translate to you one of them. It is about . . . But you know a little
of our history at least, don't you?'

'No, I know nothing of it,' answered

Elena.

'Wait a little and I will bring you a book. You will learn the
principal facts at least from it. Listen to the ballad then. . . . But
I had better bring you a written translation, though. I am sure you
will love us, you love all the oppressed. If you knew what a land of
plenty ours is! And, meanwhile, it has been downtrodden, it has been
ravaged,' he went on, with an involuntary movement of his arm, and his
face darkened; 'we have been robbed of everything; everything, our
churches, our laws, our lands; the unclean Turks drive us like cattle,
butcher us----'

'Dmitri Nikanorovitch!' cried Elena.

He stopped.

'I beg your pardon. I can't speak of this coolly. But you asked me
just now whether I love my country. What else can one love on earth?
What is the one thing unchanging, what is above all doubts, what is
it--next to God--one must believe in? And when that country needs.
. . . Think; the poorest peasant, the poorest beggar in Bulgaria, and I
have the same desire. All of us have one aim. You can understand what
strength, what confidence that gives!'

Insarov was silent for an instant; then he began again to talk of