but it is useless to tell you that. I knew nothing of Anna until it was too late. I wanted to die."
Karlov began to pace furiously, the candle flame springing after him each time he passed it.
There was a question in Gregor's mind. It rushed to his lips a dozen times but he dared not voice it. Olga. Since Karlov could not be tempted to murder, it would be futile to ask for an additional burden of mental torture. Perhaps it had not happened—the terrible picture he drew in his mind—since Karlov had not boasted of it.
"Come, Boris. There is blood on your hands. What is one more daub of it?"
Karlov stopped, scowled, and ran his fingers through his hair. Perhaps some ugly memory stirred the roots of it. "You wish to die!"
Gregor bent his head to his hands and Karlov resumed his pacing. After a while Gregor looked up.
"Private vengeance. You begin your rule with private vengeance."
"The vengeance of a people. All the breed. Did France stop at Louis? Do we tear up the roots of the poisonous toadstool that killed someone we loved and leave the other toadstools thriving?"
"To cure the world of all its ills by tearing up the toadstools and the flowers together—do you call that justice? The proletariat shall have everything, and he begins by killing off noble and bourgeoisie and dividing up the loot! Even with his oppression the
