“And of the same faith? …”
“The same, I expect …” Mezhenétsky answered, with a smile.
“It’s about that I want a word with thee.”
“And what is it you want exactly?”
“To know your faith.”
“Our faith. Well, sit down,” said Mezhenétsky, shrugging his shoulders. “This is our faith: We believe that there are men who, having seized all the power, torment and deceive the people, and that we must not spare ourselves, but must struggle against them in order to save the people they exploit.” From habit Mezhenétsky used the word “exploit,” but correcting himself, he substituted the word “torment”; “and so they must be destroyed. They kill, and so they must be killed, until they come to their senses.”
The old sectarian sighed, without raising his eyes.
“Our faith lies in not sparing ourselves, and in abolishing despotic Government, and establishing a free, elected, popular Government.”
The old man heaved a deep sigh; rose, smoothed the skirts of his gown, sank down on his knees, and knocking his forehead on the dirty floor, lay at Mezhenétsky’s feet.
“Why are you bowing?”
“Do not deceive me! Reveal to me wherein your faith lies,” said the old man, without rising or lifting his head.
“I have told you wherein our faith lies. But get up, or else I won’t talk.”
The old man rose.