his misdeeds. He resolved not to speak to him, not to contradict him
in anything, to execute all his commands and if he succeeded in freeing
himself from him unmolested, to sing a Te Deum to Saint Nicholas. An
earnest prayer was on his lips. But he controlled himself, puffed like
a steamboat, and in silence cast furtive glances at Tchelkache.

The other, bending his long, lean body forward, like a bird poising for
flight, gazed ahead into the darkness with his hawk's eyes. Turning
his fierce, aquiline nose from side to side, he held the tiller with
one hand and with the other tugged at his moustache which by a constant
trembling betrayed the quiet smile on the thin lips. Tchelkache was
pleased with his success, with himself and with this lad, whom he had
terrified into becoming his slave. He enjoyed in advance to-morrow's
feast and now he rejoiced in his strength and the subjection of this
young, untried boy. He saw him toil; he took pity on him and tried to
encourage him.

"Hey! Say there!" he asked softly. "Were you very much afraid?"

"It doesn't matter!" sighed Gavrilo, coughing.

"You needn't keep on rowing so hard. It's ended, now. There's only
one more bad place to pass. . . Rest yourself."

Gavrilo stopped docilely, wiped the perspiration from his face with the
sleeve of his blouse and again dipped the oars in the water.

"That's right, row more gently. So that the water tells no tales.
There's a channel to cross. Softly, softly. Here, brother, are
serious people. They are quite capable of amusing themselves with a