He evidently spoke because he noticed Olénin felt ill at ease and isolated among the Cossacks.
“It’s just a habit,” answered Olénin. “Why?”
“H’m, if one of us were to smoke there would be a row! Look there now, the mountains are not far off,” continued Lukáshka, “yet you can’t get there! How will you get back alone? It’s getting dark. I’ll take you, if you like. You ask the corporal to give me leave.”
“What a fine fellow!” thought Olénin, looking at the Cossack’s bright face. He remembered Maryánka and the kiss he had heard by the gate, and he was sorry for Lukáshka and his want of culture. “What confusion it is,” he thought. “A man kills another and is happy and satisfied with himself as if he had done something excellent. Can it be that nothing tells him that it is not a reason for any rejoicing, and that happiness lies not in killing, but in sacrificing oneself?”
“Well, you had better not meet him again now, mate!” said one of the Cossacks who had seen the skiff off, addressing Lukáshka. “Did you hear him asking about you?”
Lukáshka raised his head.
“My godson?” said Lukáshka, meaning by that word the dead Chéchen.
“Your godson won’t rise, but the red one is the godson’s brother!”
“Let him thank God that he got off whole himself,” replied Lukáshka.
“What are you glad about?” asked Olénin. “Supposing your brother had been killed; would you be glad?”