Then he suddenly thought of a fight that
he had once witnessed between two peasants, when one, with a terrific
blow in the face, felled the other, an elderly, grey-haired man. He got
up, wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve, exclaiming with emphasis,
"What a fool!"
"Yes, I remember seeing that," thought Sarudine, "and then they had
drinks together at the 'Crown.'"
The night drew near to its end. In silence so strange, so oppressive,
it seemed as if Sarudine were the one living, suffering soul left on
earth. On the table the guttering candle was still burning with a
faint, steady, flame. Lost in the gloom of his disordered thoughts
Sarudine stared at it with glittering, feverish eyes.
Amid the wild chaos of impressions and recollections there was one
thing which stood out clearly from all others. It was the sense of his
utter solitude that stabbed his heart like a dagger. Millions of men at
that moment were merrily enjoying life, laughing and joking; some, it
might be, were even talking about him. But he, only he, was alone.
Vainly he sought to recall familiar faces.
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