And my boy dead!
Life costly?—Cheap as mud!
You want the rubles, sicken at the blood,
You grey old limping coward!
Father
Come now, Mother!
I’d kill to live as lief as any other.
You women don’t weigh matters like a man.
I like the gold—‘tis true—but not the plan.
Why not put pebbles where the rubles were,