As I reached the ferry in my post-horse troika,19 it was already growing dark. A brisk and piercing wind rippled the surface of the broad and turbid river, splashing its waves against the steep banks. As the distant sound of the tinkling post-bells reached the ears of the ferrymen, they stopped the ferryboat and waited for us. Brakes were put on the wheels, the telyéga20 was driven downhill, and the cable unfastened. The waves dashed against the boarded sides of the ferryboat, the pilot sharply turned the wheel, and the shore gradually receded from us, as though yielding to the pressure of the waves.

There were two telyégas on the ferryboat, beside ours. In one of them sat an elderly, quiet-looking man, apparently belonging to the merchant class; the other was occupied by three fellows, unmistakably bourgeois. The merchant sat motionless, protecting himself by his collar from the piercing autumnal wind, and heedless of his travelling companions. The bourgeois, on the contrary, were jolly and talkative. One of them, a cross-eyed fellow, with a torn nostril, played the balaláïka21 incessantly, singing wild melodies in a harsh voice. But the wind soon dispersed these sharp tones, carrying them hither and thither along the swift and turbid stream. Another, with a brandy-flask and tumbler in his hand, was treating my driver; while the third, a man possibly thirty years of age, a healthy, handsome, and powerfully built fellow, was stretched out in the telyéga, with his hand under his head, pensively watching the gray clouds as they flitted across the sky. In the course of my two days’ journey from the city of N⁠⸺, I had frequently encountered the same familiar faces. I was travelling on urgent business, speeding with the utmost haste; but both the merchant, who drove a plump mare, harnessed into a two-wheeled kibítka,22 and the bourgeois, with their lean hacks, constantly kept up with me, and after each stopping-place I met them, either on the way or at some ferry.

“Who are these men?” I inquired of my driver, as he approached my telyéga.

“Kostiúshka23 and his friends,” he replied, with an air of reserve.

“And who are they?” I asked once more, for the name sounded unfamiliar to me.

The driver evidently felt unwilling to give me further particulars, lest our conversation might be overheard by the men. Glancing at them, he hastily pointed with his whip toward the river.

Looking in that direction, I saw that its broad expanse was here and there darkened by the tossing of the turbid waters, and overhead large white birds like gulls soared in widening circles, now and then plunging below the waves, and rising again with a shrill and plaintive cry.

“Cormorants!” the driver remarked, by way of explanation, as soon as the ferry had landed us on the shore, and we had reached the top of the hill.

“Those men are like cormorants,” he continued. “They have neither home nor property, for I have heard that they have sold even the land they owned, and now they are scouring the country like wolves. They give us no peace.”

“What do you mean? Are they robbers?”

“They are up to all sorts of mischief; cutting off a traveller’s valise, or stealing chests of tea from a transport, is their favorite amusement.⁠ ⁠… And if they are hard up, they will not hesitate to steal a horse from us drivers, when we are on our return trip. It often happens that one of us may fall asleep⁠—everyone is liable to that, you know⁠—and they are always on the lookout. It was a driver who tore this very Kostiúshka’s nostril with his whip, and that’s a fact! Mark my words, this same Kóyska is the biggest scoundrel!⁠ ⁠… He has no mate now⁠ ⁠… since the transport-drivers killed him.⁠ ⁠…”

“They caught him, then?”

“Yes, they did, in the very act, and they made him pay for his fun. The transport-drivers had their turn, and he gave them plenty of sport.”

The speaker chuckled to himself.

“In the first place, they chopped off his fingers, then they singed him, and finally they disembowelled him with a stick.⁠ ⁠… He died, the dog!⁠ ⁠…”

“How comes it that you are acquainted with them? Why did you let them treat you with brandy?”

“I cannot help being acquainted,” he replied, gloomily. “I have often had to treat them myself, because I stand in fear of them all the time.⁠ ⁠… Mark my words! Kostiúshka has not come out without a purpose. He would not have driven the horses so far without some object.⁠ ⁠… I can tell you that he scents prey from afar, the devil! I am sure of it! And that merchant, I was just thinking about him,” he added thoughtfully, after a short pause; “I wonder if he can be their object?⁠ ⁠… I can hardly believe it; however, they have a new man with them, whom I never saw before.”

“The one who lay stretched out in the telyéga?”

“The very one.⁠ ⁠… He must be an expert⁠ ⁠… a healthy-looking devil!⁠ ⁠…

“Take my advice, sir,” he said, suddenly turning toward me; “be on your guard⁠ ⁠… do not travel by night. They may be following you, for all you know, those wretches!⁠ ⁠…”

“Do you know me?” I asked.

He turned away, and affected to play with the reins.

“We are supposed to know nothing,” he replied, evasively. “It was rumored that Koodín’s clerk, from the city, was soon to pass this way.⁠ ⁠… But this is no business of ours.”

Evidently, I was known here. I had been retained in a lawsuit brought by the firm of Koodín against the government, and had just won it. My patrons were very popular in these places, and in all Western Siberia, and the suit had made a great sensation. Having recently received a very large sum of money, I was hastening to the city of N⁠⸺, where I had to meet some payments which were clue. I had very little time to spare, the postal communications were irregular, and therefore I carried the money on my own person. I travelled night and day⁠—sometimes leaving the highway, when I could gain time by taking a shortcut. In view of the rumors that had spread concerning me, which were calculated to excite myriads of hungry cormorants, I was beginning to feel somewhat anxious.

As I glanced behind me, in spite of the gathering darkness, I could easily distinguish the swiftly galloping troika, followed at some distance by the merchant’s wagonette.

At the N⁠⸺ post-station, where I arrived in the evening, there were no horses to be found.

“Do take my advice, Iván Seménovitch!” the stout and good-natured stationmaster entreated me, “and do not travel by night. Never mind your business. One’s life is more precious than other people’s money. For miles around the only subjects talked about are your lawsuit and this large sum of money. No doubt, the cormorants will be on the alert.⁠ ⁠… Do spend the night here!⁠ ⁠…”

Of course, I realized all the wisdom of this advice; but, still, I felt that I could not follow it.

“I must go on!⁠ ⁠… Please send for private horses.⁠ ⁠…”

“You are an obstinate man, I must confess; but I will give you a trusty ‘friend.’24 He will carry you to B⁠⸺, to the Molokán.25 But you really must spend the night there. You will have to pass the Devil’s Hollow. It is a lonely place, and the people are audacious.⁠ ⁠… Better wait till daylight!⁠ ⁠…”

Half an hour later I sat on my telyéga, listening to the advice and good-wishes of my friend. The willing horses started at once; and the driver, encouraged by the promise of a fee, urged them to their utmost speed. We reached B⁠⸺ in a very short time.

“Where will you take me now?” I asked him.

“To my friend the Molokán. He is a trustworthy man.”

Passing several huts in the woods, we stopped at the gate of a respectable house, where we were met by a venerable-looking man, with a long gray beard, holding a lantern in his hand; raising it above his head, he scrutinized me for a moment, and then remarked, in a quiet way:

“Ah, Iván Semenovitch!⁠ ⁠… Some fellows who passed, just now, bade me look out for Koodín’s clerk, from the city,⁠ ⁠… and get the horses ready for him.⁠ ⁠… And I asked them what business it was of theirs.⁠ ⁠… ‘Very likely, he may wish to spend the night,’ I said.⁠ ⁠… It is getting late, you know.”

“What fellows were they?” interrupted my driver.

“The Lord only knows! Cormorants, most likely! They looked like rascals.⁠ ⁠… I suppose they came from the city; but who they are, I cannot say. Who does know anything about them?⁠ ⁠… But will you spend the night, sir?”

“No, I cannot; and please get horses for me as quickly as possible!” I said, somewhat uneasy at the rumors that seemed to have preceded me.

“Walk into the hut; it will be more comfortable than to stand here.⁠ ⁠… Really, I have no horses. Yesterday I sent the boy into the city with some goods. What will you do now? You had better sleep here.”

My distress at this fresh disappointment was deepened by the darkness and gloom of the stormy autumn night peculiar to Siberia. The sky was so overcast that one could hardly trace the outlines of the heavy clouds, and on the ground a man could not see objects two steps before him. A drizzling rain had begun to fall, and from the woods came a mysterious rustling.

Still, I felt obliged to continue my journey, in spite of all obstacles. Entering the hut, I asked the proprietor to send at once to one of the neighbors to obtain horses.

“I fear you may regret this hurry, my dear sir,” said the old man, shaking his gray head. “And such a night as this is!⁠—Egyptian darkness, and nothing less!”

When my driver came in, he and the old man held a prolonged consultation. At last they both addressed themselves to me, entreating me to remain over night. Still I insisted, and then the two began to whisper together, and I could overhear certain names as they discussed the matter. “Very well, then,” said the driver, as though reluctantly yielding to the master of the house, “your horses will be ready for you; I am going now to the clearing.”

“Will not that require a long time?⁠—I wish you could find them nearer home.⁠ ⁠…”

“It will not take long,” replied the driver, and the master added, in an impatient tone of voice:⁠—

“What’s the hurry? You know the saying, ‘Haste makes waste.’⁠ ⁠… Plenty of time yet.⁠ ⁠…”

While the driver was making his preparations behind the partition, the master continued his instructions, in the quavering voice of an old man, and I took the chance to doze awhile beside the oven.

“Well, my lad,” I heard the master say to him, outside the door, “tell the ‘Slayer’ to make haste.⁠ ⁠… You see, he is in a hurry.”

Presently the sound of galloping was heard. The last words of the old man had dispelled my sleepiness. I seated myself before the fire, and gave myself up to anxious thoughts. The dark night, the unfamiliar surroundings, the strange faces, the unintelligible conversation, and finally the fatal word.⁠ ⁠… My nerves were evidently unstrung.

An hour later, the rapid tinkling of a bell was heard, and the troika stopped before the door. I put on my wraps and went out.

The sky had grown clearer. The clouds swept hurriedly along, as though in haste to reach their goal. It had ceased raining, but now and then a large drop fell from the clouds that scurried along in the rising wind.

The master came out with a lantern to see us off, and by its light I scrutinized my new driver. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful man⁠—quite a giant, in fact. The expression of his face was calm and stern⁠—impressed, so to speak, with the stamp of some past sorrow never to be forgotten, and his eyes had a steadfast and obstinate gaze.

I must admit that for a moment I was overcome by a strong temptation to dismiss this giant driver, and spend the night in the warm and cheerful chamber of the Molokán. It lasted, however, but for a moment. Clasping my revolver, I seated myself in the cart, while the driver fastened the apron and slowly and deliberately took his seat on the box.

“Look out, ‘Slayer!’ ” was the old man’s parting injunction. “Look sharp! You know how it is likely to be!⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, I know,” replied the driver, and we vanished into the gloom of the stormy night.

As we drove past the huts which were scattered at intervals along the road, an occasional light flashed forth, and here and there against the dark background of the woods a grayish smoke, mingled with sparks, curled up into the air, and melted in the darkness. Finally we left the last dwelling behind, and the solitude of the black forest and the gloom of the night deepened around us.

The horses, trotting evenly and swiftly, carried me on toward the fatal hollow; it was now about five versts away, and there was time enough to brood at leisure over my situation. As often happens in moments of unusual excitement, I had the keenest realization of it; and when I recalled the marauder-like figures of the cormorants, the mysterious merchant who accompanied them, and the unusual pertinacity with which they followed me, I came to the conclusion that some sort of an adventure awaited me in the hollow. But the part that my gloomy driver was to play remained for me like the riddle of Oedipus.

