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Updated: June 3, 2025
There where the lanterns are are those the gallows? What does it mean?" Werner looked at him. Tsiganok was writhing in agony before his death. "We must bid each other good-by," said Tanya Kovalchuk. "Wait, they have yet to read the sentence," answered Werner. "Where is Yanson?" Yanson was lying on the snow, and about him people were busying themselves. There was a smell of ammonia in the air.
And waiting while the soldiers, clanking their sabres and bending their heads, were stepping into the unlighted black carriage, Yanson lazily moved his finger under his moist nose and adjusted the badly tied muffler about his neck.
And there death would be waiting eternity the great mystery, on with friendliness, watching how Yanson's fingers took the cigarette, how the match flared, and then how the blue smoke issued from Yanson's mouth. "Thanks," said Yanson; "it's good." "How strange!" said Sergey. "What is strange?" Werner turned around. "What is strange?" "I mean the cigarette."
For beating the horse his master would beat Yanson, but then, finding that he could not be reformed, paid no more attention to him. Once or twice a month Yanson became intoxicated, usually on those days when he took his master to the large railroad station, where there was a refreshment bar.
Yanson pointed his index finger at the presiding judge and answered angrily, looking at him askance: "You!" "Well?" Yanson again turned his eyes to the judge who had been silent, restraining a smile, whom he felt to be a friend, a man who had nothing to do with the sentence, and repeated: "He said I should be hanged. Why must I be hanged?" "Take the prisoner away."
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