Now, suddenly, their minds practically admitted: "It is indeed impossible to clear the road." Then again everything died out, and only their sense of smell remained: the unbearably fresh smell of the forest and of the melting snow.

And everything became unusually clear to the consciousness: the forest, the night, the road and the fact that soon they would be hanged.

Their conversation, restrained to whispers, flashed in fragments.
"It is almost four o'clock." "I said we started too early." "The sun dawns at five." "Of course, at five.

We should have--" They stopped in a meadow, in the darkness.

A little distance away, beyond the bare trees, two small lanterns moved silently.