Accustomed as they were, his brothers and he, to treat their mother roughly, she being a simple woman who did not understand them, he stopped, and, in the midst of his shivering, said to her, harshly:
"That's it, I knew how it would be. You understand nothing, mama, nothing!"
"Very well, my son. What is the matter with you? Are you cold?"
"I am cold," answered Vasily, and he began to walk again, looking sidewise now and then at the old woman with the same air of irritation.
"You are cold, my son . . ."
"Ah! You speak of cold, but soon . . ." He made a gesture of desperation.
Again the mother began to sob.
"I said to your father: 'Go to see him, he is your son, your flesh; give him a last farewell.' He would not."
"The devil take him! He is not a father. All his life he has been a scoundrel. He remains one!"
"Yet, Vasya, he is your father. . . ."
And the old woman shook her head reproachfully.
It was ridiculous and terrible. This paltry and useless conversation engaged them when face to face with death. While almost weeping, so sad was the situation, Vasily cried out:
"Understand then, mother. They are going to hang me, to hang me! Do you understand, yes or no?"
"And why did you kill?" she cried.
