However, we told her nothing about the dispute.  We asked her no questions and treated her as kindly as before.  But something new and foreign to our former feelings for Tanya crept in stealthily into our relation toward her, and this new something was keen curiosity, sharp and cold like a steel knife.

“Fellows!  Time is up to-day!” said the baker one morning, commencing to work.

We knew this well without his calling our attention to it, but we gave a start, nevertheless.

“Watch her! . . .  She’ll come soon!” suggested the baker.  Some one exclaimed regretfully:  “What can we see?”

And again a lively, noisy dispute ensued.  To-day we were to learn at last how far pure and inaccessible to filth was the urn wherein we had placed all that was best in us.  This morning we felt for the first time that we were really playing a big game, that this test of our godling’s purity might destroy our idol.  We had been told all these days that the soldier was following Tanya obstinately, but for some reason or other none of us asked how she treated him.  And she kept on coming to us regularly every morning for biscuits and was the same as before.  This day, too, we soon heard her voice: 

“Little prisoners!  I’ve come. . . .”

We hastened to let her in, and when she entered we met her, against our habit, in silence.  Staring at her fixedly, we did not know what to say to her, what to ask her; and as we stood before her we formed a dark, silent crowd.  She was evidently surprised at our unusual reception, and suddenly we noticed that she turned pale, became restless, began to bustle about and asked in a choking voice: 

“Why are you . . . such?

“And you?” asked the baker sternly, without taking his eyes off the girl.

“What’s the matter with me?”

“Nothing. . . .”

“Well, quicker, give me biscuits. . . .”

She had never before hurried us on. . . .

“There’s plenty of time!” said the baker, his eyes fixed, on her face.

Then she suddenly turned around and disappeared behind the door.

The baker took up his shovel and said calmly, turning towards the oven: 

“It is done, it seems! . . .  The soldier! . . .  Rascal! . . .  Scoundrel!” . . .

Like a herd of sheep, pushing one another, we walked back to the table, seated ourselves in silence and began to work slowly.  Soon some one said: 

“And perhaps not yet.” . . .

“Go on!  Talk about it!” cried the baker.

We all knew that he was a clever man, cleverer than any of us, and we understood by his words that he was firmly convinced of the soldier’s victory. . . .  We were sad and uneasy.  At twelve o’clock, during the dinner hour, the soldier came.  He was, as usual, clean and smart, and, as usual, looked straight into our eyes.  We felt awkward to look at him.