“Why did they kill him?” asked Serge.

But no one would say.

So after this Serge was more perplexed than ever.

Every one noticed how thoughtful Serge was.

“He is a wise boy,” they said.  “Some day he will be a learned man.  He will read and write.”

“Defend us!” exclaimed Itch.  “It is a dangerous thing.”

One day Liddoff, the priest, came to the house with a great roll of paper in his hand.

“What is it?” asked Serge.

“It is the alphabet,” said Liddoff.

“Give it to me,” said Serge with eagerness.

“Not all of it,” said Liddoff gently.  “Here is part of it,” and he tore off a piece and gave it to the boy.

“Defend us!” said Yump, the cook.  “It is not a wise thing,” and she shook her head as she put a new lump of clay in the wooden stove to make it burn more brightly.

Then everybody knew that Serge was learning the alphabet, and that when he had learned it he was to go to Moscow, to the Teknik, and learn what else there was.

So the days passed and the months.  Presently Ivan Ivanovitch said, “Now he is ready,” and he took down a bag of rubles that was concealed on a shelf beside the wooden stove in the kitchen and counted them out after the Russian fashion, “Ten, ten, and yet ten, and still ten, and ten,” till he could count no further.

“Protect us!” said Yump.  “Now he is rich!” and she poured oil and fat mixed with sand into the bread and beat it with a stick.

“He must get ready,” they said.  “He must buy clothes.  Soon he will go to Moscow to the Teknik and become a wise man.”

Now it so happened that there came one day to the door a drosky, or one-horse carriage, and in it was a man and beside him a girl.  The man stopped to ask the way from Itch, who pointed down the post road over the plain.  But his hand trembled and his knees shook as he showed the way.  For the eyes of the man who asked the way were dark with hate and cruel with power.  And he wore a uniform and there was brass upon his cap.  But Serge looked only at the girl.  And there was no hate in her eyes, but only a great burning, and a look that went far beyond the plain, Serge knew not where.  And as Serge looked, the girl turned her face and their eyes met, and he knew that he would never forget her.  And he saw in her face that she would never forget him.  For that is love.

“Who is that?” he asked, as he went back again with Itch into the house.

“It is Kwartz, chief of police,” said Itch, and his knees still trembled as he spoke.

“Where is he taking her?” said Serge.

“To Moscow, to the prison,” answered Itch.  “There they will hang her and she will die.”

“Who is she?” asked Serge.  “What has she done?” and as he spoke he could still see the girl’s face, and the look upon it, and a great fire went sweeping through his veins.

“She is Olga Ileyitch,” answered Itch, “She made the bomb that killed Popoff, the inspector, and now they will hang her and she will die.”