"Vasya, Vasya, speak to me," he cried, clutching him by the shoulder. But Vasya did not speak; he went on as before, scribbling with a dry pen over the paper.
"At last I have made the pen go faster," he said, without looking up at Arkady.
Arkady seized his hand and snatched away the pen.
A moan broke from Vasya. He dropped his hand and raised his eyes to Arkady; then with an air of misery and exhaustion he passed his hand over his forehead as though he wanted to shake off some leaden weight that was pressing upon his whole being, and slowly, as though lost in thought, he let his head sink on his breast.
"Vasya, Vasya!" cried Arkady in despair. "Vasya!"
A minute later Vasya looked at him, tears stood in his large blue eyes, and his pale, mild face wore a look of infinite suffering. He whispered something.
"What, what is it?" cried Arkady, bending down to him.
"What for, why are they doing it to me?" whispered Vasya. "What for? What have I done?"
"Vasya, what is it? What are you afraid of? What is it?" cried Arkady, wringing his hands in despair.
"Why are they sending me for a soldier?" said Vasya, looking his friend straight in the face. "Why is it? What have I done?"