Meeting the Fugitives
53
What we have seen is only the first stream of the oncoming flood.
The waves come one after the other, each higher than the other, higher.
There on the right and left of the road, in the forests, under the trees, something white is gleaming.
The affrighted imagination is alert and on guard.
—Crosses?
Not as yet.
They are the fresh stumps of hewn trees.
Whole glades have been cut down.
In the midst of grey ashes are the black spots of extinguished camp fires.
The sun is already setting. It grows cold.
The hewn stumps gleam oftener and oftener.
But if you ask the peasants
—Don't the fugitives do some damage?
