outside. What he looked at was so horrible he could hear nothing. He had watched with unblinking eyes, every quiver, every cramped contraction until the power of motion within it had ceased.
It was over now.
Sura shrieked.
“Leiba!”
Zibal made a sign that she was not to disturb him.
The smell of burning flesh was spreading through the corridor.
“Leiba!—what is it?”
Day had come. Sura shoved the bolt. The door freed from its holding, slid against the body of George, who hung there with one arm. Village people, with burning Easter candles in their hands rushed in.
“What is it? What is it?”
Then they understood what had happened.
Zibal, who had not moved before, got down from his high stool heavily. He shoved the people aside and walked toward the door.
“What's up, Jew?” some one questioned.
“Leiba Zibal” declared the innkeeper solemnly, and with a lofty gesture, “Leiba Zibal is going
