“You're free—free to go where you like and to get us all into trouble. We shall be here for at least an hour, so you'll have time. I landed without permission in your England this morning. That's a cause for police interference. My name's Ivan Varensky.”
The Major rose painfully, blinking at the lean, green-eyed stranger as though he had discovered in him a jester. “There are still the handcuffs,” he muttered.
When the handcuffs had been knocked off, Varen-sky repeated, “You're free to go.”
The Major shook himself and resumed his strutting air, like a brave old rooster who had all but had his neck wrung. “If it makes no difference, I'll stay.”
With his left eye shut and his head on one side, Varensky regarded him comically. “No difference! It may. You're a secret service agent; I'm a revolutionary. You uphold laws; I defy them. You're the servant of force; I hate every form of compulsion. What difference it makes depends on yourself—whether you propose to stay as a spy or as a man of honor.”
“As a sportsman who abides by the rules of the game.”
Varensky shrugged his narrow shoulders. “As a sportsman who hunts women?” He turned tenderly to Santa. “You're famished. We'll cover up the window and make a light.”
When candles which they had brought had been kindled and the meal spread, Santa and Hindwood sat down on the floor, facing each other. While they ate there was dead silence. Hindwood kept catching glimpses of her eyes. What was to be the end of her? Her expression was stunned. They both knew what this silence betokened: when the meal was over, her fate was to be decided. He was aware of each separate personality, as though each were making an effort to explain itself. What was to be hoped for from the verdict of such a jury? Every one in the hut, except Anna and himself, was a fanatic. He did not try to see their faces; all he saw was their hands as they ministered to him. The hands of Varensky, half clown's, half martyr's. The wrinkled hands of the old noblewoman, worn with service, who had lived with outcasts and spent her years in exile. The hands of Anna, guilty with yearning.
Varensky spoke without looking up. It was as though he were carrying on a conversation already started. “We can't restore life, so what right have we to destroy it? To be merciful—that's the only way.”
His green eyes sought the Major's. “We could have killed you to-night—but we didn't. Have you wondered why? By letting you go, we've put ourselves in your power. To-morrow you can drag us all to jail. You're a hard man. You exact an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. You came here to-night to exact a life. If we had judged you by your own standards, we should have been justified in giving you no quarter. If we had, what good would it have done? You'd only have been dead. And if you'd managed to capture Santa, what good would that have done? To have had her executed wouldn't have made her a better woman.”