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Updated: May 17, 2025
Kiril got out of the boat awkwardly, and no less awkwardly stood up on the sand, his face averted; he smiled to hide his uneasiness. Piotr's irritation grew. "Please be seated," he said, trying to assume a pleasant tone. "I've done a lot of sitting," answered Kiril in an artificial bass voice.
Elisaveta could now see, quite close to her, his fatigued, desperate eyes. There was a loud, near report of a revolver. Kiril reeled; there was the sound of breaking twigs as he fell heavily and rolled down the hollow. Presently a running Cossack came down precipitately from above. He brushed so closely past them that a twig caught by his body struck Alkina's shoulder.
Elisaveta drew nearer to him and kissed his lips with a tranquil, innocent, delicious kiss, such as a sister gives a brother. Then she snatched up her bundle and ran into the passage, one of the doors of which led to a small storeroom where the literature was kept in a trunk under the floor. She ran into Kiril on the way. "Is Aleksei home, my lad?" "Yes," said Elisaveta; "enter, comrade Kiril."
All this was very touching, but it had lost its freshness by constant repetition the pity of it had become, as it were, stamped out. Kiril, indeed, was a common type, whose state of mind made him valuable as material to be used up at an opportune moment in the interests of a political cause. Stchemilov was saying: "The Black Hundred are organizing.
"Besides, Monsieur Kiril, you have only to say a word to the captain, you know. He is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the captain when he makes his round, he will do anything for you." "'You see, St. Thomas, he said to me the other day. 'Monsieur Kiril is a man of education, who speaks French. He is a Russian seigneur who has had misfortunes, but he is a man.
But Alkina did not stir; pale, slender, and calm, she stood tightly pressing her body against the almost perpendicular wall of their refuge. The Cossack bent over Kiril, examined him attentively, then muttered as he straightened himself: "Well, there's no breath left in him. You're done for, my clever chap." Then he turned to climb back again.
Now we would say Lizaveta." Kiril complained of his failures, of the police, of the detectives, of the patriots. His complaints were pitiful and depressing. He had been arrested and had lost his job. It was easy to see that he had suffered. The gleam of hunger trembled in his eyes. "The police treated me most horribly," complained Kiril, "and then there's my family...."
"Presently we'll make for the river-bank," said Trirodov. "We are quite close to it." Suddenly they heard the crackle of breaking twigs above them, followed by a revolver-shot and outcries. A running figure defined itself in the dark. "Kiril!" called Elisaveta in a whisper, "come here." Kiril heard her, and threw himself through the bushes in the direction of the hiding-place.
Stchemilov looked at him with amused tenderness and called to him: "Come here, Kiril, don't be afraid; there are kindly people here quite disposed to us, in fact." Piotr grumbled angrily under his breath. Misha smiled. He was eager to see the new-comer, though he hated violent discussions.
So here, at last, is your chance to appear as an orator." "How can I be of any use?" asked Elisaveta. "You have the gift of expression, Elisaveta," said Stchemilov. "You have a good voice, an easy flow of language, and you have a way of putting the case simply and clearly. It would be a sin for you not to speak." "We will bring down the Cadets a peg or two," said Kiril in his bass voice.
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