"Well! Are you happy, now?" asked he, still laughing, of Gavrilo, and
turning his back to him, he walked away in the direction of the town.

But he had hardly taken two steps when Gavrilo, crouching like a cat,
threw a large, round stone at him, crying furiously:

"O--one!"

Tchelkache groaned, raised his hands to the back of his neck and
stumbled forward, then turned toward Gavrilo and fell face downward on
the sand. He moved a leg, tried to raise his head and stiffened,
vibrating like a stretched cord. At this, Gavrilo began to run, to run
far away, yonder, to where the shadow of that ragged cloud overhung the
misty steppe. The murmuring waves, coursing over the sands, joined him
and ran on and on, never stopping. The foam hissed, the spray flew
through the air.

The rain fell. Slight at first, it soon came down thickly, heavily and
came from the sky in slender streams. They crossed, forming a net that
soon shut off the distance on land and water. For a long time there
was nothing to be seen but the rain and this long body lying on the
sand beside the sea . . . But suddenly, behold Gavrilo coming from out
the rain, running; he flew like a bird. He went up to Tchelkache, fell
upon his knees before him, and tried to turn him over. His hand sank
into a sticky liquid, warm and red. He trembled and drew back, pale
and distracted.

"Get up, brother!" he whispered amid the noise of the falling rain into
the ear of Tchelkache.