The words of the accursed old man seemed to produce an effect upon Pougatcheff. Fortunately, Khlopousha began to contradict his companion.
“That will do, Naoumitch,” said he to him: “you only think of strangling and hanging. What sort of a hero are you? To look at you, one is puzzled to imagine how your body and soul contrive to hang together. You have one foot in the grave yourself, and you want to kill others. Haven’t you enough blood on your conscience?”
“And what sort of a saint are you?” replied Bailoborodoff. “Whence this compassion on your side?”
“Without doubt,” replied Khlopousha, “I also am a sinner, and this hand”—here he clenched his bony fist and, pushing back his sleeve, disclosed his hairy arm—”and this hand is guilty of having shed Christian blood. But I killed my enemy,