However, the solution was near at hand. Presently, the mountain-chain came in sight, outlined against the background of the clearing sky. Its summit was covered with a forest growth, and at its base one discerned, through the darkness, a flowing stream, over which hung a projecting rock, known as the “Devil’s Finger.”

The road skirted the river at the foot of the hills. Beneath the Devil’s Finger it receded from the mountain-chain, and at this point it was entered by a crossroad, leading from the valley. This was the most dangerous spot, famous as the scene of many daring exploits on the part of the knights of the road in Siberia. The narrow, rocky road prevented rapid driving, and the bushes might serve to hide an ambush. We were nearing the hollow. The Devil’s Finger began to loom up before us, the darkness adding to its actual size, until the clouds, as they passed over it, seemed to graze its summit.

The horses slackened their pace, and the middle horse, as he trotted carefully along, watched the road intently, while the side horses, snorting loudly, pressed more closely against the shafts. The musical sounds of the tinkling bell echoed beyond the river and died away in the sensitive air.

Suddenly the horses stopped; with one abrupt jerk the bell sent forth a tinkling peal and was silent. I rose in my seat. Beside the road, the dark bushes were shaken by the movements of some dusky object.

The driver had reined in his horses just in time to avoid the attack. Still, the situation was critical, for it was impossible either to turn aside or to retreat. I was just about to fire a random shot, when the tall form of the driver, rising from the box, shut from me the road and the bushes. The “Slayer,” as he stepped to the ground, quietly handed the reins to me, saying, as he did so: “Do not fire, but hold the reins.”

His tones were so calm, yet so impressive, that it never occurred to me to do otherwise than as I was bidden; my suspicions in his regard were dispelled. I took the reins while the solemn giant advanced towards the bushes. The horses slowly and intelligently followed their master, without any further order.

The rattling of the wheels on the stony road prevented me from hearing what was going on in the bushes. When we came to the place where we had seen the moving object, the “Slayer” stopped.

Nothing was to be heard except the sound of the rustling and cracking branches at a short distance from the road, in the direction of the mountain. Somebody was evidently pushing his way through, and the man in advance seemed in a hurry.

“It is that rascal Kostiúshka, running ahead,” said the “Slayer,” listening to the sound. “Bah! See! there is one of them left behind, it seems!”

Just then, at a short distance from us, a tall figure darted out of a bush and in again, and now we could hear distinctly the sound of footsteps retreating from the road in four different places. The “Slayer” went up to his horses as quietly as before, arranged the harness, making the bell tinkle as he touched the duga,26 and mounted to his seat.

Suddenly, from the rock below the “Finger,” there came a flash, followed by a report, startling the silence of the night. We heard something strike against the carriage and then against the bushes.

The “Slayer,” dashing towards the bushes like an infuriated wild beast, exclaimed, in an agitated voice:⁠—

“Mind what you do, Kóyska! You had better not fool any more, I warn you! If you had hurt my harmless beasts⁠ ⁠… I should have got even with you, were you to travel a hundred versts!⁠ ⁠… Don’t fire, sir!” he added sternly, addressing me.

“You had better look out for yourself, ‘Slayer,’ ” answered a voice, that was evidently held in control, and one that did not sound like Kostiúshka’s. “Why do you put your nose in other people’s business, when you are not wanted?”

The speaker seemed to be afraid of being overheard by others beside the one whom he was addressing.

“I wouldn’t threaten if I were you, Your Honor,” replied the driver, contemptuously. “I am not afraid of you, though you have made common cause with the cormorants!”

A few minutes later, the hollow beneath the Devil’s Finger was left behind, and we were once more following the broad thoroughfare.

We drove four versts in utter silence; I was meditating on what had just happened, while the driver sat playing with the reins, alternately urging and holding in his horses. I was the first to speak.

“I am greatly obliged to you, my friend! It would have gone ill with me, had it not been for you.”

“You owe me no thanks,” he replied.

“What do you mean!⁠ ⁠… That was evidently a desperate crowd!⁠ ⁠…”

“That’s true.⁠ ⁠…”

“Do you know those men?”

“I know Kostiúshka.⁠ ⁠… But, then, I suppose every dog knows that rascal!⁠ ⁠… The merchant, too, I have seen before⁠ ⁠… but the one who was left behind I don’t think I ever saw.⁠ ⁠… Yes, I suppose he relied on Kostiúshka to do the business.⁠ ⁠… No, sir, Kostiúshka is not to be trusted! He is the first one to run!⁠ ⁠… But the man I speak of is no coward.⁠ ⁠…”

He paused.

“This has never happened before⁠ ⁠… not this kind of business,”⁠ ⁠… he began again, slightly shaking his head.⁠ ⁠… “I wonder how Kostiúshka got hold of him.⁠ ⁠… He is gathering the cormorants together against me, the cursed rascal!⁠ ⁠…”

“And why are they afraid of you?”

The driver smiled.

“Yes, there is no doubt they are afraid of me. I gave one of them his quietus, not far from here.⁠ ⁠…”

He reined in the horses, and, turning towards me, he said: “Look back; do you see the hollow yonder!⁠ ⁠… I killed a man there, on that very spot!”

It seemed to me that his voice trembled as he uttered these words, and, by the light of the dawn, that was beginning to brighten the eastern sky, I fancied I could detect an expression of deep sadness in his eyes.

We had reached the top of the hill, where we paused. The road ran towards the west. Behind us, outlined against the brightening sky, stood the bold wooded hill whose rocky summit looked like a giant finger uplifted to the clouds.

The morning breeze blew fresh on the hilltop, and the chilled horses, snorting impatiently, pawed the ground. The middle horse was about to start when the driver, checking him, bent over on his box and peered in the direction of the hollow.

Then, suddenly turning, he gathered up the reins, rose on the box, and shouted aloud.

Starting on a gallop, we fairly flew from the top of the hill to the bottom. It was a wild ride. With flattened ears, the horses dashed onward, as if beside themselves with fear, while the driver continued to rise from his seat and to wave his right arm. The troika seemed to feel, although it could not see, his motions.⁠ ⁠… The ground vanished beneath the wheels; the trees and shrubs ran to meet us, and seemed to fall as we passed, as though beaten down by a furious gale.⁠ ⁠…

When we were again on level ground, the horses were steaming. The middle horse panted heavily, and the side horses trembled, snorted, and moved their ears restlessly to and fro. Little by little, however, their terror left them. The driver slackened the reins, and spoke in soothing tones: “Gently, dearies, gently!⁠ ⁠… Don’t be frightened!⁠ ⁠… Isn’t it wonderful that a horse, a dumb beast,” he said to me, “should understand so well⁠ ⁠… for, every time we reach the top of this hill, it is impossible to hold them.⁠ ⁠… They scent a crime.⁠ ⁠…”

“That may be so,” I said, “but you urged them yourself just now.”

“Did I, really? Well, maybe I did! Ah, sir, if you knew what a weight there is on my mind!⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, if you tell me, I shall know!⁠ ⁠…”

The “Slayer” looked down.

“Very well,” he replied, after a pause, “I will tell you.⁠ ⁠… Go on, my darlings, don’t be frightened!⁠ ⁠…” And the horses started at an easy trot along the soft road.

“It all took place long ago,⁠ ⁠… and yet not so long ago, either; but much has happened since, and the great change in my life makes the past seem far away! I have been deeply wronged by those who were my superiors. And God, also, sent me sorrow; I lost my young wife and my child at one stroke, and, having no parents, I was left quite alone in the world, with neither relatives nor friends; and the priest himself took what little remained to me, to pay for the funeral. Living quite alone, I had more chance for meditation; and the more I pondered, the less I believed, until my former faith was shaken, if not lost, and I found no new one to take its place. It is true I am an ignorant man⁠—I hardly know how to read⁠—and I dared not trust too much to my own reason,⁠ ⁠… and I felt so heartsick, so sad, I would gladly have gone out of this world.⁠ ⁠… I gave up my hut and what little land was left me, all that I possessed, took an extra sheepskin coat, a pair of trousers, and a pair of boots, broke off a branch in the forest for a staff, and started.⁠ ⁠…”

“Where were you going?”

“Nowhere in particular. Sometimes I stayed in one place, and worked regularly day after day; then, again, I would wander from place to place, ploughing a field here and there, or lending a hand at harvest-time. In some places I stayed but for a day, or perhaps for a week, in others, for a month; and all this time I was watching to see how people lived, how they prayed and what they believed.⁠ ⁠… In a word, I was looking for upright people.”

“And did you find them?”

“How can I tell?⁠ ⁠… There are all kinds of people; and each one has his own troubles, of course. Still, it must be admitted that people in our neighborhood devote but little thought to God.⁠ ⁠… Each one thinks only about himself, how to satisfy his own desires; and can that be called living according to God’s laws! And who can say that the robber who wears the chains is the actual robber, after all!⁠ ⁠… Do you not agree with me?”

“What you say has some truth, no doubt.⁠ ⁠… Well, and what next?”

“And so I grew more and more gloomy, for I saw there was no chance of improvement. Of course, I know a little better now; but even now.⁠ ⁠… But at that time I was beside myself, and it suddenly occurred to me that I might become a convict.”

“How could you do that?”

“Very simply. I called myself a vagrant, and was shut up in consequence. It was a sort of penance that I had imposed upon myself.⁠ ⁠…”

“And did you feel better after that?”

“Not a bit of it! It was simple folly. Perhaps you never were in prison, and, if so, you cannot know. But I have found out all I care to know about that kind of cloister. People who live an idle life, perfectly useless to the world, are pretty sure to fall into wicked ways, and seldom, if ever, do they think of God or of their own salvation; for, if they do, they are treated to the gibes and mockery of their companions. I soon found that my stupidity had brought me into the wrong place; so I told them who I was, and begged to be set free. But this was not a simple matter. Information had to be obtained, one thing and another investigated.⁠ ⁠… And, moreover, they said to me, ‘How did you dare to call yourself what you were not?’ I don’t know how the business would have ended had it not been for something that came to pass just then,⁠ ⁠… which, although it was not a good thing for me, perhaps saved me from something worse.⁠ ⁠…

“One day the report spread throughout the prison that the penitent Bezrúky was to be brought in. I heard the rumor much discussed, some believing it to be true, while others distrusted it. But for me it was a matter of indifference just then. What did I care whether they brought him or not!⁠—it was all one to me!⁠—Prisoners were arriving every day. But the convicts who had just come from town confirmed the story that they were bringing Bezrúky under a strong escort, and that he would be there at night. Prompted by curiosity, our gray population had gathered in the yard. I went with them, not from curiosity, however.⁠ ⁠… When I was uneasy, I often walked up and down in the yard. I was pacing to and fro, and had almost forgotten about Bezrúky, when suddenly the gates were opened, and an old man was led in. He was short and thin, and he wore a long white beard; one arm hung powerless by his side, and he tottered as he walked, like one whose feet refuse to support him. And yet, at this one man, five bayonets were levelled by the guards who escorted him. The sight overcame me. ‘Heavens!’ I thought, ‘what does it mean? Can a man be treated like a wild beast! And no stalwart, brawny fellow, but a feeble, insignificant old man, who looks as if he might not live the week out!⁠ ⁠…’

“And I pitied him from the bottom of my heart; and the more I looked, the more I pitied him. He was led into the office, and a smith was called to shackle his hands and feet. The old man took the fetters, made the sign of the cross over them (after the manner of the Old Faith), and put them on his feet. ‘Fasten it,’ he said to the smith. Then he made a second sign of the cross over the handcuffs, and, passing his hands through them, said: ‘Suffer me to wear them, O Lord, as a penance!’ ”

The driver bent his head and relapsed into silence, as though reliving, in his memory, the scene he had been describing. Then, suddenly lifting his head, he resumed:⁠—

“From that moment he took possession of my heart! I must confess that he bewitched me, and, even though I afterwards discovered him to be a tempter and a fiend, an incarnate devil⁠—may the Lord forgive me for saying so! when I recall that prayer of his, I can hardly believe it⁠—so well could he play the saint that he seemed altogether different from the man he really was.

