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again the son tries to establish a friendly relationship which again his father rejects. There is something fine in the old man's adherence to his beliefs, in his loyalty to his departed masters. He loves his son, and both know it, and the son respects his father, even though he is opposing him in beliefs that are dear to him.
At morning the Bolsheviks depart, and their place is taken by pursuing military. For these people the old man brings out linen and table ware. The son of his masters emerges. Fear having left him he re-establishes himself with cocksure, precocious manner. The old man's son has been followed by him to the cottage where he lives with his wife. It is now easy for him to appear a hero. He has already torn up the son's letters, and the pitiful fragments have been spread by the old man on the bed, assembled but unjoined. Now the security of equals induces him to go further. He calls up the old man. This is his triumph, his statement of being. He strikes him forcefully on the head, calling him traitor. The dazed and astounded old man hears him calling for men to go with him and rout out the Bolshevik son. In course of time he appears bound, and hustled. Again father and son stand face to face. The old man blindly implores mercy from the boy whose triumph makes mercy an impossibility. At nightfall on the second day, the broken figure of the old man is grovelling in the coppice. He has taken the place of the dog, which has vanished. Two naked feet swing above his head. Beside him is the body of the pup.
Presently intolerable grief is replaced by a sudden wild triumph. Again men are asleep indoors, and with them the boy smiling in sleep as he had smiled gratitude the night
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