"Boris, what is it you want?"
"To talk"—surprised at this unexpected outburst.
"No, no. I mean, what is it all about—these killings, these burnings?"
Karlov was ready at all times to expound the theories that appealed to his dark yet simple mind—humanity overturned as one overturned the sod in the springtime to give it new life.
"To give the proletariat what is his."
"Ha!" said the little man on the cot. "What is his?"
"That which capitalism has taken away from him."
"The proletariat. The lowest in the human scale—and therefore the most helpless. They shall rule, say you. My poor Russia! Beaten and robbed for centuries, and now betrayed by a handful of madmen—with brains atrophied on one side! You are a fool, Boris. Your feet are in strange quicksands and your head among chimeras. You write some words on a piece of paper, and lo! you say they are facts. Without first proving your theories correct you would ram them down the throat of the world. The world rejects you."
"Wait and see, damned bourgeoisie!" thundered Karlov, not alive to the fact that he was being baited.
"Bourgeoisie? Yes, I am of the middle class;