“And I was not the only one who felt his influence. Even our gray convicts became subdued; they gazed at him in silence. The scoffers grew quiet, and many crossed themselves. That was the way he affected them, sir!

“As for me, I yielded myself completely to his influence. For at that time my faith was unsettled, and this man seemed to me like the righteous men of old. I had made no friends in the prison; indeed, I had hardly spoken to anyone, and of the conversation around me I took no more heed than of the buzzing of flies.⁠ ⁠… Whatever my thoughts were, whether good or bad, I kept them to myself, and shared them with no one. I made up my mind that I would, if possible, make my way into the cell where the old man was kept in solitary confinement, and, watching my chance, I gave five kopeks to the guards, who allowed me to pass; and afterwards they used to let me in without any bribe. 1 looked in at his window, and saw an old man walking to and fro, muttering to himself, his shackles dragging behind him as he went. When he saw me, he turned, and came up to the door. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.⁠—‘Nothing in particular,’ I said; ‘I have come to make you a call. I thought you might be lonely.’⁠—‘I am not alone here,’ he said; ‘I am with God, and one is never lonely who dwells with God. Still, I am glad to see a good man.’⁠—And thus I stood facing him, looking so like a fool that he could not help noticing my expression; but he said nothing, only gazed at me and shook his head. One day he said to me, ‘Draw back a little from the window, my lad; I want to get a better look at you.’ I stepped back, and he put his eye to the opening, and, after gazing long at me, he said: ‘Tell me something about yourself!’

“ ‘What is there to tell!’ I said; ‘I am a ruined man!’⁠—‘Can I trust you?’ he asked, ‘You will not deceive me?’⁠—‘I have never deceived anyone, and surely I would not deceive you. I will do anything for you.’ He thought awhile, and then he said: ‘I want to send someone outside tonight. Will you go?’⁠—‘How can I get out?’ I asked.⁠—‘I will teach you,’ he said. And his instructions were so successful that I left the prison that night, as easily as if it had been my own hut. I found the man to whom I was sent, and gave him the message, but, when on my way back the next morning, I must admit that, as I was approaching the prison, just before daybreak, a sense of excitement came over me. Why should I remain a prisoner of my own accord? Since I was free, the best thing I could do would be to leave those parts. The prison was in the country, and a broad highway lay before me. The dew glistened on the grass; it was close upon harvest-time. Beyond the river, I could hear the gentle soughing of the forest.⁠ ⁠… A lovely picture! And behind me stood the prison, frowning and blinking like an owl.⁠ ⁠… At night, when all is still, one does not care; but by daylight!⁠ ⁠… When I thought of the busy day spinning like a wheel, it seemed as though I could not bear it. My heart leaped within me, and the temptation to follow the road, to regain my lost liberty, and to roam hither and yonder at my own will, was almost too strong for me.⁠ ⁠… But when I remembered the old man, I felt that I could not deceive him. Stretching myself out on the grass, with my face downward, I rested awhile; then rose, and, without once looking back, took the direction of the prison. Looking up as I approached, I saw my old man in the tower, where our secret cells were, sitting by the window, watching me from behind the bars.

“During the day, I found a chance to glide into his cell and tell him how I had carried out his orders. He looked more cheerful, as he said to me: ‘Thank you, my child! You have done me a great favor; I shall never forget it.’ And after a pause he added, smiling, ‘I suppose you are anxious to be free?’⁠—‘Yes, I am anxious, more than words can say.’⁠—‘I thought so. And what brought you here!’⁠—‘My own folly; I have committed no crime.’ He shook his head and said: ‘It makes me sad to see you. God has given you so much strength; you are no longer a boy, and yet you know very little about life. Here you are locked up.⁠ ⁠… And what is the good of it? The world, it is true, is full of sin, and yet it is in the world that you work out your salvation.⁠ ⁠…’⁠—‘Yes, I know there is sin in the world,’ I replied, ‘but there is just as much of it here, where there is nothing to be gained by sinning.’⁠—‘Have you repented of your own sins?’ he inquired.

“ ‘I am disgusted with myself!’

“ ‘Disgusted, and yet you know not why. This is not true repentance. True repentance is sweet. Listen, and remember what I tell you: God alone is without sin; man is a sinner by his very nature, and is saved by repentance alone. He must repent of his sins. How is he to repent who has committed no sin? And yet unless he does repent, we are told, he cannot be saved. Do you understand?’

“At the time, I must admit, I understood his words imperfectly; yet they sounded like good words. I had thought much about my own life: other people seemed to live their lives for some purpose, but not I; I was like the field-grass or a fox in the woods⁠—no good to myself or to others. To be sure, if I were living in the world, I should probably be sinning, and here I was only restless. It is true, I did not know how to live; but why talk of living, when I was still shut up in prison! ‘I can manage that affair,’ said the old man. ‘I have prayed about you: it has been given to me to lead your soul out of prison.⁠ ⁠… If you will promise to obey me, I will show you the road to repentance.’⁠—‘I will promise,’ I replied.⁠—‘And will you take your oath?’⁠—‘I will,’ I said. And so I pledged myself, for at that time he had so won my confidence that I was utterly in his power. I would have gone through fire and water for him.⁠ ⁠… I trusted that man. One of the convicts tried to warn me: ‘Why are you so intimate with Bezrúky? Don’t be taken in by his piety! You know about his hand: a traveller on the highway, whom he was planning to rob, sent a bullet through it.’ But I paid no heed to what he said, since he was tipsy at the time, and I cannot abide a drunken man. When I turned away from him he took offence. ‘Go to the deuce, fool that you are!’ I must allow that he was correct, although he was a drunkard.

“About this time, Bezrúky was less strictly guarded. He was brought from his cell into the general prison, but, like myself, he remained almost as solitary as before. Whenever the convicts teased him, or attempted to joke with him, he made no reply in words; but his glance was enough to make the boldest of them quail. He had an evil eye.⁠ ⁠… After a while came the time for his release. One summer day, as I was walking in the yard, I saw the superintendent go into the office, immediately followed by Bezrúky, under escort, and in less than an hour they both came out on the porch, Bezrúky dressed in his own suit of clothes, ready to leave, and looking quite happy, and the superintendent also smiling. I could not help thinking how strictly he was guarded when they brought him in⁠—an innocent man, as he called himself. I felt sad and lonely at the thought of being left behind. Bezrúky glanced around, and, seeing me, made a sign, and I went up to him, pulling off my cap and saluting the chief, while Bezrúky said:⁠—

“ ‘I say, Your Excellency, could you look out for this lad? He has not done anything.’

“ ‘What is your name?’ asked the superintendent.

“ ‘Feódor Seelín,’ I replied.

“ ‘Ah, I remember! We will see about you. No man is to be condemned for his own stupidity. This fellow ought to be kicked out, to teach him better than to come where he does not belong. That’s all there is about it, for I believe the necessary information was received some time ago. He will certainly be released in the course of a week.’

“ ‘That’s good,’ said Bezrúky, ‘and you, my lad,’ he continued, calling me aside, ‘when you are released, go to Kildéyef’s and ask for the master, Iván Zakhárof. I have spoken to him about you, my boy⁠—and remember your oath.’

“And then they went away. In a week I too was released, and went at once, according to Bezrúky’s directions, to the appointed place, where I found Iván Zakhárof, and when I explained to him that Bezrúky had sent me, ‘I know!’ he said; ‘the old man has spoken to me about you. Well, you may work for me for a while, and we will see later what is to be done.’

“ ‘And where is Bezrúky now?’ I inquired.

“ ‘He is away on business,’ he answered; ‘but we expect him shortly.’

“And so I remained there; but not really as a workman, for no duties were assigned to me. The family was a small one⁠—the master, a grown-up son, who was a workman⁠ ⁠… and myself, beside the women-folks, and Bezrúky, who was there from time to time. They were Staroviéry27 and very pious people, strict followers of the law; they never used tobacco or liquor. And as to their workman, Kuzmá, he was a ragged, half-witted fellow, as black as an Ethiopian; as soon as he heard the tinkle of a bell, he used to rush out and hide in the bushes, and, above all, he stood in mortal terror of Bezrúky. If he caught sight of him in the distance, he would run for the woods, to hide himself, and always in the very same place. The family might call him again and again⁠—he never would answer a syllable. But let Bezrúky go after him and speak one word, he would follow like a lamb, and do everything he bade him.

“Bezrúky did not come often, and, when he did come, he hardly ever talked with me. I used to notice that, when talking with the master, he would, at the same time, often look at me, to see how I worked; but if I approached him, he always told me that he was busy. ‘Have patience, my lad! I am coming to live here before long; then we shall have more time to talk.’ I had fallen into a restless state of mind, though I had nothing to complain of⁠—I was not overworked, and never had a cross word spoken to me; the food was good, and, though I was a driver, I was but seldom sent out with any traveller. It was generally the master himself who went, or the son with the workman, particularly if it happened to be in the nighttime. Yet, when I was idle, I felt more dejected than ever, as might naturally be expected. My thoughts kept my mind uneasy and restless.⁠ ⁠…

“Returning home from the mill, one evening, some weeks after I was released, I found our hut full of men. I unharnessed the horse, and was just on the point of entering the porch when the master came out and said: ‘Don’t go in yet; wait till I call you! Mind what I say; don’t go in yet!’⁠—‘What’s all this about!’ I thought to myself; but I turned and went up to the hayloft, where I stretched myself out on the hay. Finding it impossible to sleep, and remembering that I had left my axe by the brook, I decided to go after it, for I thought to myself that those men might discover it on their way home, and carry it off with them. As I passed by the windows, I looked in and saw that the room was full of men; the inspector himself was seated at a table, on which were spread food and brandy, together with paper and pens⁠ ⁠… in short, it was plainly to be seen that an investigation was going on; and seated on a bench near the wall I beheld Bezrúky himself. Good heavens! I was completely paralyzed! His hair was disarranged, his hands bound behind him, his eyes shining like two fiery coals.⁠ ⁠… I can hardly tell you how dreadful he seemed to me.⁠ ⁠…

“I drew back, and stood at a short distance from the window.⁠ ⁠… It was autumn; the night was dark and starry; I shall never forget it. I heard the splash of the river and the murmur of the forests as if in a dream. Trembling, I dropped on the grass by the riverbank. How long I had stayed there I cannot say when I heard someone coming along the forest-path, swinging a cane. He wore a white coat and hat, and I recognized the clerk, who lived four versts from there. He crossed the bridge and went straight to the hut, and I could not resist going up to the window to see what would happen next.⁠ ⁠… He entered, took off his cap, and looked around. Evidently, he did not know why he had been summoned. As he went up to the table, he said, in passing Bezrúky, ‘How do you do, Iván Alekséyitch!’ Such a glance as Bezrúky gave him! The proprietor pulled him by the sleeve and whispered something in his ear that seemed to surprise him. He went up to the inspector, who had already been imbibing rather freely, and who, rousing himself, looked up at him with his blurred eyes, and, after exchanging the usual greeting, asked, pointing at Bezrúky, ‘Do you know this man?’⁠—‘No,’ he replied, ‘I don’t remember ever seeing him before.’

“What could it all mean? The inspector certainly knew him well. He went on with his examination.

“ ‘Is this Iván Alekséyef, who belongs in this neighborhood, and is known under the name of Bezrúky?’

