18. Do Not Play With Daggers

He drew from his bosom a dagger, alike in everything to the one in whose hand we saw him enclose his precious message at the house of the other Ataman; like also the one which Maroussia, a moment before, had slipped into the pocket of Méphodiévna, and which, without doubt, if it were the same, had made but a short stay there.

“Upon my word!” said the lord, who had a passion for beautiful weapons, “here is an object truly precious,” and, reaching out his hand to the old man, his eyes shining with covetousness, he said to him distinctly: “I wish to examine this marvelous dagger more closely.”

The mischievous old man, no doubt to excite the desire of the Russian, turned and returned his dagger, drew out and put back the beautiful blade in its sheath, but without placing it in the nobleman’s hand.

“This dagger is my friend,” he said, “it is my defense. When we are together, we fear nothing; more than this, it is sacred to me, for I received it from my father.”

“Let me, then, touch it,” said the nobleman, “I will not swallow it.”

“It would be unhealthy, my lord, even for a strong, young stomach like yours.”

Yielding to his wishes, the singer at last confided the dagger to him.

The Ataman, whom this little scene had diverted for a moment, relapsed into his apathy. He came out of it with a start. A large drop of water, such as prefaces severe storms, had fallen on his hand. The rumbling of thunder, distant at first, was coming nearer, the storm was approaching with giant strides. The heavens had become in a moment as dark as night.

“Give back the dagger to this man,” said the Ataman to his guest, “and let us go in.” “What a blade,” said the great lord with admiration, and brandishing it in his hand he made it glitter by the flashes of lightning.

“I want it,” he said at last in an imperious voice to the old man. “Set your price and sell it to me.”

His tone of voice was not that of a buyer, but of a man who can take, and who is going to take that which he thinks himself very good to be willing to buy. It was a command, and as the old man still remained silent, he added:

“Sell it to me; money replaces everything.”

“Everything!” answered the old Ukrainian, in a voice which was struggling to be calm. “What, even honor, and liberty!” “Ah! Yes!” cried the Russian. “That which you call honor, and that which you call liberty!”

Then, looking into the face of the old man, and answering without shame the thought which the pretended singer suggested to him:

“If Ukraine becomes rich under the government of Russia, she will not long remember that she was once proud and free.”