st, his bare head hanging over his right shoulder, his right hand in
his trousers' pocket, and the fingers of his left hand clutching the
soil.

The mother looked at Isay's face. One eye, wide open, had its dim
glance fixed upon his hat lying between his lazily outstretched legs.
His mouth was half open in astonishment, his little shriveled body,
with its pointed head and bony face, seemed to be resting. The mother
crossed herself and heaved a sigh. He had been repulsive to her when
alive, but now she felt a mild pity for him.

"No blood!" some one remarked in an undertone. "He was evidently
knocked down with a fist blow."

A stout woman, tugging at the gendarme's hand, asked:

"Maybe he is still alive?"

"Go away!" the gendarme shouted not very loudly, withdrawing his hand.

"The doctor was here and said it was all over," somebody said to the
woman.

A sarcastic, malicious voice cried aloud:

"They've choked up a denouncer's mouth. Serves him right!"

The gendarme pushed aside the women, who were crowded close about him,
and asked in a threatening tone:

"Who was that? Who made that remark?"

The people scattered before him as he thrust them aside. A number took
quickly to their heels, and some one in the crowd broke into a mocking
laugh.

The mother went home.

"No one is sorry," she thought. The broad figure of Nikolay stood
before her like a shadow, his narrow eyes had a cold, cruel look, and
he wrung his right hand as if it had been hurt.

When Pavel and Andrey came to dinner, her first question was:

"Well? Did they arrest anybody for Isay's murder?"

"We haven't heard anything about it," answered the Little Russian.

She saw that they were both downhearted and sullen. "Nothing is said
about Nikolay?" the mother questioned again in a low voice.

Pavel fixed his stern eyes on the mother, and said distinctly:

"No, there is no talk of him. He is not even thought of in connection
with this affair. He is away. He went off on the river yesterday, and
hasn't returned yet. I inquired for him."

"Thank God!" said the mother with a sigh of relief. "Thank God!"

The Little Russian looked at her, and drooped his head.

"He lies there," the mother recounted pensively, "and looks as though
he were surprised; that's the way his face looks. And no one pities
him; no one bestows a good word on him. He is such a tiny bit of a
fellow, such a wretched-looking thing, like a bit of broken ch