“What happiness, brother Nychol! I am glad indeed to see you.”
“And I am sorry for you, brother Turiaf.”
The prisoner pretended not to hear these words, and went on in trembling tones: “You have a wife and children, I suppose? You must take me to see my gentle sister, and let me kiss my dear nephews.”
“The Devil fly away with you!” muttered the hangman.
“I will be a second father to them. Hark ye, brother, I am powerful; I have great influence—”
The brother replied with a sinister expression: “I know that you had! At present, you had better be thinking of that which you have doubtless contrived to curry with the saints.”
All hope faded from the prisoner’s face.
“Good God! what does this mean, dear Nychol? I am safe, since I have found you. Think that the same mother bore us; that we played together as children. Remember, Nychol, you are my brother!”
“You never remembered it until now,” replied the brutal Nychol.
“No, I cannot die by my brother’s hand!”