“ ‘No,’ replied the clerk; ‘that is not he.’

“The inspector picked up his pen, and, after writing something down, he proceeded to read it aloud. And I stood outside, by the window, wondering what it all meant; for he read from the paper that this old man, Iván Alekséyef, was not Iván Alekséyef; that neither the clerk nor the neighbors recognized him as such; and that he called himself Iván Ivánof, and showed his passport in proof of it. Wonderful thing! Of all these people who set their hands to the document, not one of them seemed to know him. It was certain that the witnesses had been carefully chosen for the occasion, for they were all debtors of Iván Zakhárof⁠—his slaves, in fact.

“After this business was transacted, the witnesses were allowed to depart.⁠ ⁠… The inspector had previously ordered that Bezrúky should be set at liberty, and Iván Zakhárof brought the money and handed it to the inspector, who, after counting it, put it in his pocket.

“ ‘Now, old man, you will have to leave these parts for the next three months! But if you choose to stay, remember that you are not to blame me.⁠ ⁠… Well, now get my horses ready.’

“I left the window and went up into the hayloft, expecting that someone would presently come to fetch the horses, and I did not want to be found lurking under the windows. As I lay on the hay, unable to go to sleep, I felt as if I were in a dream.⁠ ⁠… Somehow, I could not collect my thoughts. I heard the tinkling of the bell as the inspector drove away, saw that the lights were put out, and all became still in the house. I was just falling asleep when again I heard a bell, for it was a very still night, and one could hear sounds a long way off⁠ ⁠… it drew nearer and nearer.⁠ ⁠… Someone was coming towards the hut from the direction of the river. By and by the folks in the hut heard it, and a fire had been kindled by the time the troika drove up into the yard. A driver whom we knew had brought the travellers here, as a friendly return for the customers we had brought him.

“I thought that they would very likely spend the night here, and, if not, I knew that they seldom sent me out at night, for it was generally the master who drove⁠—or maybe his son, with the workman; so I was just falling asleep again, when I was roused by the voices of the master and Bezrúky, who were conversing in an undertone under the roof of the hay-shed.

“ ‘Well, what shall we do now?’ said the old man; ‘where is Kuzmá?’

“ ‘That’s the trouble; Iván has gone with the inspector, and as soon as Kuzmá saw the crowd he ran to the bushes, and he is not to be found.’

“ ‘Such a fool! I believe he is half-witted! And how about Feódor?’ the old man said⁠—meaning me, you understand.

“ ‘When Feódor came home from the mill tonight, he wanted to go into the hut, but I would not let him.’

“ ‘That’s well. He must have gone to sleep. You don’t think that he saw anything?’

“ ‘I suppose not, for he went directly to the hayloft.’

“ ‘That is good. We will try him tonight.’

“ ‘You had better look out! Do you dare to trust him?’ said Zakhárof.

“ ‘Yes; although he is a simple-minded lad, he has great strength, and, moreover, he obeys me; I can twist him round my little finger. Besides, you must remember that I am now about to go away for six months, and we must break him in before I go.’

“ ‘Yes, but I cannot help distrusting him,’ said Zaldiarof; ‘I have no faith in him whatever, although he looks so simple.’

“ ‘Well, well, I know him; he is not a clever lad, to be sure, but that’s the kind that best suits us. And we must certainly get rid of Kuzmá; I am afraid he will get us into some scrape.’

“Then I heard them call, ‘Feódor!’⁠—‘Feódor!’ and I really had not the courage to answer.

“ ‘Get up, my good Feódor,’ said the old man, in his sweetest tones. ‘Were you asleep?’ he asked.

“ ‘Yes,’ I replied.⁠ ⁠…

“ ‘Get up, my boy, and harness the horses; you will have to drive the travellers. Do you remember your oath?’

“ ‘I do’; and my teeth chattered as I spoke, and cold chills were running all over me.

“ ‘I think the time for keeping your promise to obey all my commands is at hand. And, meanwhile, be lively about harnessing, for the travellers are in haste.’

“I pulled out the telyéga from the shed, put the collar on the middle horse, and began to harness. Meanwhile, my heart was throbbing violently, and I felt all the time as if this must be a dream.

“Bezrúky also saddled his own horse, which was docile as a dog; he could saddle him with one hand. Then he mounted, and, having whispered something into the horse’s ear, he rode off. After harnessing the middle horse, I looked out of the gate, and watched him as he started on a trot towards the woods. Although the moon had not yet risen, it was tolerably light; and after I saw him disappear in the woods, I felt easier. I drove up to the door, and was asked to come in. The traveller was a young woman with three small children, the oldest of whom looked about four, and the youngest girl might have been two years old. ‘I wonder where you are going, you poor creature!’ I thought to myself; ‘and without a husband, too! Such a kind and friendly lady!’ She made me sit down, and gave me some tea, and asked me what sort of a neighborhood it was, and whether there had been any reports of robberies. ‘I have not heard of any,’ I replied; and couldn’t help thinking: ‘Ah, my blessed heart, you are afraid!’ and how could she help it, to be sure! She had a good deal of luggage, and all the signs of wealth, and, above all, there were her children. A mother’s heart is an anxious one, and I don’t suppose she was travelling for pleasure.

“Well, we started. It was about two hours before daylight. We had reached the highway, and driven on for a verst or so, when suddenly one of the side horses shied. ‘What now!’ I thought. I stopped the team, and saw Kuzmá creeping out of the bushes. There he stood, by the roadside, shaking his locks and grinning at me. ‘Deuce take you!’ said I to myself. I was somewhat startled, and the lady sat there more dead than alive.⁠ ⁠… The children were asleep, but she was wide-awake, watching. I knew that she was crying.⁠ ⁠… ‘I am afraid,’ she said. ‘I am afraid of you all.⁠ ⁠…’⁠—‘God bless you, my dear lady,’ I cried, ‘I am not a villain. Why didn’t you stay at the hut, where you were?⁠ ⁠…’⁠—‘I was more frightened there than I am here. My last driver told me that we should come to a village at night; and, instead of that, he brought me to this place in the woods. And the old man had such a wicked look!⁠ ⁠…’ she continued.⁠ ⁠… What was I to do with her! I could see that she felt very wretched. ‘What had we better do now?’ I asked. ‘Will you turn back, or shall we go on?’ And I walked round the carriage, trying to think of some way to comfort her, for I felt very sorry for her. We were not far from the Hollow, which could only be reached from the byroad; and we had to pass the ‘Stone.’ Seeing the quandary I was in, she cheered up, and said: ‘Well, get up on the box, and let us go on. I am not going back, for I am afraid of those men.⁠ ⁠… I would rather go on with you; you look like a kind man.’ At that time, sir, I was like a child; I had not the stamp of Cain on my face. Now men are afraid of me; they call me ‘Slayer.’ Then I too cheered up, and mounted the box. ‘Let us talk,’ said the lady. And she began first to ask questions about me, and then she told me about herself: that she was going to join her husband, who was an exile belonging to the wealthy class. ‘How long have you been with these people?’ she asked, ‘and are you living with them as a workman, or in what capacity?’⁠—‘I came to them very recently, as a workman,’ I replied.⁠—‘What kind of folk are they?’⁠—‘They seem to be fair sort of men; but who can tell?’ I said; ‘they are strict in their mode of life; they never use either wine or tobacco.’⁠—‘That is not an essential,’ she said.⁠—‘And how ought one to live?’ I asked; for I saw that she was a sensible woman, and thought that she might tell me something worth knowing.⁠—‘Can you read?’ she asked.⁠—‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘a little.’⁠—‘What is the chief commandment in the Bible?’⁠—‘Love,’ I replied.⁠—‘You are right. And it says, moreover, there can be no greater love than when a man lays down his life for his brother. That is the substance of the law. Of course, one must use one’s reason, too,’ she added, ‘and discriminate. But such forms as moving the fingers in a certain manner, in order to make the sign of the cross, and abstaining from the use of tobacco, are not essential⁠ ⁠…’⁠—‘You are right,’ I replied; ‘still, some forms are needed, to remind a man of his duties.’

“Thus we talked as we drove leisurely along. We came to a small stream in the woods, which we had to cross. It was a shallow stream, and, during the dry season, all one had to do was to give the ferryboat a push and it would touch the opposite shore; there was no need of a ferryman. The children, waking, opened their eyes, and saw that it was nighttime. The soughing of the forest, the starlit sky overhead, the moon rising before daybreak,⁠ ⁠… all this was a novel sight for them,⁠ ⁠… of course, they didn’t know much about such things!

“When we drove into the woods, I was fairly startled, and my heart almost stopped beating, for what did I see but a figure on horseback ahead of us! I could not see distinctly, but I thought I recognized Bezrúky’s gray horse, and I could hear the clatter of his hoofs. My heart sank within me. ‘What is going to happen now?’ I thought. ‘Why did the old man come out here?’ Now, it had seemed to me like a foreboding of evil when he reminded me of my oath, just before we started.⁠ ⁠… Until that evening I had thought a good deal of the old man, although I must confess I always stood in awe of him; but now I began to be really afraid of him⁠—the very thought of his face made me shiver.

“As I sat there, without moving, my mind seemed paralyzed and I could scarcely hear a sound. The lady spoke now and then, but I was unable to answer her; at last she gave up trying to talk, and there she sat, the poor creature!⁠ ⁠…

“We had now entered an impenetrable forest. My spirits were gloomier than the night itself. I was half-unconscious, but the horses, familiar with the road, carried us along without my guidance, toward that selfsame stone. We reached it,⁠ ⁠… and there, just as I anticipated, stood the gray horse across the road, and the eyes of the old man bestriding him gleamed like two coals of fire, so help me God!⁠ ⁠… The reins fell from my hands, and my horses, coming up to the gray horse, stopped of their own accord.

“ ‘Feódor!’ said the old man, ‘get down!’ I jumped down from the box, and he himself dismounted, having placed his horse directly in front of the troika, which stood perfectly still, as if bewitched; I too seemed to be under a spell. He came up to me, and said something; then, taking me by the hand, he led me to the carriage, and I discovered that I was holding an axe!⁠ ⁠… I yielded to him,⁠ ⁠… for I had not the courage to resist, villain that he was. ‘Sin, and you will repent afterwards.⁠ ⁠…’ What else he said I know not. We went up to the carriage. He stood beside me. ‘First strike the woman on the head!’ I looked into the carriage. There sat the lady, like a wounded dove, shielding her children, and gazing at me with all her eyes. My heart quivered.⁠ ⁠… The children were awake; they looked like birdlings. I cannot tell whether they understood what was going on, or not.⁠ ⁠…

“Her gaze seemed to rouse me as from a dream. Lifting the axe, I turned my eyes away.⁠ ⁠… But my heart was swelling with rage.⁠ ⁠… I looked at Bezrúky, who quailed beneath my glance.⁠ ⁠… Then my wrath grew more furious. I knew that I was about to do a horrible deed; but I had no pity. Once more I looked at the old man, whose green eyes flashed restlessly.⁠ ⁠… He was frightened, and that made him wriggle like a snake. I raised my arm and struck out,⁠ ⁠… and, before he could groan, I stretched him prostrate at my feet, and then I stamped upon him as he lay there dead,⁠ ⁠… for I was like nothing but an infuriated beast, the Lord have mercy on me!”

The driver breathed heavily.

“And what happened then?” I inquired, seeing him thoughtful and silent.

“What did you say?” he replied; “you want to know what happened next? Well, as I said, I was stamping on him as he lay there dead, when, behold! I saw Iván Zakhárof galloping towards us, with a rifle in his hand. I turned just as he reached us,⁠ ⁠… and I should have certainly finished him, as I did Bezrúky, only, I am thankful to say, he had the sense to turn back. Just as soon as his eye lighted on me, he turned his horse, dealing him heavy blows with the rifle. The horse actually howled like a human being, and flew like a bird.

