Truly a strange being, imbued with the ever-present superstition of the Russian peasant, thought Nello to himself.
“And you want money from me. Of course you know what my duty is, as a peaceable man who has no sympathy with robbers and assassins?”
“Certainly, Monsieur. If you don’t choose to shoot me in a vital spot and so insure my death, you ought to maim me to prevent me from moving, leave me here and go and fetch the police from the village to take me into custody.” The man had spoken so far in a low, imperturbable voice; then at the end he lashed himself into sudden fury and shrieked out.
“It’s a toss of a copper to me what you do. But if you won’t give me any money, kill me outright. I have not made such a success of life that I am anxious to enjoy much more of it. Kill me, Monsieur, and finish it once for all. The police will thank you for having got rid of ‘Ivan the Cuckoo.’ They won’t ask too many questions.”
Nello thought for some little time. His thoughts went back to a very miserable night, some six months ago. He had been playing in the streets and had returned home with nothing. He owed the rent for the miserable hovel in which they sheltered; they had no food.
He had looked his sister squarely in the face and had whispered the question—“Is life worth living, Anita, under such conditions?” She had returned his gaze with a face as white as his own, but she had not faltered, as she replied, “Nello, I leave it in your hands.” And, thank Heaven, he had conquered that terrible fit of despair, to find, later on, a new world opening to him.
He handed the wretched man a sum of money and spoke in very gentle tones.
“God be good to you, my poor friend, and soften your heart. I know not if the world has been too harsh to you, or you have too grievously offended the world. Go in peace. I am not your judge, and I will not be your executioner.”
With a brief blessing, the outlaw took the money and slunk away in the gathering darkness.