Greg. Ha! I wasn't a spirit then. They put me in while I was still in this life, where the flesh throbs and the blood sings. I was like this boy, I say, and I came out two months ago a broken consumptive wretch. You see me, Lavrov. Am I fit to leaven the race? I am what oppression makes, not the meek angels you dream about. Into my children will go the bitterness of the wronged to come out in hate, the feebleness of the broken man to come out in cunning, the stinging for revenge to come out in murder——
Adr. But if you had triumphed—the immortal you—what a soul you could bequeath to your country! O, one such could almost save her!
Greg. One! She has them by the thousand, everywhere thwarting us—their holy tears putting out our living fire as fast as we kindle it! [Laying his hands on Vasil] Ah, here is a spirit worth all your saints, Lavrov. Son, take up my torch as I drop it—my torch and sword, lad——
Vasil. [Eager and trembling] I am a singer, not a fighter.
Greg. Songs are good weapons. Write them for us, boy. Give us one to-night before the fire dies there. [Knocking Vasil's breast] A war-song——
Vasil. [Springing up] I will! A song from Schlusselburg!
[Rushes out, street door]
Adr. Are you the devil, Gregorief?
Greg. [Laughing] If I am I must have my legions. Did you intend my recruit for a saint, Lavrov? [Fervidly] I have sworn to level my prison before I die——
Adr. You have laid another stone upon it. There is but one power before which the prisons will forever fall—the power of the soul. Strike them down, and the blows that lay them low will raise them again for your children.