“When, at last, I came to my senses, it seemed to me that I could not look anyone in the eye.⁠ ⁠… I mounted the box and gave the horses the lash,⁠ ⁠… but they refused to start,⁠ ⁠… and then I saw that the gray horse was still barring the way. I had forgotten that he had been trained to do that. I made the sign of the cross, as it came to my mind that I might have to kill that cursed horse also. I went up to him, but he remained motionless except for the movement of his ears. I pulled him by the rein, but he would not stir. ‘You had better get out of the carriage, madam,’ I said, ‘for the horses might become frightened and run, because of this horse, which persists in standing right in front of them.’ Obedient as a child, the lady got out, and the children followed, clinging to their mother. The place itself was dark and gloomy; that alone frightened them, and then to see me in trouble with these devils.

“I backed my troika, took up the axe once more, and went close to the gray horse. ‘Get out of the way,’ I cried, ‘else I will kill you!’ He pricked up his ears, as much as to say, ‘I will not budge.⁠ ⁠… The deuce take you!’⁠ ⁠… Everything grew blurred before my eyes. My hair seemed to stand on end.⁠ ⁠… Swinging the axe, I struck him on the head with all my might.⁠ ⁠… He uttered a scream, and fell down dead.⁠ ⁠… I took him by the legs, dragged him towards his master, and then I put them side by side, near the edge of the road. ‘Stay there, will you!’

“ ‘Get in,’ I said to the lady. She helped the younger children first, but had not strength enough left to get the oldest one in.⁠ ⁠… ‘Will you help me?’ she said. As I went up to them, the boy put out his arms to me, and I was about to lift him up, when I remembered.⁠ ⁠… ‘Take the child away,’ I cried; ‘I am stained with blood, and am not fit to touch him!⁠ ⁠…’

“Finally they managed in some way to get into the telyéga, and I took the reins; but the horses snorted, and refused to stir. What was I to do? ‘Put the baby on the box,⁠ ⁠…’ I said. She placed the child beside me, holding him from behind. I gave the horses a blow with the reins, and they started on the run⁠ ⁠… just as you saw them a short time ago. They ran to escape the scent of blood.

“In the morning I brought the lady to the local police-quarters in the village, and there I told my story. ‘Arrest me, for I have killed a man.’ The lady told them just how it all happened. ‘This man saved my life,’ she said. They bound me with ropes, and she cried at the sight, poor dear! ‘Why do you bind him? He did a good deed; he saved my children from murderers!⁠ ⁠…’ She was a determined one! Seeing that no one heeded her words, she tried to untie the ropes with her own hands, but I stopped her. ‘Don’t do that,’ I said. ‘Don’t be anxious about this matter; it is no longer in the hands of man, but in the care of the Lord. Whether I am guilty or innocent, God and the world will judge.⁠ ⁠…’⁠—‘How can you be guilty?’ she said.⁠—‘It was my pride,’ I replied; ‘my guilt sprang from my pride. I thought I was better and wiser than most men, and I became intimate with those wretches because I was too proud to take advice, and through my own self-conceit I have become a murderer.⁠ ⁠…’ She yielded at last to my remonstrances, and desisted. When she came to bid me goodbye, in her compassion, she embraced me.⁠ ⁠… ‘My poor fellow!’ she said, and bade the children kiss me. ‘No, no!’ I exclaimed; ‘don’t stain the children; I am a murderer!⁠ ⁠…’ I feared lest the children might shrink from me. But she lifted the two younger ones in her arms, and the oldest one came of his own accord, and when he put his arms around my neck I broke down, and burst out sobbing. I could not control myself. Oh, what a kindhearted lady she was!⁠ ⁠… Maybe the Lord will forgive me, for her sake.⁠ ⁠…

“ ‘If there be any justice in this world,’ she said to me, ‘we will obtain it for you. I shall not forget you as long as I live!’ And she was as good as her word. You know what our courts are,⁠ ⁠… continual delays. I should have been in prison up to this day, had it not been for the efforts that she and her husband made to gain my release.”

“Then, you were imprisoned for some time?”

“Yes, for quite a while. And the want of money was the cause of it. After a time she sent me half a thousand rubles, and she and her husband wrote me a letter. As soon as it was known that money had come, my case began to move at once. The inspector appeared, and I was called to the office. Your case is before me,’ he said; ‘now, how much will you give me if I make it all right?’

“ ‘A fine official you are!’ I thought to myself; ‘and what is it that he wants to be paid for? Instead of judging me fairly, according to the law, for which I should be truly thankful, he asks for a bribe.⁠ ⁠…’

“ ‘I will give you nothing,’ I said; ‘judge me according to the law.⁠ ⁠…’

“He laughed. ‘I see that you are a fool! The law admits of two interpretations; but that has been shelved, and, meanwhile, I have the authority in my hands. It is in my power to put you wherever I please.’

“ ‘How so?’

“ ‘It is a simple matter. You appear to be a stupid fellow. Listen! You will say, in your defence, that you saved the lives of this lady and her children.’

“ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What then?’

“ ‘Very well; and this might be attributed to you as an act of virtue, for it is a good deed. That is one view of the case.’

“ ‘And what is the other one?’ I asked.

“ ‘The other one? Simply this. Consider your strength, see what a giant you are! The old man was like a child in your hands. When he suggested what you say, you should have politely tied his hands and brought him before the authorities; but, instead of doing this, you dealt him a blow which felled him to the ground. That was a lawless act, and one that you had no right to commit. You understand?’

“ ‘I do,’ I said. ‘I see that I can find no justice! But I will give you nothing! You are not the judge, and this is not impartial judgment!’

“He was angry.

“ ‘Very well, then!’ said he. ‘You may rot in jail while your suit is going on!’

“ ‘All right,’ I said; ‘but you need not threaten.’

“And so he had me locked up in jail. But the lady persisted; she went so far as to intercede for me with the higher authorities, and it was not long before a document was received that made it hot for the inspector. One day I was summoned to the office, and, after a great deal of loud talking, was at last released. So, after all, I had no trial⁠ ⁠… and I hardly know⁠ ⁠… I have been told that, nowadays, justice is to be found in our courts, and I sometimes wish I could be tried by a jury and abide by their verdict.”

“And what became of Iván Zakhárof?”

“Iván Zakhárof has never been heard from since. It was said that he and Bezrúky planned that the former was to follow me at a short distance, and, if I should refuse to commit the murder, Zakhárof was to shoot me. But you see it was not the will of the Lord,⁠ ⁠… for, when Zakhárof arrived upon the scene, everything was all over, and he took fright. I heard that, when he returned, he went directly to work to dig up his money; and, having done this, he made for the woods, without saying a word to anyone.⁠ ⁠… Towards morning the house caught fire. Whether he set it on fire accidentally, or whether it was done by Kuzmá, was never known; but one thing is certain⁠—that, by nightfall, nothing was left of it but a bed of coals, and thus the rogues’ nest was destroyed. The women are beggars to this day, and the son is a convict, for he had no money to buy himself off.

“Ho!⁠ ⁠… my dearies, we have arrived, thanks be to God! See, the sun is just rising!⁠ ⁠…”

A month passed. I had transacted my business, and was returning to the city of N⁠⸺ by post relays.

About noon we reached, the station, where the stout postmaster stood on the porch, smoking a cigar.

“I suppose you want fresh horses?” he asked, before I had time to utter a greeting.

“Yes,” I replied.

“All gone!”

“Please, don’t say that, Vasíli Ivánovitch! Cannot I see that⁠ ⁠…”

For I distinctly saw a partly harnessed troika standing under the shed.

He laughed.

“Truly, I know you are not in haste just now, and I will ask you to wait awhile.”

“For what reason? Are you expecting the governor?”

“Not quite so high a personage as the governor, I should hope; no, only a privy councillor, but I should like to accommodate this fellow.⁠ ⁠… Don’t get vexed, for I am quite as anxious to accommodate you; but your need is not urgent, and this is in the interests of justice and humanity in general, so to speak.”

“What have you to do with justice? What business is it?”

“If you will wait I will tell you all about it. But why stand here? Come into my ‘cabin,’ will you?”

I agreed, and followed Vasíli Ivánovitch into his “cabin,” where his wife, a stout, good-natured person, was waiting for us at the tea-table.

“You were speaking about justice,” began Vasíli Ivánovitch; “have you heard the name of Proskuróf?”

“No, I have not.”

“How should he?” interposed Matróna Ivánovna. “He is just such another lawless fellow as my husband; he even writes for the papers.”

“You are very much mistaken, Matróna Ivánovna,” said Vasíli Ivánovitch, warmly; “Proskuróf is a highly respectable man, and in favor with his superiors. You ought to burn a wax taper to my patron saint as a thanks-offering for your husband’s respectable acquaintances. If that’s your opinion in regard to Proskuróf, I should like to ask if you suppose that they would send a good-for-nothing man as examining magistrate on such important business as this?”

“What are you talking about?” I inquired. “What about an examining magistrate on important business?”

“That’s what I say!” said Matróna Ivánovna, encouraged. “I think you are talking nonsense. Do you take me for a fool, pray? Do important magistrates look like that?”

“You have made Matróna Ivánovna doubt me,” said the stationmaster, shaking his head reproachfully, “and without any sufficient knowledge on your part. True, no office like that exists; but if a man is appointed owing to the special confidence that is reposed in him, it is still better.⁠ ⁠…”

“I am at a loss to understand you,” I remarked.

“That is just what I complain of; you admit that you don’t understand, and yet you don’t hesitate to excite doubts in the mind of an inexperienced woman! Yes, and are you not aware that a stock-company, so to speak, has been organized, that manages all this highway and dark night business? Is it possible that you know nothing about it!”

“I have heard such rumors, of course.”

“I thought you must have heard of it. It is a company that embraces every class of society. The business is conducted on a large scale, having for its motto: ‘One hand washes the other.’ They have no objection to a certain notoriety; and it is a fact that everyone knows of the existence of such a company, and even the names of the individuals who are interested in it. I say everyone⁠—His Excellency, of course, excepted. Not very long ago, a notorious affair occurred, after which His Excellency conceived a brilliant idea. He had come to the determination that, if it was possible, this evil should be suppressed. Of course, such attempts have been made before. The members of the company, for instance, have suppressed themselves, and all ended well. But this time the idea was particularly brilliant. His Excellency was very much enraged, and empowered his private clerk, Proskuróf, with ample authority to act on every occasion⁠—not only in regard to affairs that have already taken place, but also in all future ones or in such as might have any connection with those that had previously occurred.”

“What is there so remarkable in that?”

“Well, sometimes the Lord sees fit to enlighten even babes. But the wonder is that an honest and energetic man has been found: he has been engaged in this business of suppression for the past three months, and such a commotion as he has raised, the Lord help us! About a dozen horses have been ruined.”

“Well, what good does that do you?”

“It was not Proskuróf who ruined the horses.⁠ ⁠… He would not do such a thing. It is the rural police, the men who follow him about on private horses⁠—competition, you know⁠—trying to get ahead of him and to be the first on the spot where a crime has been committed, for the sake of duty, of course. However, they seldom succeed. Proskuróf is our Lecocq. Once, to be sure, they succeeded in stealing some evidence from under his very nose.⁠ ⁠… He felt much aggrieved at it, poor fellow, so much so that he actually forgot himself in the official report, and stated ‘that, owing to the endeavor of the rural police, all measures had been taken to conceal the evidences of crime!’ Ha-ha-ha!”

