In the darkness, Sultan thrust his cold, moist nose
into his master's hand.
"There you are!" said Soloveitchik, as he set down the bucket.
Sultan sniffed, and began to eat voraciously, while his master stood
beside him and gazed mournfully at the surrounding gloom.
"Ah! what can I do?" he thought. "How can I force people to alter
their opinions? I myself expected to be told how to live, and how to
think. God has not given me the voice of a prophet, so, in what way can
I help?"
Sultan gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"Eat away, old boy, eat away!" said Soloveitchik. "I would let you
loose for a little run, but I haven't got the key, and I'm so tired."
Then to himself, "What clever, well-informed people those are! They
know such a lot; good Christians, very likely; and here am I.... Ah!
well, perhaps it's my own fault. I should have liked to say a word to
them, but I didn't know how to do it."
From the distance, beyond the town, there came the sound of a long,
plaintive whistle. Sultan raised his head, and listened. Large drops
fell from his muzzle into the pail.
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