They hugged themselves closely in
their ragged cloaks and stumbled as they walked. It was impossible
to distinguish between the officers and the men. The biggest and
the strongest were the best clad--the bullies were the best fed.
All were black and smoke-grimed--with eyes reddened and inflamed by
the dazzling snow through which they stumbled by day, as much as by
the smoke into which they crouched at night. Every garment was
riddled by the holes burnt by flying sparks--every face was smeared
with blood that ran from the horseflesh they had torn asunder with
their teeth while it yet smoked.
Some laughed and waved their hands to the crowd. Others, who had
known the tragedy of Vilna and Kowno, stumbled on in stubborn
silence still doubting that Dantzig stood--that they were at last in
sight of food and warmth and rest.
"Is that all?" men asked each other in astonishment. For the last
stragglers had crossed the new Mottlau before the head of the
procession had reached the Grune Brucke.
"If I had such an army as that," said a stout Dantziger, "I should
bring it into the city quietly, after dusk."
But the majority were silent, remembering the departure of these
men--the triumph, the glory, and the hope. For a great catastrophe
is a curtain that for a moment shuts out all history and makes the
human family little children again who can but cower and hold each
other's hands in the dark.
"Where are the guns?" asked one.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185