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Out-of-doors darkness had descended. All around behind the black hills lazy clouds had climbed up, and from the forests a whitish mist had spread a sheet over Faget, through which the twinkle of the stars which shone in the still serene portion of the sky could barely be seen. The windows of the house shone yellow, and the bucket on the well-sweep floated in the mist as on a sheet of water.

Apostol Bologa closed the door carefully. The darkness outside seemed to him so bitter that fear gripped his heart. He walked towards the gate, reached the street, and turned towards the village. The houses stared at him with yellow, astonished eyes. The road beckoned to him peremptorily. His mind was a perfect blank, but his heart urged constantly, “Forward! Forward!” like a commanding officer who brooks no hesitation. His feet stuck to the road as if he had been barefooted, his spurs clinked rhythmically, faintly and pleasantly, like little silver bells in a far-off distance. A few black silhouettes and two carts with wounded coming from the front, at a walk, passed him.

He increased his pace without noticing he did so, as if he had to reach some place at a fixed hour. He felt warm, and all the warmth seemed concentrated in his heart. He passed the station with the reddish roof and left the village.

Where the highroad crossed the railway line he remembered that coming back Klapka had avoided the Forest of the Hanged by riding along the railway line. He walked between the rails, which gleamed faintly like two unending sword-blades. Several times he looked towards the left, but the mist hid the view, and the darkness made one of sky and earth. He stumbled on the sleepers and caught his breath. The road here seemed more difficult. When he came out again on to the highroad the gurgling of the stream close by sounded to him like strange whisperings.

Before entering Lunca, at the beginning of the road leading to the front, he halted abruptly, as if something had hit him in the chest, and in his brain buzzed the question:

“Where, in point of fact, am I going? Where?”

And he felt a strange feeling of oppression and murmured painfully:

“I’ve left it at home. O God, what have I left at home?”

And for answer he went on towards Lunca.

The grave-digger’s house could barely be distinguished in the courtyard. Apostol entered hurriedly, as if he were late. The door of the lobby was wide open and flat against the wall, as always now since the weather had become warmer. He entered his room, felt for the matches in the usual place, and found them. He struck one, and saw Ilona lying on the bed, fully dressed, with eyes wide open, as if she had been expecting him, certain that he would come. He was not surprised either. The match went out, but Apostol could see her eyes in the dark. Then Ilona got up, and Apostol drew her to him despairingly, kissing her mouth, her eyes, her hair. Then suddenly he released her, afraid, muttering:

“I have forgotten something, and I don’t know … It’s not possible any longer, it’s not possible.”

The sound of his own voice calmed him. He lit a candle and set it slowly on the table. Ilona was staring at him with frightened eyes, feeling that a terrible danger was lurking near.

“God, what is it that I have forgotten, what is it?” said Apostol, looking at her questioningly.

Then he realized that he was lying, that he had come because of Ilona. But he hadn’t the strength to own that he had lied, and so he began to hunt round feverishly, turning over the books on the little chest and those on the shelf above his bed. Accidentally his hand encountered the map with the positions on the front, which he had completed one evening, and had forgotten there.

“Here it is! I have found it,” he shouted triumphantly at Ilona, to excuse his lie.

He opened it, glanced at the red-pencil marks, folded it in half, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he raised his eyes to Ilona and shivered. He said to himself, “I must explain to her,” and the roof of his mouth went dry. He felt he must. Thousands of thoughts chased through his mind, but they all either got mixed up together or else melted away so that they could not be formed into an “explanation”. But under the confusion of his thoughts a powerful torrent bore his soul far away, driving out all doubts and hesitations.

“Ilona …” he stammered, terrified because he could find no words to tell her.

“I know the mountains better,” whispered Ilona all of a sudden, guessing his thoughts. “I know all the hollows, all the paths, all the streams. I will be your guide!”

“No, no!” Apostol stared up, dazed. “You must not …”

His voice trembled. He was silent. But a few moments later he said again quietly:

“I’ll come back for you, Ilona—to marry you! Do you believe me?”

“I believe you!” she answered, looking wildly into his eyes.

Bologa put on his helmet and took a last look round. The room seemed to live and breathe out happy memories. Ilona threw herself into his arms and kissed him.

Then Apostol went out. In the lobby the thought crossed his mind that he ought to have put on warmer clothes and taken his revolver with him. In the middle of the courtyard he looked back. Ilona had blown out the candle. From the gate he could hear her quick and barefooted steps coming towards him, but he did not stop. In the street he heard her whispering voice, but caught only one word: “God!” He crossed himself fervently, raising his eyes towards the heavens. The sky was as black as the earth. But the sign of the cross had lit in his soul the light of faith, and reconciliation showed him the way.