fell face downward on
the sand. He moved a leg, tried to raise his head and stiffened,
vibrating like a stretched cord. At this, Gavrilo began to run, to run
far away, yonder, to where the shadow of that ragged cloud overhung the
misty steppe. The murmuring waves, coursing over the sands, joined him
and ran on and on, never stopping. The foam hissed, the spray flew
through the air.
The rain fell. Slight at first, it soon came down thickly, heavily and
came from the sky in slender streams.
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