“Will you bring me some spice-cakes and a samovar?” he asked gently.
“Yes, master,” she said, and turned to escape.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Peter. “I am an American.”
“Yes, master,” she repeated. But she had no comprehension of what he had said.
“Here are five rubles for you,” said Peter, holding out the note to her.
But she fled through the door as he moved toward her.
“The same old system working,” thought Peter, as he watched the poor girl running down the hall. “The poor people frightened out of their wits by the ruling class! Damn such a country!”
He closed the door. He realized now that oppression was not dead in the country. His years in America had dimmed his memories of such scenes. He had begun to think that the revolution had bettered conditions for the people, that in the twenty years since he was a boy in Siberia there had been improvement.
The old rage began to grow in him again. He lusted to kill. He wanted to help the people, aside from his own blood vengeance. He wondered if his dead father had not been able to help in having the son return to Chita. His return might be in the nature of a destiny which it would be sinful to avoid, even divine in its workings. It was all as if some controlling star had put power into his hands, and had swung him back to the land of his boyhood. It would be impossible to go against fate. He felt that no man could stand out against what had every sign of being a directed destiny.
Peter was filled with a strange exaltation, a very frenzy of joy over the thought that it would now be possible to pay off his old debt of revenge against Michael Kirsakoff. The words of an old folk song began to run through his mind and he hummed it gently, pausing to catch some of the almost forgotten words.