But Cain hardly heard his words. He swayed backwards and forwards, waving his hands, and continued to whisper. It was a low, passionate whisper, which vibrated with joy and hope, with worship of the strength of the maimed man, with fear and anguish.

“My day has come at last—and I am here along with you.…All of them have forsaken you—but I—I came.…You will get well, Artyom, won’t you? There is nothing seriously the matter with you, is there? And your strength will come back?”

“I shall be all right again, do not fear!…And in return for your goodness, I will take care of you as I should of a little child.”

By degrees Artyom began to feel better; the pains in his head seemed less severe, and his mind grew clearer. “I must take Cain’s part,” he said to himself. “Why not? He is so kind and frank, so straightforward in his talk.” As this thought passed through his mind he suddenly smiled; he had been conscious for a long time of some vague longing within him, and now he knew what it was he wanted.

“I am hungry! Can you find me something to eat, Cain?”

Cain leapt up so quickly that he nearly knocked himself against the beams of the barge. His face was positively transformed. There was upon it an expression of energy, and at the same time of something naïve and childlike. Artyom, this famous athlete, had asked him—Cain—for something to eat!

“I’ll do everything for you, everything. It is all ready here in the corner. I’ve prepared it. I know…when people are ill they ought to eat—I know that—and so on my way here I spent a whole ruble on food.”

“We will settle our accounts later on. I will pay you back ten rubles. I shall be able to do it—the money is not mine, but I have only to say ‘Give!’ and I get as much as I want.”

He laughed good-naturedly, and, hearing him, Cain beamed with happiness and grew merry himself.

“I know all about it! Now tell me what you want. I will do anything in the world for you—anything!”

“Good! Well, then, begin by rubbing me down with vodka. Don’t give me any food. First rub me down. Can you do it?”

“Why can’t I? You will see, I shall do it as well as the best doctor.”

“Go ahead! Rub me, and then I shall get up.”

“Get up? No, I don’t think you will be able to do that.”

“You don’t think so? Well, wait and see. Do you think I am going to spend the night here? What a queer little body you are! Give me my rubbing first, and then go into the suburb to Mokevna, the baker-woman, and tell her I am moving into her shed, and she should put some straw down in it. There I shall get well. You shall be well paid for your pains, have no fear.”

“I believe you,” replied Cain, pouring some vodka onto Artyom’s chest. “I believe you more than I do myself. Oh, I know you!”

“Oh! Oh! Rub, rub! It doesn’t matter that it hurts. Keep on rubbing. Oh! Oh! Here! Here!…There!…Oh! Oh!” roared Artyom.

“I would throw myself into the water to please you,” said Cain, continuing his protestations.