Liviu Rebreanu (1885 - 1944).
Under the grey, autumn sky, resembling a giant bell of steamy glass, the new, defying scaffold, stuck in the ground at the edge of the village, stretched forth her rope-bearing arm towards the dark field, stung here and there by brassy trees. Overseen by a short, sooty corporal and helped by a ruddy, hairy-faced peasant, two old soldiers dug the hole, often spitting in their palms, gasping and panting from exhaustion after each pick-blow. From the earth’s wound, the diggers threw out yellow, sticky clay.
Then, Apostle was surrounded by a wave of love that sprung as if from the bowels of the Earth. He lifted up his eyes towards the heaven that was nailed and fastened by delayed stars. The mountain-ridges were drawn on the sky as a huge saw with blunt teeth. Straight forward shone the morning-star mysteriously, announcing the sunrise. Apostle fitted his rope all by himself, his eyes thirsting for the light of dawn. The earth was bereft from underneath his feet. He felt his body hanging like a burden. But his sight took off, eagerly, flying towards the heavenly brightness, while the priest’s voice was quenching in his ears:
- Receive, Oh Lord, the soul of Thy servant Apostle... Apostle... Apostle...