as gave you yours?” Cain spoke rapidly, putting question after question without pausing for an answer. Words rose rapidly to his lips, as, with the remembrance of all the insults and outrages that had been heaped upon him, his heart all at once overflowed in a burning torrent of speech.

Artyom began to feel ill at ease.

“Listen, Cain,” he said, “let all that be! Curse me if I ever touch you with a finger—and if anyone else harms you, I will tear him to pieces! Do you understand?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Cain in triumph, and even clicked his tongue. “There! You are guilty before me—forgive me! Do not get angry, because of the fact that you know that you are guilty before me. But still I know, yes, I am certain of it, that you are less guilty than the others! I understand it! And the others, they do nothing but cover me with their dirty spit. You spit at me too, but then you also spit at them. You dealt more cruelly with others than with me, and then I have thought to myself: ‘This strong man insults and beats me, not because I am a Jew, but because I am like the others, no better than they are, and because I live among them.’ And…I have always loved you, but my love was mixed with fear. I used to look at you and think that you could have torn open the lion’s mouth and slain the Philistines. I saw you beating the others, and I admired the way you set about it, and I wanted to be strong too, but I am only like a flea.”

Artyom gave a hoarse laugh.

“True—you are like a flea!”

He did not follow all that Cain was saying, but it was pleasant to see the Jew’s little figure beside him. And as Cain wandered on in his excited whisper, many thoughts passed slowly through Artyom’s mind.

“I wonder what time it is—about midday, I should think. And not one of them has come to see her sweet- heart. But the Jew—he came—and he gave me help and says he loves me—and yet I have beaten and insulted him, how many times! And he praises my strength! Will that strength return to me? My God, if only it does!”

Artyom heaved a deep sigh. He pictured his enemies after he had given them a beating, lying swollen as he was now. And they, too, would be lying helpless somewhere, but it would be their own, their comrades who would come and look after them, not the Jew.

Artyom looked at Cain, and it seemed to him that his thoughts had brought a kind of bitterness into his mouth and throat.

He spat, and sighed heavily.

And Cain, his face contorted with excitement, and his whole body quivering, went on talking:

“And when you cried…I cried too…out of pity for your lost strength.”

“And I thought someone was mimicking me,” said Artyom with a gloomy smile.

“I always loved your strength, and I prayed to God: ‘Our God, eternal in the heavens and on earth, let it come about that this strong man shall need me! Let me be of service to him, and let his strength become a protection to me! Let his strength stand between me and the continual persecution I suffer, and let my enemies perish by that strength!’ That was my prayer, and I went on praying for a long, long time, asking God to turn my greatest enemy into my protector, as He had given Mordecai a defender in the person of the king, the conqueror of the nations. And just then you began to cry, and I cried too, but suddenly you shouted at me, and all my prayers vanished.”

“Well, how should I know, you queer fellow,” said Artyom, with a guilty smile on his face.