“I—­forgive him,” answered Pacomius, but the light in his eye showed that he was deeply offended.

“Well,” he went on, addressing Bodlevski, “will it suit you to have the person pass as Maria Solontseva, widow of a college assessor?”

IV

THE CAPTAIN OF THE GOLDEN BAND

Bodlevski had not time to nod his head in assent, when suddenly the outer door was pushed quickly open and a tall man, well built and fair-haired, stepped swiftly into the room.  He wore a military uniform and gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

The company turned their faces toward him in startled surprise, but no one moved.  All continued to stand in close order round the table.

“Health to you, eaglets! honorable men of Vilna!  What are you up to?  What are you busy at?” cried the newcomer, swiftly approaching the table and taking the chair that Pacomius Borisovitch had just been knocked out of.

“What is all this?” he continued, with one hand seizing the vial of colorless liquid and with the other the photograph of the college assessor’s widow.  “So this is hydrochloric acid for erasing ink?  Very good!  And this is a photo!  So we are fabricating passports?  Very fine!  Business is business!  Hey!  Witnesses!”

And the fair-haired man whistled sharply.  From the outer door appeared two faces, set on shoulders of formidable proportions.

The red-headed man silently went up to the newcomer and fiercely seized him by the collar.  At the same moment the rest seized chairs or logs or bars to defend themselves.

The fair-haired man meanwhile, not in the least changing his expression of cool self-confidence, quickly slipped his hands into his pockets and pulled out a pair of small double-barreled pistols.  In the profound silence in which this scene took place they could distinctly hear the click of the hammers as he cocked them.  He raised his right hand and pointed the muzzle at the breast of his opponent.

The red-headed man let go his collar, and glancing contemptuously at him, with an expression of hate and wrath, silently stepped aside.

“How much must we pay?” he asked sullenly.

“Oho! that’s better.  You should have begun by asking that!” answered the newcomer, settling himself comfortably on his chair and toying with his pistols.  “How much do you earn?”

“We get little enough!  Just five rubles,” answered the red-headed man.

“That’s too little.  I need a great deal more.  But you are lying, brother!  You would not stir for less than twenty rubles!”

“Thanks for the compliment!” interrupted Pacomius Borisovitch.

The fair-haired man nodded to him satirically.  “I need a lot more,” he repeated firmly and impressively; “and if you don’t give me at least twenty-five rubles I’ll denounce you this very minute to the police—­and you see I have my witnesses ready.”