“Unless my memory plays me false, your master forbade you to meddle with this same steward,” I remarked dryly. “His displeasure does not seem to affect you deeply.”
“He would not submit as tamely as I do in a like case,” returned Michael, sullenly.
“I must admit,” I said lightly, “that I can understand your repugnance to the sleek steward; his countenance is sufficiently unlovely to tempt an honest man to beat him; but the ardor of your resentment seems a little ill-timed and treacherous.”
“Treacherous!” The man was choking with his intense anger. “No treachery could be great enough for Boris Polotsky!”
My interest was roused, and moreover I saw the possibility of obtaining a warm adherent in this fellow.
“You have a grievance, Michael,” I said pleasantly, “and I sympathize warmly with your detestation of this man; what is your especial wrong?”
The fellow hesitated for a moment, and I seemed to feel his keen eyes trying to see my face in the darkness.
“I have suffered many wrongs from him,” he said bitterly, falling into the Russian tongue, and therefore speaking more volubly; “he is a very devil, and the devil’s emissary. In every way in which one man can hurt another, he has injured me.”
“For instance, wedding your sweetheart?” I suggested lightly.
The man swore under his breath.