Kollomietzev merely shrugged his shoulders and moved away to the window with a graceful swing of the body. At this moment the adjutant brought in Markelov.
The governor had been right; he was unnaturally calm. Even his habitual moroseness had given place to an expression of weary indifference, which did not change when he caught sight of his brother-in-law. Only in the glance which he threw on the German adjutant, who was escorting him, there was a momentary flash of the old hatred he felt towards such people. His coat had been torn in several places and hurriedly stitched up with coarse thread; his forehead, eyebrows, and the bridge of his nose were covered with small scars caked with clotted blood. He had not washed, but had combed his hair.
“Sergai Mihailovitch!” Sipiagin began excitedly, taking a step or two towards him and extending his right hand, only so that he might touch him or stop him if he made a movement in advance, “Sergai Mihailovitch! I am not here to tell you of our amazement, our deep distress—you can have no doubt of that! You wanted to ruin yourself and have done so! But I’ve come to tell you ... that ... that ... to give you the chance of hearing sound common-sense through the voice of honour and friendship. You can still mitigate your lot and, believe me, I will do all in my power to help you, as the honoured head of this province can bear witness!” At this point Sipiagin raised his voice. “A real penitence of your wrongs and a full confession without reserve which will be duly presented in the proper quarters——”
“Your excellency,” Markelov exclaimed suddenly, turning towards the governor—the very sound of his voice was calm, though it was a little hoarse; “I thought that you wanted to see me in order to cross-examine me again, but if I have been brought here solely by Mr. Sipiagin’s wish, then please order me to be taken back again. We cannot understand one another. All he says is so much Greek to me.”
“Greek, eh!” Kollomietzev shrieked. “And to set peasants rioting, is that Greek too? Is that Greek too, eh?”
“What have you here, your excellency? A landowner of the secret police? And how zealous he is!” Markelov remarked, a faint smile of pleasure playing about his pale lips.
Kollomietzev stamped and raged, but the governor stopped him.
“It serves you right, Simion Petrovitch. You shouldn’t interfere in what is not your business.”
“Not my business ... not my business.... It seems to me that it’s the business of every nobleman——”
Markelov scanned Kollomietzev coldly and slowly, as if for the last time and then turned to Sipiagin.