She turned her palms upward in a gesture of submission and the slightest shrug of her shoulders, as if she had lost all interest in what the final result of what she said might be, and as if what he might do was a matter of little moment to her.
“I speak to save your soul,” she said softly. “But we shall not quarrel about it—either what you are to decide about us, or about your soul.”
“No?” he demanded, surprised that he should be nettled by her carelessness. “But you are pleading with me now.”
She gave him a look of surprise and laughed harshly.
“Pleading? For what? A few hours of life?”
“You might both escape,” he suggested, “by the droshky which you have so cleverly planned. That is, if I should let you go.”
“We could not get through without you. And what does it matter whether the Ataman Zorogoff kills my father in the morning, or you kill him now. No, Peter Petrovitch, I plead only to save you from blood upon your hands—and to save your own life—the life of an American officer.”
At this, he thought of Wassili and smiled.
“I mean Zorogoff,” she hastened to say. “He would not let you escape, if you gave him reason to destroy you—if you killed my father.”
“You can argue for Zorogoff, who will destroy you both?” he asked, making no attempt to mask his incredulity.