"Two hundred silver roubles."
"Two hundred silver roubles!" exclaimed Nicholas, opening his avaricious eyes with wonder, and then closing them again, so that they looked like two narrow slits.
"Yes, every denusca, if I, by fair means or by foul, prevent the delivery of that paper into the hands of old Bernikoff."
"He whose dagger tickled the throat of Peter III.: and by whom are you offered this, friend Podatchkine?"
"I can trust you: well, by the Lieutenant Apollo Usakoff."
"The grandson of the Hetman Mazeppa!"
"The same; and by Basil Mierowitz——"
"Well, and what the devil have I to do with all this?" growled the half-breed.
"Much: fifty roubles will be yours, Paulovitch, if you will assist me," said Podatchkine in a husky whisper.
"Let us talk over this: dismount, and come in."