In a state of extreme agitation, Alexis hurried Linsk into his room, locked the door, then turning round upon him, said to him, almost with fierceness, “Tell me, Linsk—tell me—are they well?”
“Who do you mean?” said the old fur-hunter—scarcely knowing whether Alexis was not out of his head.
“Tell me, instantly,” said Alexis, “is he alive?”
“Is who alive?” said Linsk.
“My father—my father,” said Alexis, bursting into tears, from apprehensions suggested by the hesitation of Linsk.
“I hope he is,” said Linsk, a good deal affected; “I hope he is alive, and well.”
“And Kathinka—is she well?”
“I hope so,” said Linsk.
“My dear friend—do not torment me thus; see, I am calm! Tell me the whole truth—I will hear it all—I believe I can bear it. If they are dead, let me know it—anything is better than suspense.”
“Well, now that’s right, be calm and I will tell it all—but you must give me time. In telling a long story, I must manage it just as a crane does an eel—I must swallow the head first, and then go to the tail. If it gets cross-ways, it won’t go down at all, you know.”