"Pardon me! When you have forgiven me I'll take it," timidly said
Gavrilo, falling on the wet sand at Tchelkache's feet.
"You lie, fool, you'll take it at once!" said Tchelkache, confidently, and raising his head, by a painful effort, he thrust the money before his face. "Take it, take it! You haven't worked for nothing! Don't be ashamed of having failed to assassinate a man! No one will claim anyone like me. You'll be thanked, on the contrary, when it's learned what you've done. There, take it! No one'll know what you've done and yet it deserves some reward! Here it is!"
Gavrilo saw that Tchelkache was laughing, and he felt relieved. He held the money tightly in his hand.
"Brother! Will you forgive me? Won't you do it? Say?" he supplicated tearfully.
"Little brother!" mimicked Tchelkache, rising on his tottering limbs. "Why should I pardon you? There's no occasion for it. To-day it's you, to-morrow it'll be me . . ."
"Ah! brother, brother!" sighed Gavrilo, sorrowfully, shaking his head.
Tchelkache was standing before him, smiling strangely; the cloth wrapped around his head, gradually reddening, resembled a Turkish head-dress.
The rain fell in torrents. The sea complained dully and the waves beat angrily against the beach.
The two men were silent.
"Good-bye!" said Tchelkache, with cold irony.