“Turning upon my father I cursed him. But he merely laughed, and, lighting a fresh cigarette, affected to treat my angry passion with utter indifference.
“With my pocket-knife I severed the cords that bound my hapless wife to the reeking frame, and, lifting her off, held her in my arms.
“I kissed her ashen, blood-smeared face, and eagerly placed my hand upon her breast.
“There was no movement. She was dead!
“When I withdrew my hand the little blue malachite heart fell to the ground. It had been broken in half by the pressure of the body against the frame.
“Lifting my face to heaven, I swore that the murder of the woman I loved should be avenged.
“But my father only laughed sarcastically. ‘Bah! you’re but a lad,’ he said contemptuously, as he turned away. ‘And, after all, death under the knout is preferable to work in the mines.’”
Vassilii was silent and thoughtful. Then, with a muttered imprecation, he ground his teeth, and his lean hands clenched tightly.
Several minutes passed before he resumed.