"Again? I must know first what there would be in it for me."

"Two hundred."

"Two hundred, you say? Yes I'd go."

"Stop! . . . And your soul?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't lose it!" said Gavrilo, smiling. "And then one
would be a man for the rest of his days!"

Tchelkache burst out laughing. "That's right, but we've joked long
enough! Let us row to the shore. Get ready."

"I? Why I'm ready. . ."

They again took their places in the boat. Tchelkache at the helm,
Gavrilo rowing.

The gray sky was covered with clouds; the troubled, green sea, played
with their craft, tossing it on its still tiny waves that broke over it
in a shower of clear, salt drops. Far off, before the prow of the
boat, appeared the yellow line of the sandy beach; back of the stern
was the free and joyous sea, all furrowed by the troops of waves that
ran up and down, already decked in their superb fringe of foam. In the
far distance, ships were rocking on the bosom of the sea and, on the
left, was a whole forest of masts mingled with the white masses of the
houses of the town. Prom there, a dull murmur is borne out to sea and
blending with the sound of the waves swelled into rapturous music.
Over all stretched a thin veil of mist, widening the distance between