Ilya shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing.
"Wait, my boy. I'll give you something, just in case you forget me."
The shopman strode slowly across to the boy, and looked in his face with round, malignant eyes.
Ilya got up, and with a rapid movement took a long, thin knife from the counter, and said "Come on!"
The shopman stood still, measuring with a fixed glance the strong sturdy figure, with long arms and the knife in one hand, then murmured scornfully: "Pooh, you convict's brat!"
"Just come on, come on!" repeated the boy, and advanced a step. Everything whirled before his eyes, but in his breast he felt a great strength which urged him bravely forward.
"Drop that knife!" said his master's voice.
Ilya shuddered when he saw the red beard and livid face of his master, but did not move.
"Put down that knife, I tell you," repeated the merchant quietly.
Ilya, who felt as though he were moving through a dark cloud, put the knife down on the counter, gave a loud sob, and sat down again on the floor. He felt giddy. His head and his damaged ear pained him. A heavy weight that lay on his breast hindered his breathing, pressed on his heart, and rose up slowly in his throat, choking his speech. He heard his employer's voice as though he were far away.