"I wish to defend the faith."
"In company with the Pagan."
"Stop! You are not the voice of my conscience. Stop, I tell you!"
"Blood will weigh you down, the tears of men will accuse you, death awaits you, judgment awaits you!"
"Screech-owl!" shouted Hmelnitski in rage, and flashed a knife before the breast of Skshetuski.
"Strike!" said Skshetuski.
Again came a moment of silence; again there was nothing to be heard but the snore of the sleeping men and the plaintive chirp of the cricket.
Hmelnitski stood for a time with the knife at Skshetuski's breast; suddenly he trembled, he bethought himself, dropped the knife, and seizing the decanter of vudka, began to drink. He emptied it, and sat heavily on the bench.
"I cannot stab him," he muttered,--"I cannot. It is late--is that daylight?--but it is late to turn from the road. Why speak to me of judgment and blood?"
He had already drunk much; the vudka was rising to his head. He went on, gradually losing consciousness: "What judgment? The Khan promised me reinforcements. Tugai Bey is sleeping here! To-morrow the Cossacks march. With us is Saint Michael the victorious! But if--if--I ransomed thee from Tugai Bey--remember it, and say--Oh, something pains--pains! To turn from the road--'tis late!--judgment--Nalivaika--Pavlyuk--"