"Silence," cried the Cossack. "What do we care if you are married or not. You will be imprisoned anyway for meddling in a matter that does not concern you. Silence, I tell you. Answer my questions. What is your name?"
"My name is Velasco."
"Ha—the musician?"
"Yes."
"Very good! Try again. There is only one Velasco in Russia, as every one knows, and he isn't here. Your name? Tell the truth if you can."
"My name is Velasco."
"The devil it is!" cried the Cossack, "Ha ha!—You two make a pair between you. Velasco! The Wizard of the bow! The one all Russia is mad over! Ye saints! I would give my old cavalry boots to have heard him. Bah—you anarchist dog! Now, damn you, answer me straight or I'll make you. Your name?"
The Cossack leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing fiercely, shaking his fist. "No nonsense now; do you think we can't prove it? Quick—your name?"
The prisoner folded his arms and stared up at the cross-barred window, half closing his eyes. The brows seemed to swell, to weigh down the lids.
"Will you answer or not?"