"Yes, I thought of that, too," said Ilya.
"People say dead," went on Jakov slowly and mysteriously, "but then what is it to be dead?"
"The soul has flown away," explained Pashka moodily.
"To Heaven," added Masha, and looked up into the sky, while she nestled closer to Jakov. The stars were already flaming; one of them a great bright star that did not twinkle, seemed nearer to the earth than the rest and looked down on them like a cold unmoving eye. The three boys turned their faces upwards like Mashka. Pashka glanced up and at once slipped away. Ilya looked up long and keenly, with an expression of fear, always at the one point, and Jakov's big eyes wandered here and there over the deep blue heavens as if they were seeking something there.
"Jakov!" called out his friend, looking down again.
"What were you thinking?" asked Jakov, speaking softly too.
"How they----I can't bear it. Here is some one killed, and they all run about the place and seem so busy and talk all the time; but no one cried, not one."
"He always has tears in his eyes. But Pashka, how he behaves--as if he were telling a tale."
"It isn't that, really. It pains him, but he's ashamed to cry before us; but now he's gone away, and is crying--as he's reason enough to."
Huddled close together, they sat still for a minute or two. Mashka had fallen asleep on Jakov's knees, her face still turned to the sky.
"Are you afraid?" asked Jakov very softly.
"A little," replied Ilya, in the same tone. "Now her soul is wandering round here. Yes--yes, and Masha is asleep; we must take her into the house, and I'm so afraid to go away from here."
Jakov laid the head of the sleeping child against his shoulder, put his arms round her slender body and rose with an effort, while he whispered to Ilya, who stood in the way, "Hold on, let me go in front!"
He stepped down into the cellar, staggering under his burden, while Ilya followed so close that he almost trod on his friend's heels. It seemed to Ilya that an invisible shape glided behind him, that he felt its cold breath on his neck, and he feared every moment to be gripped by it. He touched his friend on the back and called to him in a barely audible voice:
Old Jeremy's health began to fail soon after these events. He went out collecting rags more and more seldom, and stayed at home most of the time, moving languidly about the courtyard, or lying in bed in his dark cabin.