Page:The Way of the Cross, Doroshevich, tr. Graham, 1916.djvu/150

 134 We pass through Rogachef, a little town overwhelmed with fugitives, with the dust, and with the smell of the bonfires burning in the camps around.

Rogachef is like a little white building, like a prison built on the high and beautiful bank of the Dnieper.

All the meadow-land beneath is alight with bonfires, bonfires, bonfires, and flocking with fugitives.

Here also is an exit for the great river.

The railway,—and a portion of the people find a place here:

Na mashinu, on the train.

That means that ahead, the river is even thicker.

—The fugitives eat us up, says Rogachef, trembling.

In this town also you can buy nothing.

There's no small change.

In the chemist's shop where I go to buy