e, but he's very old!"

"Then a horse, a good horse! A cow . . . sheep . . . poultry . . . eh?"

"Why do you say that? If only! . . . Ah! Lord, how I might enjoy life."

"Yes, brother, life under those circumstances would not be bad . . .
I, too, I know a little about such things. I also have a nest
belonging to me. My father was one of the richest peasants of his
village."

Tchelkache rowed slowly. The boat danced upon the waves which beat
against its sides; it scarcely advanced over the somber sea, now
disporting itself harder than ever. The two men dreamed, rocked upon
the water and gazing vaguely around them. Tchelkache had spoken to
Gavrilo of his village with the purpose of quieting him and helping him
to recover from his emotion. He at first spoke with a sceptical smile
hidden under his moustache, but as he talked and recalled the joys of
country life, in regard to which he himself had long since been
disabused, and that he had forgotten until this moment, he became
carried away, and instead of talking to the lad, he began unconsciously
to harangue:

"The essential part of the life of a peasant, brother, is liberty. You
must be your own master. You own your house: it is not worth much, but
it belongs to you. You possess a piece of ground, a little corner,
perhaps, but it is yours. Your chickens, eggs, apples are yours. You
are a king upon the earth. Then you must be methodical. . . As soon
as you are up in the morning, you must go to work. In the spring it is
one thing, in the summer another, in the autumn and winter still
another. From wherever you may be you always return to your home.
There is warmth, rest! . . . You are a king, are you not?"

Tchelkache had waxed enthusiastic over this long enumeration of the
privileges and rights of the peasant, forgetting only to speak of his
duties.

Gavrilo looked at him with curiosity, and was also aroused to
enthusiasm. He had already had time in the course of this conversation
to forget with whom he was dealing; he saw before him only a peasant
like himself, attached to the earth by labor, by several generations of
laborers, by memories of childhood, but who had voluntarily withdrawn
from it and its cares and who was now suffering the punishment of his
ill-advised act.

"Yes, comrade, that's true! Oh! how true that is! See now, take your
case, for instance: what are you now, without land? Ah! friend, the
earth is like a mother: one doesn'