“Yes, she lived there, and grieved.”
Silence.
“Well?... Go on.”
Silence again.
“Well, go on. What did she grieve about?” insisted the interested Anton.
“Go to the devil, that’s what! Why did I start a story? You know I hoofed it thirty versts to-day. She grieved about you, you fool, that’s what she did. Let me sleep!”
Anton let out a sound of utter exhaustion.
“Well, you’re a rogue. I see your scheme,” he said reproachfully.
“All right, knave,” a minute later but more softly, and even sorrowfully. “Yes, a knave.... I never saw such a knave before.”
All was quiet in the booth. The rain beat harder and harder on the slanting roof, the earth grew black, the puddles disappeared in the darkness. The monastery garden whispered something, and the buildings behind the wall stood defenceless against the rain, which pattered on the gutters. The guard within the enclosure beat upon his wet rattle.