Page:The Way of the Cross, Doroshevich, tr. Graham, 1916.djvu/81

 Rh fugitives, amongst those suffering most severely, never have I heard anything but kind, polite, pitiful words.

—Father!—an old man sitting crouching over the fire squeaked rather than said:

—Father, haven't you any stomach drops? The pain's like a knife, father!

I go on farther.

A bonfire. Near it lies a man, immovable.

—What's the matter with him?

—Rheumatism, sir.

—But how can you let him lie on the ground? I ask, repeating the question of the village policeman not long before.

—At the fire, sir, he can warm himself. It's got into his jaws. He can't open his mouth. Can't eat, can't talk. Oh sir, haven't you something for rheumatism?

I go on farther still.