"The fifty marks?
You have got it ?" She sat down at the table, and began to count the gold and silver, producing it from her pocket in instalments of four or five coins, and making little heaps of them before him.
"It is all there--every penny of it," she said, counting the piles again.
The poor man's eyes seemed starting from his head, as he leaned eagerly forward over the money.
"Is it real?
Is it true ?" he asked in a low voice.

"Oh, Vjera, do not laugh at me--is it really true, child ?" "Really true--fifty marks." Her pale face beamed with pleasure.

"And now you can go and pay Fischelowitz at once," she added.
But he leaned back a moment in his chair, looking at her intently.

Then his eyes grew moist, and, when he spoke, his voice quivered.
"May God forgive me for taking it of you," he said.

"You have saved me, Vjera--saved my honour, my life--all.