He felt dreadfully sorry for himself,
the good fellow did, in his infinite defenselessness against the huge
war machine into which he would now be thrown again without the sure
support of his kind Lieutenant next to him.
His broad peasant's head between his hands, he crouched like a dog at
the feet of his dying master, and the tears rolled gently down his
cheeks and stuck one by one on the ends of his mustache glued with dust
and pomade.
It was not quite clear to Miska either just why the poor Lieutenant kept
clamoring so frightfully for his talking-machine. All he knew was that
the officers had been sitting under cover, listening to the Rakoczy
March on the phonograph, when suddenly that accursed shell burst upon
them and everything disappeared in smoke and earth. He himself had been
knocked unconscious by a heavy board which came out of a clear sky and
hit him on the back. He had fallen flat and it was an eternity before he
got his breath back again.
Then--then--Miska's recollections of things after this were a bit hazy--
then he remembered an indescribable heap of splintered boards and fallen
beams, a hash of rags, cement, earth, human limbs, and quantities of
blood. And then--then he remembered--young Meltzar. Meltzar was still
sitting upright with his back against the remains of the wall, and the
record that had just played the Rakoczy March and had miraculously
remained whole was perched on the place where his head belonged.
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