MAXIME GORKY
stretched forward, his face red, his heart beating wildly.
In the distance, on the dead waves of sand, was a small dark human figure moving slowly away; on his right beamed the sun and the powerful sea, and on the left, to the horizon, there was sand, nothing but sand, uniform, deserted,—gloomy. Iakov watched the receding figure of the lonely man and blinked his eyes, filled with tears—tears of humiliation and painful uncertainty.
On the fishing grounds everyone was busy at work. Iakov heard Malva's sonorous voice ask, angrily:
"Who has taken my knife?"
The waves murmured, the sun shone and the sea laughed.
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