“Yes, that’s the reason why I say that he is a case⁠—like yourself!”

“No, he is all right,” rejoined Vasíli Ivánovitch. “And, supposing he did make a blunder, that is what might happen to the most careful person. He acknowledged his own mistake, when they pressed him, and, to justify himself, he declared that it was a clerical error. ‘Guard against such errors in the future,’ was the reply, ‘lest you be discharged on account of poor health.’ He is a funny fellow, I must say! Ha-ha-ha!”

“And what have you to do with all this?” I asked.

“I lend my cooperation. Ask my wife; we have a regular compact⁠—a secret treaty. He does the suppressing, and I always keep horses in readiness for him. For instance, today a murder was committed somewhere along the highway, and his man was despatched to inform him of it, which means that the ‘Eradicator’ himself will be here shortly; so my horses are partly ready, and, moreover, I have sent word to my colleagues to have others in readiness at their stations. So, you see, even though one occupies the humble post of stationmaster, one may do some good to humanity⁠—yes, sir.⁠ ⁠…”

At the end of this tirade, the jolly stationmaster dropped his serious tone and began to laugh.

“Stop laughing,” I said to him, “and tell me seriously, do you believe in this policy of eradication yourself, or are you only an observer?”

Vasíli Ivánovitch took a long pull at his cigar, and remained silent for a time.

At last he replied, in an earnest tone, “Well, I don’t know that I have asked myself this question. Let me consider. No, I cannot say that I do! All this mission is devilish nonsense! He will soon be discharged; there is no doubt about that! But he is a most interesting subject. It is true that, at the bottom of my heart, I have very little faith in his success. Sometimes he appears ridiculous to me; still, I go on helping him, and I dare say my wife is right⁠—very likely I shall irritate my superiors against me. And that will do me small good. But am I the only one? There are many others who sympathize with him. That is what makes him strong, of course. But, strange to say, no one really believes in his success. You have just heard Matróna Ivánovna say that genuine magistrates are not like him, and that is only the echo of public opinion. Meanwhile, however, while this infant pushes ahead, ‘holding high his banner,’ as the papers express it, every man with a particle of feeling, every disinterested man, takes the trouble to kick stones out of the said infant’s path, lest he stumble and fall. Still, this is no remedy.⁠ ⁠…”

“Why not? With the sympathy of a population, naturally interested in all this?”

“Ah, but that is just the point! It is not pure sympathy! You will probably see for yourself what kind of an infant this is! He pushes ahead without discretion, with no definite plan, quite indifferent to the fact that he will probably be gobbled up in the end. Meanwhile, outsiders look on, and shake their heads, as much as to say, ‘That infant will be eaten up sooner or later!’ Of course, one feels sorry for him. One says, ‘Your path shall be smoothed here for a space, but, after all is done, you will certainly be devoured further on.’ But he reeks nothing of danger. What does sympathy amount to, when faith in the success of one’s enterprise is lacking? A genuine magistrate is needed; a man with the wisdom of a serpent, one who knows the ins and outs, who could overawe men at times, and not disdain to receive a bribe occasionally⁠—for, after all, who can be a true magistrate who refuses that! In such a man the community would have faith. He is the one to eradicate! But, then, the deuce take it! there would be no sympathy, and the matter would be attributed to the clashing of official interests.⁠ ⁠… So there you have it!⁠ ⁠… Such is our country!⁠ ⁠… We had better drink our tea!” Vasíli Ivánovitch finished abruptly, and shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Pour the tea, Matréyntchik,” he said, in caressing tones, turning to his wife, who was listening with an air of profound interest to her husband’s words. “And don’t you think we had better take a glass of something before tea?”

Vasíli Ivánovitch himself was a very interesting character, such as is to be found only in Siberia, for in no other country is one likely to encounter a philosopher occupying the position of stationmaster. Had Vasíli Ivánovitch been an exile, this would have been nothing unusual. Fortune’s wheel, in its rotation, has hurled many a man from high position into some remote corner of the world, who, while seeking to rise again, introduces into these lower spheres new methods of education and culture. But with Vasíli Ivánovitch it was just the reverse; in his radicalism he was descending slowly but surely from the upper to the lower stages. He looked upon this state of things with the serenity of a true philosopher. Under some educational influence, not uncommon in this country of exiles, he had in his youth acquired the tastes and inclinations of an intelligent man, and had always prized them above all other advantages of life. Besides, he was something of an artist. When he was in a mood for talking, one could listen to him until one forgot all about one’s own business. While he was relating anecdotes and stories, and giving descriptions, a panorama of the characteristic and local types of the times previous to the reform seemed to pass before the eyes of the listener: all those rapacious and eager inspectors; and well fed bailiffs, who were beginning to realize the comforts of life; bailiffs at the top of the ladder, who had reached the height of felicity; counsellors, senior-counsellors, commission employees of all kinds⁠ ⁠… and enthroned above all this world, so familiar to Vasíli Ivánovitch in its minutest details, sat the local Jupiters in their good-nature and grandeur, with their demonstrative Pompadour storms, their childlike ignorance of the country, their horizon imported from the St. Petersburg departments, and the sense of power of the mighty satrap. All these elements in the stories of Vasíli Ivánovitch were vivified by the sympathetic touches of the true artist who loves his subject. And for Vasíli Ivánovitch, his country, although he often painted it in such unattractive colors, was a subject of deepest interest. As an intelligent man, he might truly apply to himself the poet’s verse:⁠—

“I love my country, but with a strange love!”

And his love was sincere, although it brought him to a gradual “degradation,” as he expressed it. When, after one of those reverses brought upon him by his insatiable craving for exposing the truth, he was offered a fair position in Russia, he, after some hesitation, replied, “No, sir; I am much obliged to you, but it goes against me.⁠ ⁠… I could not do it! What should I do there? Everything would be strange to me. Bless you! I should have no one to abuse!”

Whenever I read or hear a comparison between Siberia and Russia as it was before the reform, a subject very much in vogue at one time, it always brings to my mind one very decided difference, which was personified in the stout figure of my humorous friend. The fact is that Russia before the reform had not the advantage that Siberia possesses, of living in the neighborhood of a Russia reformed. For instance, one often meets in Siberia persons, not particularly intelligent either, who speak of their own country in terms of ironical criticism. Our Russian Skvozník-Dmukhanóvsky, in the simplicity of his intellectual directness, supposed that “God had thus ordained it, and the disciples of Voltaire vainly rebelled against it.” The Siberian Skvozník witnessed the disappearance of his Russian prototype, saw the triumph of the disciples of Voltaire, and his directness has long since vanished. He is always agitating, but has very little faith himself in his providential mission. When favorable influences prevail, he is cheerful; but let the wind blow from the wrong quarter, he gnashes his teeth and grows morbid. True, there is always a slender ray of hope shining through his despair⁠—“Perhaps the next time it may succeed”; but, on the other hand, every hope is embittered by the poignant doubt, “Will it endure?” For, as the proverb says, “Chips fly in Siberia when trees are felled beyond the Ural.” And beside him, smiling, stands the native “Voltairian,” in his woollen coat, and by his smile he seems to say, “Still alive, my friend? Is it possible?” while he clandestinely scribbles his correspondence for unlicensed Russian papers.

“By the way,” said Vasíli Ivánovitch, after tea, when, having lighted our cigars, we still continued our chat, “you have never told me what happened to you that time in the Hollow?”

And then I told him what the reader already knows.

Vasíli Ivánovitch remained pensive, scrutinizing the ashes on the end of his cigar.

“Yes, they are peculiar people, no doubt.”

“Do you know them?”

“How shall I say? Yes; I have met and talked with them, and have taken tea with them, as I did with you just now. But, as to knowing them⁠—no, I can’t say I do. I can see through inspectors, or isprávniks,28 probably because we are kindred spirits; but those people, I must confess, I do not understand. But of one thing I am confident, and that is that this Seelín will come to an unfortunate end. He will be made way with, sooner or later.”

“Why do you think so?”

“How can it be otherwise! Your case was not the first. On all such dangerous expeditions, when almost every driver refuses, they have recourse to this fellow, and he is always ready. And you must remember that he never takes any weapons. It is true, he overawes them all. Since he killed Bezrúky, a wonderful prestige has attached itself to him, and he seems to believe in it himself. But this is only an illusion. Already they begin to say that a charmed bullet will kill the ‘Slayer.’ I suspect that the persistence with which this Constantine fires at him is explained by the fact that he has a supply of just such charmed bullets.”

While this conversation was going on, Vasíli Ivánovitch suddenly pricked up his ears.

“Wait a moment; I think I heard the bell⁠ ⁠… It must be Proskuróf.”

And the sound of the name seemed to restore Vasíli Ivánovitch to his habitual hilarity. He ran to the window. “Just as I expected! There comes our Exterminator! Look at him, will you! If that isn’t a picture! Ha-ha-ha! That is the way he always drives. A truly conscientious man!” I went to the window. The bell sounded nearer and nearer. At first I could see only a cloud of dust issuing from the forest and blowing in our direction. But the road that skirted the hill made here a sudden turn towards the station, and, in this place, we could see the team, directly below and very near us.

The post-horse troika, harnessed to a light taratáïka,29 was making rapid progress. The fine dust and pebbles already flew from under the hoofs of the galloping horses; but the driver, leaning forward, urged them with an occasional shout to still greater speed. Behind him appeared a figure clad in a civilian’s overcoat and a uniform cap. Although the uneven road pitched the taratáïka from side to side, and jolted the gentleman in the hat with the cockade, he did not seem to notice it in the least. He too was standing, bending forward over the box, and appeared to be superintending the horses, in order to make sure that each one was doing his share of the work. At times, he pointed out to the driver the one he thought ought to be urged, occasionally taking the whip from his hands, and using it himself, in a conscientious but awkward way. From this occupation, which seemed to absorb his entire attention, he would now and then tear himself away, to look at his watch.

During all this time, while the troika was ascending the hill, Vasíli Ivánovitch laughed immoderately; but when, with one final jerk of the bell, it stopped in front of the porch, the stationmaster sat there on the lounge, smoking his cigar, in apparent oblivion of what was passing.

At first, we heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the tired horses; then suddenly the door was thrown open, and the newcomer burst into the room. He was a man possibly thirty-five years of age, rather small in stature, but with an uncommonly large head. His broad face, with its prominent cheekbones, level brows, slightly turned-up nose, and thin lips, was almost square, and produced an effect of energy peculiar to itself. His large gray eyes looked straight ahead. In a general way, Proskuróf’s face struck one at once by its seriousness⁠—an impression that somehow vanished after a few seconds. The trim, official-looking side-whiskers, which framed his smoothly shaven face, the parting on his chin, and certain abrupt motions peculiar to him, added at once a tinge of comicality to the first impression of this original person. Upon entering the room, Proskuróf paused and glanced about him, and as soon as he discovered Vasíli Ivánovitch he approached him. “Mr. Stationmaster⁠ ⁠… Vasíli Ivánovitch, my dear fellow, let me have horses! For Heaven’s sake, my dear sir, let me have horses, as quickly as possible!”

Vasíli Ivánovitch, who was stretched out on the lounge, assumed a cold, diplomatic expression of countenance.

“Impossible,” said he; “besides, I believe you are not entitled to post-horses, and the horses belonging to the zemstvo30 will presently be required for the inspector, who may arrive at any moment.”

Too much surprised for utterance at the first moment, Proskuróf suddenly flared up.

