Soloveitchik stood at the door for some time, looking up to the
starless sky and rubbing his thin fingers.

The wind whistled round the gloomy tin-roofed sheds, bending the tree-
tops that were huddled together like a troop of ghosts. Overhead, as if
driven by some resistless force, the clouds raced onward, ever onward.
They formed black masses against the horizon, some being piled up to
insuperable heights. It was as though, far away in the distance, they
were awaited by countless armies that, with sable banners all unfurled,
had gone forth in their dreadful might to some wild conflict of the
elements. From time to time the restless wind seemed to bring with it
the clamour of the distant fray.

With childish awe Soloveitchik gazed upwards. Never before had he felt
how small he was, how puny, how almost infinitesimal when confronted
with this tremendous chaos.

"My God! My God!" he sighed.

In the presence of the sky and the night he was not the same man as
when among his fellows. There was not a trace of that restless, awkward
manner, now; the unsightly teeth were concealed by the sensitive lips
of a youthful Jew in whose dark eyes the expression was grave and sad.

He went slowly indoors, extinguished an unnecessary lamp, and clumsily
set the table and the chairs in their places again. The room was still
full of tobacco-smoke, and the floor was covered with cigarette ends
and matches.