The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. "I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years.
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