“What do you mean?⁠ ⁠… Am I not here first?⁠ ⁠… A fine state of things!⁠ ⁠… In the first place, you are mistaken as to my rights about the post-horses; I have my travelling documents with me, and I can produce them if it is necessary,⁠ ⁠… and, besides, on legal principles.⁠ ⁠…”

But Vasíli Ivánovitch had already begun to laugh.

“The deuce take you, you are eternally joking. You know I am in a hurry!” exclaimed Proskuróf, in a tone of vexation, for he had evidently been caught in the same trap more than once. “Hurry, for goodness sake! I have business on hand.”

“I know it⁠—a murder case.”

“How do you know?” inquired the alarmed Proskuróf.

“How do you know?” repeated the postmaster, mimicking, him. “The inspector knows it already. He told me.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” replied the beaming Proskuróf. “They have not the least idea of it⁠—and my people have already arrested the criminal,⁠ ⁠… or I ought rather to say⁠ ⁠… the suspected party is in their hands. I tell you this promises to be a famous case!⁠ ⁠… You just wait, and see me make them tumble!”

“Indeed! You had better take care lest you tumble yourself.”

Just then the sound of a bell in the yard startled Proskuróf.

“Vasíli Ivánovitch,” he said, in a coaxing tone, “I hear them harnessing! Is that for me?”

And, seizing the postmaster’s hand, he threw an anxious glance in my direction.

“Yes, yes; it is for you! Be calm! But what business have you on hand, really?”

“A murder, my good fellow, another murder,⁠ ⁠… and such a murder!⁠—with unmistakable evidence against the famous band! I hold all the threads. Unless I am on the wrong scent, we shall have a chance to make some important personages squirm. Hurry, for mercy’s sake!⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes, in a minute. Where did it happen?”

“In that same cursed Hollow, as usual. It ought to be blown up. A driver was killed.⁠ ⁠…”

“What’s that? A mail robbed?”

“No, no!⁠—he wasn’t a government driver.”

“The ‘Slayer’?” I exclaimed, as a sudden conviction flashed into my mind.

Proskuróf turned to me, and devoured me with his eyes.

“Precisely!⁠—that was the name the deceased was known by. May I ask what interest you have in this matter?”

“Hm!⁠ ⁠…” muttered Vasíli Ivánovitch, and a roguish look danced in his eyes. “Examine him⁠—you had better; examine him carefully.”

“I met him once,” I said.

“Just so,⁠ ⁠…” drawled out Vasíli Ivánovitch, “you met him.⁠ ⁠… Might one ask if there was any enmity or rivalry between you, or were you, perhaps, expecting some legacy after his death?”

“I wish you would stop joking. What an insufferable man you are!” rejoined Proskuróf, pettishly, and then, addressing himself to me, he continued:⁠—

“Pardon me, my dear sir! I had no intention of dragging you into this business, but you understand,⁠ ⁠… the interests of justice⁠ ⁠…”

“Of humanity and the safety of mankind,” interposed the incorrigible postmaster.

“In short,” continued Proskuróf, giving Vasíli Ivánovitch a savage glance, “I was only about to say that, since it is the duty of every citizen to promote the interests of justice, if you can communicate to me any information in regard to this matter, you must perceive that you are under the obligation to do so.”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “how much the information I possess would help the case. I should be very glad if my testimony should prove useful.”

“Good! Such promptness does you credit, my dear sir. May I ask with whom I have the honor⁠ ⁠…”

I told him my name.

“Afanásy Ivánovitch Proskuróf,” he said in his turn. “You have just spoken of your desire to promote justice. Now, I propose that, in order not to do the thing halfway, you would consent, my dear sir,⁠ ⁠… in a word,⁠ ⁠… would you be willing to go with me now?”

Vasíli Ivánovitch laughed.

“Well, if ever!⁠ ⁠… This beats all! Do you propose to arrest him?”

I made haste to reassure him, telling him that I never for a moment suspected such a thing.

“And Vasíli Ivánovitch is only joking,” I added.

“I am glad that you understand me; my time is precious. We shall make but few changes after this, and you will tell me, on the way, all that you know of the matter; and it so happens that I have no clerk with me.”

There was no reason why I should refuse.

“I was just on the point myself of asking you to take me along, as I am very much interested in this affair.”

The image of the “Slayer” rose before me: his sombre countenance, the lines of agony on his brow, and the brooding anxiety expressed in his eyes.⁠—“He is bringing the cormorants down upon me, the cursed rascal!” My heart sank within me as I recalled his gloomy forebodings. Now these cormorants circle around him, as with closed eyes he lies in the dark Hollow, that once before cast its ominous shadow over his unsullied life.

“Halloo!” suddenly exclaimed Vasíli Ivánovitch, peering through the window. “Can you tell me, Afanásy Ivánovitch, who that is driving out of the forest?”

Proskuróf threw one hasty glance, and started instantly for the door.

“Come, let us hurry, for goodness’ sake!” he called out to me, seizing his hat from the table; and, as soon as I could get ready, I followed him, and found our spirited troika just driving up to the entrance.

Glancing in the direction of the forest, I saw a cart rapidly approaching, whose passenger from time to time sprang to his feet, and the alternate rise and fall of his arms indicated some kind of performance from behind the back of the driver. The slanting rays of the setting sun scintillated here and there on his buttons and shoulder-straps. When Proskuróf paid the driver who had brought him, the latter grinned by way of expressing his gratification.

“Many thanks, Your Excellency!⁠ ⁠…”

“Have you told your comrade?⁠—that fellow, I mean,” said Proskuróf, pointing towards the new driver.

“Yes, I have been told,” replied the man.

“Then, look out!” said the examining magistrate, as he took his seat in the cart. “If you get us there in an hour and a half, you shall have a ruble; but if you are a minute too late, only one minute too late, you understand!⁠ ⁠…”

The last sentence was not completed; for at this moment the horses started abruptly, and the words were stifled in Proskuróf’s throat.

The city of B⁠⸺ was some twenty versts distant. At first Proskuróf looked at his watch every instant, reckoning the distance already traversed, and once in a while he glanced over his shoulder; but at last, seemingly satisfied with the pace at which the troika was carrying us along, and convinced that no one was following us, he turned to me.

“Well, sir, what do you know about this affair?”

Then I told him about my adventure in the Hollow, and the driver’s apprehensions regarding a threat uttered by one of the robbers, whom I suspected to have been the merchant. Proskuróf drank it all in.

“Yes,” he said, when I paused, “all this will have its weight. But do you remember the faces of those men?”

“Yes, excepting the merchant’s.”

Proskuróf gave me one reproachful glance.

“Goodness!” he exclaimed, and his bitter disappointment revealed itself in his voice. “He of all others! Of course, you are not to blame; but he was just the one you ought to have remembered. Too bad! Too bad! However, he will not escape the clutches of the law.”

In less than an hour and a half we reached the station. Having given orders to have fresh horses harnessed as soon as possible, Proskuróf sent for the sótsky.31

A small peasant, with a thin beard and roguish eyes, made his appearance. The expression of his face betokened a mixture of good-nature and rascality, but the general impression was favorable and attractive. In his well worn smock-frock and shabby clothes there were no signs of affluence. On entering the hut, he bowed, then looked behind the door, as though to assure himself that there were no eavesdroppers present, and finally approached us. He seemed ill-at-ease, as though he felt himself to be in danger in Proskuróf’s presence.

“How goes it, Yevséyitch?” was the cordial greeting of the official. “What news? Your bird hasn’t flown?”

“How could he fly?” replied Yevséyitch, shuffling his feet: “he is well guarded.”

“Have you tried to talk with him?”

“I have; indeed I have.⁠ ⁠… But he does not seem inclined to talk. I tried politeness, at first; but I must confess I couldn’t help threatening him, after a while. ‘Why do you behave like a statue, you good-for-nothing fellow? Do you realize who I am?’⁠—‘And who are you, I should like to know?’⁠—‘An authority, that’s who!⁠—a sótsky!’⁠—‘Such authorities as you we have slapped in the face.’ What can you do with such a desperate fellow?⁠ ⁠… a villain!”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Proskuróf, impatiently; “be sure and keep a sharp watch over him. I shall return in a short time.”

“He won’t run away. And I must say, Your Excellency, that he is not troublesome. Most of the time he lies down and looks at the ceiling⁠—whether asleep, or only resting, who can tell?⁠ ⁠… Once he got up and said he was hungry, and I gave him something to eat; then he asked for some tobacco to make a cigarette with, and stretched himself out again.”

“So much the better, my dear fellow. I rely on you, and when the surgeon arrives send him along.”

“I shall not fail to do so. But I was going to ask Your Excellency⁠ ⁠…”

And once more Yevséyitch went to the door, and looked cautiously around the vestibule.

“Well, what is it?” asked Proskuróf, who was on the point of leaving.

“I suppose we understand the matter,” began Yevséyitch, diplomatically, shuffling his feet, and casting side-glances at me; “if the peasants were to bring some pressure to bear now, it would be all right, would it?⁠ ⁠… the whole mir,32 I mean⁠—all our society?⁠ ⁠…”

“Well?” said Proskuróf, inclining his head in order better to grasp the sense of this disconnected explanation of the peasant.

“Just consider. Your Excellency, and think how it must be! We cannot stand this sort of thing much longer. Such trouble! Think of the power they have in their hands, and how successful they are!⁠ ⁠… Now, for instance, take that very same rascal!⁠ ⁠… What is he? There is no doubt but that he was bribed; it must have been done for money.⁠ ⁠… And if he had refused, they would have found another man.”

“That’s so,” said Proskuróf, by way of encouragement, and evidently very much interested. “Go on, my dear fellow; I see you have a head on your shoulders. Well, what then?”

“Nothing; only if we peasants felt that we had some power behind us,⁠ ⁠… perhaps, then, we might dare to testify against them.⁠ ⁠… Think of their evil doings!⁠ ⁠… and the mir is influential.”

“Well, you must know, if you help justice, justice will help you,” remarked Proskuróf, with dignity.

“To be sure,” ejaculated Yevséyitch, thoughtfully; “but, then, on the other hand, we cannot help thinking that, if Your Excellency should not be able to hold your own with the powers that be, we and our children would be ruined; for the power is in their hands.⁠ ⁠…”

Proskuróf shuddered, as though touched by an electric current, and, hurriedly seizing his hat, he rushed out of the room. I followed him, leaving Yevséyitch in the same perplexed attitude. He continued to gesticulate, muttering to himself, while Proskuróf, indignant, took his seat in the cart.

“That’s the way it always is!” he said; “nothing but compromises, whichever way one turns!⁠ ⁠… If success is assured to them, then they will consent to uphold justice.⁠ ⁠… What do you say to that state of things! It is immoral⁠—simply immoral!⁠ ⁠… It indicates that the sense of duty is deficient.⁠ ⁠…”

“If you ask my opinion, I must beg leave to differ from you. It seems to me that they have the right to demand from the authorities a guaranty of protection in all attempts to obtain justice. If this be denied, then what is the essence of authority?⁠—what meaning does it convey?⁠ ⁠… Do you not think that, if mob-law is forbidden, that very fact implies the assumption of certain responsibilities? And if they are not discharged, then⁠ ⁠…”

Proskuróf turned suddenly toward me, and seemed about to make some remark; but he did not speak, remaining silent, and absorbed in his own thoughts.

We had travelled nearly six miles, and were now about three miles from the Hollow, when we heard the sound of a bell. “Aha!” said Proskuróf, “he has not changed his horses. So much the better; he has had no time to interview the prisoner. I thought as much.”

When we reached the Hollow, the roseate disk of the sun was just sinking below the horizon line; but, although the deep evening shadows were already overspreading the place, it was yet daylight. All was cool and still. The “Stone” loomed vaguely through the fog, and above it rose the full, pale moon. The dark forest lay wrapped in the profound sleep of enchantment; not a leaf stirred. The silence was broken only by the sound of the bell, which tinkled clearly in the air, repeated by the reverberating echo of the Hollow, and also behind us the sound of ringing could be faintly heard.

