He had heard the scream of his mother as the old women held her back, and had tried to reach her. The soldiers had beaten and kicked him as he lay in the snow, and Maryna, the little sister, had burst through the line, and by some miracle of grace he had been granted his life at her plea. Jurka had said with grave gallantry, as he smoothed back her heavy silken flaxen hair, that Saint Ginevra herself had surely intervened in his behalf.
“So you became a royalist, a serf—rather than join the gray marchers to the shades?” Dmitri smiled at the boy. “Better to have remained up the chimney and wakened singing in a chorus of victory. See how your hand shakes. You have bad nerves, my boy. You rush down here in a fit of pique like an emotional girl because Jurka desires to sleep and not be disturbed. If he refused to see you to-morrow, you might throw the playthings into the river and become revolutionist again. That way lies madness.”
Steccho picked up the necklace, staring at the rubies with dreamy eyes. The warmth of the fire and the good meal with wine filled him with a glow of relaxed nerves and a sense of well-being and safety.
“I am no revolutionist. I hate to kill. I hate strife and turmoil and change. Yet I hate Jurka, too, and his kind. I was his bondman because he swore to protect my mother and Maryna. Do you know what they did after the uprising in Poltenza, twelve miles from us? They shot the villagers down against the gray wall of the market-place, two hundred of them, and the girls were given first to the officers, then to the soldiery, and we found their bodies piled in the wells, a trick from the Turks. It serves two purposes. We have been patient, Dmitri. See, I ask you. Shall we sell these and give the money to those who work for freedom? How much could I get for them, two hundred thousand, three, five?”
“More,” replied Dmitri gently, “and your throat slit. Listen, my boy. Revolution is a mad dog. Who will thrust a lighted torch into the hands of a maniac or idiot? I do not think the hour has struck when men are content with the creed of violence. They weary of bloodshed. They ask, Is this all, bodies, bodies, more bodies until the whole horizon is filled with them, and one may not find the sky?”
“Ah, you talk,” Steccho muttered drowsily. “Jurka says you are a spy of the Internationals.”
Dmitri smiled, slowly stirring the charcoal embers beneath the brazier into a glow.
“I am no spy,” he said. “I am a watcher on the outer walls, my Ferad. I am an opportunist, not aristocrat nor socialist nor even democrat. I do not like a beaten path, but I love the ideals of tradition. I love opportunity. That is why America fascinates me. Life is a game, and all games lose their zest if one plays with a cheat, he who ignores the rules and sets up his own. One objects to the stacked deck and loaded dice. Also, each man should have a chance to deal. The trouble with your Jurkas, your aristocrat, he deals all the hands and gives himself the best. The trouble with you revolutionists, you would deal everybody the same kind of a hand, and that makes the game stupid and uninteresting. There is no law of chance, no thrill to your game. You fatalists believe that man deals, but Fate shuffles the cards. Have more to eat.”
“No one can play a fair game with such as Jurka.”
Steccho ignored the proffered food, his face on his hands.