Then he said, speaking slowly and ponderingly:
"I have thought much. I do not know. It is something that
happened. It is a picture I remember. It is like looking in at
the window and seeing the man writing a letter. They came into my
life and they went out of my life, and the picture is as I have
said, without beginning, the end without understanding."
"You have painted many pictures in the telling," I said.
"Ay," he nodded his head. "But they were without beginning and
without end."
"The last picture of all had an end," I said.
"Ay," he answered. "But what end?"
"It was a piece of life," I said.
"Ay," he answered. "It was a piece of life."
NEGORE, THE COWARD
HE had followed the trail of his fleeing people for eleven days,
and his pursuit had been in itself a flight; for behind him he knew
full well were the dreaded Russians, toiling through the swampy
lowlands and over the steep divides, bent on no less than the
extermination of all his people. He was travelling light. A
rabbit-skin sleeping-robe, a muzzle-loading rifle, and a few pounds
of sun-dried salmon constituted his outfit.
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