faced about upon them. This transformation froze the boy's fury
into silence. He shrank back to his mother's side.

"Is it the devil?" he whispered to his mother in Galician.

"Kalman," said the man quietly, in the Russian language,
"come to me. I am your father."

The boy gazed at him fearful and perplexed.

"He does not understand," said Paulina in Russian.

"Kalman," repeated his father, using the Galician speech,
"come to me. I am your father."

The boy hesitated, looking fixedly at his father. But three years
had wiped out the memory of that face.

"Come, you little Cossack," said his father, smiling at him.
"Come, have you forgotten all your rides?"

The boy suddenly started, as if waking from sleep. The words
evidently set the grey matter moving along old brain tracks.
He walked toward his father, took the hand outstretched to him,
and kissed it again and again.

"Aha, my son, you remember me," said the father exultantly.

"Yes," said the boy in English, "I remember the ride on the black
horse."