"Take it, take it! You haven't worked for nothing! Don't
be ashamed of having failed to assassinate a man! No one will claim
anyone like me. You'll be thanked, on the contrary, when it's learned
what you've done. There, take it! No one'll know what you've done and
yet it deserves some reward! Here it is!"
Gavrilo saw that Tchelkache was laughing, and he felt relieved. He
held the money tightly in his hand.
"Brother! Will you forgive me? Won't you do it? Say?" he supplicated
tearfully.
"Little brother!" mimicked Tchelkache, rising on his tottering limbs.
"Why should I pardon you? There's no occasion for it. To-day it's
you, to-morrow it'll be me . . ."
"Ah! brother, brother!" sighed Gavrilo, sorrowfully, shaking his head.
Tchelkache was standing before him, smiling strangely; the cloth
wrapped around his head, gradually reddening, resembled a Turkish
head-dress.
The rain fell in torrents. The sea complained dully and the waves beat
angrily against the beach.
The two men were silent.
"Good-bye!" said Tchelkache, with cold irony.
He staggered, his legs trembled, and he carried his head oddly, as
though he was afraid of losing it.
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