Vasily kept silence, shivering the while. The policeman, vexed and even chagrined, explained:
"I wanted to sustain him, and he—he . . ."
"Come, Vasily, I will sustain you," said Werner.
He tried to take his comrade's arm. But the latter repulsed him, and cried louder than ever.
"Vasily, it is I, Werner!"
"I know! Don't touch me! I want to walk alone!"
And, still trembling, he entered the carriage and sat down in a corner. Werner leaned toward Musya, and asked in a low voice, designating Vasily with his eyes:
"Well, how are things with him?"
"Badly!" answered Musya, in a whisper. "He is already dead. Tell me, Werner, does death really exist?"
"I don't know, Musya; but I think not!" answered Werner in a serious and thoughtful tone.
"That is what I thought! And he? I suffered on his account during the whole ride; it seemed to me that I was travelling beside a dead man."
"I don't know, Musya. Perhaps death still exists for some. Later it will not exist at all. For me, for instance, death has existed, but now it exists no more."
The slightly pallid cheeks of Musya reddened.
"It has existed for you, Werner? For you?"
"Yes, but no more. As for you!"
They heard a sound at the door of the railway carriage; Michka the Tzigane entered spitting, breathing noisily, and making a racket with his boot-heels. He glanced about him, and stopped short.
