He regretted bitterly that he had not died the night before in the explosion. He did not feel very brave. He talked to them bravely enough, but he trembled as his time approached. That death horrified him. He tried to keep from looking at the other sack. He took the two ikons, of Saint Luke and of the Virgin, from his pocket and prayed to them. He thought of the Lady in Black and wept.
A voice in the shadows said:
“He is crying, the poor little fellow.”
It was Annouchka’s voice.
Rouletabille dried his tears and said:
“Messieurs, one of you must have a mother.”
But all the voices cried:
“No, no, we have mothers no more!”
“They have killed them,” cried some. “They have sent them to Siberia,” cried others.
“Well, I have a mother still,” said the poor lad. “I will not have the opportunity to embrace her. It is a mother that I lost the day of my birth and that I have found again, but—I suppose it is to be said—on the day of my death. I shall not see her again. I have a friend; I shall not see him again either. I have two little ikons here for them, and I am going to write a letter to each of them, if you will permit it. Swear to me that you will see these reach them.”