A light smoke rose from the direction of the bushes. The peasant watchers were sitting silently round a fire, and as soon as they saw us they rose, taking off their caps. At a short distance from them, under a linen cover, lay the body.

“Good evening, boys!” said the examiner, in an undertone.

“Good evening, Your Excellency!” replied the peasants.

“Nothing has been disturbed?”

“Nothing, we believe.⁠ ⁠… We were obliged to do something to him.⁠ ⁠… But we have not touched the animal.”

“What animal?”

“Why, didn’t you know the brutes shot the sorrel horse?⁠ ⁠… The deceased was returning on one of the side horses.” We saw the slain animal lying some thirty sazhén33 from the road.

Proskuróf, accompanied by the watchers, went to inspect the locality; he approached the deceased, and raised the covering from his face.

The pallor of death overspread his calm features. His dim eyes, turned upwards toward the evening sky, wore that peculiar expression of bewilderment and inquiry which is sometimes stamped upon the face of the dead by the last emotion of departing life.⁠ ⁠… The face was unsullied by blood.

A quarter of an hour later, Proskuróf passed me; he was walking toward the crossing, accompanied by the peasants. The team that we had heard behind us had just arrived.

A middle-aged man, in police uniform, jumped out, followed by a young person in citizen’s dress, who proved to be the surgeon. The inspector seemed much fatigued. His broad chest heaved like a pair of bellows; his portly person, enveloped in a stylish military cloak, swayed to and fro as he moved, and his long, waxed moustache alternately rose and fell, keeping time to his puffing and panting. His long, curling hair, slightly gray, was covered with dust.

“Ouf!” he exclaimed, gasping. “It’s hard work to follow you, Afanásy Ivánovitch. How do you do?”

“My respects to you,” answered Proskuróf. “I am sorry to have hurried you. I could have waited.”

“Oh, no!⁠ ⁠… Ouf!⁠ ⁠… Duty above all things. I never want to keep anyone waiting. That is against my principles.”

The inspector spoke in a hoarse army bass, the sound of which involuntarily brought to mind the idea of rum and Zhukof34 tobacco. His small eyes, colorless yet keen, with restless scrutiny, peered in all directions, and at last rested on me.

“This is Mr. N., a friend of mine, who is temporarily performing the duties of clerk,” said Proskuróf, as he introduced me.

“I have the pleasure to have heard of you, and am very happy to make your acquaintance. Bezrýlof, a retired captain.”

Lifting his hand to his vizor, he clanked his spurs with a good deal of style.

“Very well! We will begin the investigation, then, while the daylight lasts, and make short work of it, in military fashion. Hey, there!⁠ ⁠…”

The watchers came toward us, and, together, we drew near the dead body. Bezrýlof was the first to reach it, and, with an air of indifference, instantly pulled off the covering.

We involuntarily recoiled at the spectacle before us. The entire chest of the deceased displayed gaping wounds, cut and pierced in different places. An unspeakable horror took possession of the soul at the sight of such traces of beastly rage. Any one of these wounds would have been mortal, but it was evident that the majority of them were dealt after death.

Even Bezrýlof lost his customary self-possession, and stood motionless, holding in his hand the end of the covering. His cheeks grew purple, and the ends of his moustache stood out like two spears.

“The rascals!” he said at last, and heaved a deep sigh, which may have been an expression of remorse, knowing, as he did, that for him there was no possible retreat from the path of concealment and deception upon which he had entered. Gently replacing the covering, he turned to Proskuróf, who had not once averted his eyes from him.

“If you are willing, I wish to postpone the description until the inquest tomorrow,” pleaded the inspector, with a dispirited look.⁠ ⁠… “And now let us examine the locality, and have the body carried to B⁠⸺.”

“And there the prisoner shall be questioned,” replied Proskuróf, harshly.

A startled expression came into Bezrýlofs eyes, such as is seen in those of a hunted animal.

“The prisoner?” he exclaimed. “Have you a prisoner, then?⁠ ⁠… How happens it that I have not been⁠ ⁠… how is it that I knew nothing of it?”

He was almost ludicrous, but he quickly made an effort to recover himself. Casting a reproachful glance at his driver and the peasants, he turned again to Proskuróf.

“Well done! Matters begin to look alive⁠ ⁠… remarkably so!⁠ ⁠…”

About midnight, the officials, having rested and taken tea, began the inquest.

In a large room, at a table covered with writing materials, sat Proskuróf. His somewhat comical vivacity had given place to a serious and dignified demeanor. Bezrýlof, who had now regained his former ease of the barracks, had had time during his brief rest to get a bath, to wax his moustache, and to give an extra touch to his gray hair. On the whole, he was still a hale and rather an elegant man. Sipping strong tea from a tumbler that stood beside him, he glanced at the examiner in a condescending sort of way. I was seated at the opposite end of the table.

“Will you have the prisoner brought in?” said Proskuróf, looking up from the sheet of paper on which he was rapidly writing the form of the interrogatories.

Bezrýlof nodded, and Yevséyitch at once rushed out of the hut.

A moment later, the door opened, and a man of tall stature⁠—the same whom I had seen with Kostiúshka at the ferry, gazing at the clouds⁠—made his appearance.

In entering, he slightly stumbled over the sill, and, after a glance at the place, he walked into the middle of the room, and stood still. His step was measured and composed. A broad face, with rather coarse but regular features, denoted the utmost indifference. The blue eyes were somewhat dull, and gazed vaguely into space, as though not noticing the objects before them. His hair was cut in a circle, and spots of blood were visible on his colored cotton shirt. Proskuróf passed the paper with the written interrogatories to me, and, having pushed the pen and ink in the same direction, began to put the usual questions.

“What is your name?”

“Iván, aged thirty-eight.”

“Where do you live?”

“I have no home.⁠ ⁠… I am a vagrant.⁠ ⁠…”

“Tell me, ‘Iván, aged thirty-eight,’ did you murder the driver Iván Mikháïlof?”

“I did.⁠ ⁠… That’s my doing. Your Excellency.⁠ ⁠… There’s no use trying to hide the fact⁠ ⁠… that’s evident.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well said!⁠ ⁠…” exclaimed Bezrýlof, approvingly.

“What is the use?⁠—Your Excellency is making unnecessary delays!⁠ ⁠… There’s no denying the truth.”

After the first answers had been written down, the examiner continued:⁠—

“At whose instigation or suggestion did you do this deed, and where did you get the fifty-two rubles and two kopeks which were found on your person?”

The vagrant raised his dreamy eyes.

“What’s the use in asking these questions, Your Excellency? You know your business, and I know mine. I did it out of my own head; that’s all there is to it.⁠ ⁠… Myself, the dark night, and the forest⁠ ⁠… three of us!⁠ ⁠…”

Bezrýlof gave a grunt of satisfaction and drank half a tumbler of tea at one gulp, bestowing, meanwhile, sarcastic glances on Proskuróf. Then he gazed at the vagrant, admiring the result of his model prison-training, as a discipline-loving officer admires that of a well trained soldier.

Proskuróf remained impassive. Evidently, he had expected no disclosures from the vagrant.

“Will you not tell us,” he went on with his interrogatory, “why you hacked Feódor Mikháïlof in such a barbarous manner? Did you have a personal grudge or hatred against the deceased?”

The man looked up at the examiner with astonishment.

“I don’t think I stabbed him more than once or twice⁠ ⁠… I believe.⁠ ⁠… Then he fell.⁠ ⁠…”

“Desyátnik,”35 said Proskuróf to the peasant, “hold a candle so that the prisoner can see, and let him take a look in the next room.”

The vagrant, with the same quiet step, moved towards the door, and paused, while the peasant, taking a candle from the table, entered the next room.

The rascal at first shuddered and drew back, but, instantly making an effort at self-control, he glanced once more in the same direction, and crossed over to the opposite side of the room.

As we followed the movements of this powerful man, now crushed and broken, his own excitement communicated itself to us.

He was pale, and for some time stood leaning against the wall, with his eyes cast down. Presently he lifted his head and looked at us with vague and uncertain gaze.

“Your Excellency!⁠ ⁠… Orthodox Christians!⁠ ⁠…” he began, in a pleading voice, “this is no work of mine.⁠ ⁠… Upon my conscience, I did not do this!⁠ ⁠… Can it be that in my terror I forgot.⁠ ⁠… No, it’s impossible!⁠ ⁠…”

Suddenly, his face brightened, and for the first time his eyes sparkled.

He came towards the table, and, in a resolute voice, exclaimed:⁠—

“Set this down, Your Excellency. Kostiúshka did it.⁠ ⁠… Kostínkin with the torn nostril! It must have been he!⁠ ⁠… No one else would have so mangled a human being. That’s his work.⁠ ⁠… Mate or no mate, it’s all one to me⁠ ⁠… write it down, Your Excellency!”

At this sudden outburst of candor, Proskuróf instantly seized paper and pen, in order to write it himself; while the vagrant, slowly and with visible effort, related to us the details of this gloomy drama.

He had escaped from the prison of N⁠⸺, where he had been confined for vagrancy⁠ ⁠… and for some time remained without “business,” until he accidentally met Kostiúshka and his friends in a certain “establishment.” It was there that for the first time he heard them talking of the deceased Mikháïlitch.

“ ‘The Slayer,’ they said, ‘is a man who cannot be killed; knife and bullet are powerless against him, because he bears a charmed life.’⁠—‘Nonsense, fellows!’ I exclaimed; ‘that is impossible! A blade will finish any man!’

“ ‘And who are you, may we ask, and where do you belong?’

“ ‘That’s my affair,’ I replied; ‘the prison is my father, and the forest my mother; they are my kith and kin.’

“Gradually, we grew more sociable, and at last I joined the company. They called for half a measure of wine, and Kostínkin said: ‘If you are the kind of man we can trust, wouldn’t you like to join us and go shares?’⁠—‘I would,’ I replied.⁠—‘All right!’ was the answer. ‘We want a man like you. This business must be done in the Hollow; it matters not whether it be by day or by night. We have heard that a man is to carry a large sum of money with him from town. But consider! are you sure you are not boasting? If the gentleman goes with another driver we will share the spoils⁠ ⁠… but if the “Slayer” should be with him, look out that you don’t run away.’⁠—‘No danger,’ I said; ‘that will not happen.’⁠—‘All right! if you feel so confident, you may be in luck; a large reward has been offered for the “Slayer,” and you will stand a chance of getting it.’ ”

“A reward?” repeated Proskuróf; “by whom, may I ask?”

“Look here, sir,” replied the vagrant, “you listen to me at present, and keep your questions till by and by.⁠ ⁠… Well, I must acknowledge that, the first time we tried it, I did get frightened, and ran away; the mate was mostly to blame for that. Mikháïlitch had nothing but a whip in his hand when he came towards us; and Kostínkin, with his rifle, was the first to run⁠ ⁠… of course, I felt frightened too.⁠ ⁠… But that rascal was the first one to make fun of me. He is very sarcastic⁠—that Kostínkin! ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let us try it again. But let me tell you one thing: if you run away this time, I shall kill you too.’ For three days we stayed in the Hollow, on the lookout for him. Toward the evening of the third day he passed us⁠—so we felt sure he would have to return that night. We were all ready, lying in wait, when we heard him coming; he was riding one of the side horses. Kostínkin fired and hit the sorrel horse. Mikháïlitch rushed toward the bushes, just at the very spot where I stood.⁠ ