"I don't want to. I don't need it."
"Now everybody needs a pistol," said Melnikov simply, and slipped the revolver into Yevsey's overcoat pocket. "Yes, there was a Yakov, now there is no Yakov."
"It was I who marked him for death," thought Yevsey, looking at his comrade's face.
Zarubin's brows were sternly drawn. A look of serious preoccupation gleamed and died away in his dim eyes. His little black mustache bristled on his raised lip. He appeared to be annoyed. His half-open mouth seemed ready to pour forth a rapid torrent of irritated talk.
"Come," said Melnikov.
"And he—how about them?" asked Yevsey, tearing his eyes from Zarubin.
"The police will take them away. It's against the law to remove the killed. Let's go somewhere, and shake ourselves up. I haven't eaten to-day. I can't eat—the third day without food. No sleep either." He sighed painfully, and concluded with somber sang froid. "I should have been killed in Yakov's place."
"Sasha will ruin all," said Yevsey, through his teeth. "He'll ruin us all."
"Blindness of the soul."
They walked along the street without observing anything, and each spoke that with which his own mind was occupied. Both were like drunken men.