During that last of our many rides together he was far less taciturn then usual; I had never heard him say so much at one stretch as he did while we pressed on through the dusk.
“We have shown you something of the real Russia since you came back—how many weeks since? And now, if you get safe across the frontier, you will be wise to remain there, as any wise man—or woman either—who values life.”
“I don’t value my life,” I interrupted bitterly.
“You think you do not. That is because you are hasty and ignorant, though the ignorance is not your fault. You think your heart is broken, hein? Well, one of these days, not long hence, perhaps, you will think differently; and find that life is a good thing after all,—when it has not to be lived in Russia! If we ever meet again, you will know I have spoken the truth.”
I knew that before many days had passed, and wondered then how much he could have told me if he had been minded.
“If we meet again!” I echoed sadly. “Is that likely, friend Mishka?”
“God knows! Stranger things have happened. If I die with, or before my master,—well, I die. If I do not, I, too, shall make for the frontier when he no longer has need of me. Where is the good of staying? What should I do here? I would like to see peace—yes, but there will be no peace within this generation—”
“But your father?” I asked, thinking of the stanch old man, who had gone back to his duty at Zostrov.
“My father is dead.”
“Dead!” I exclaimed, startled for the moment out of the inertness that paralyzed my brain.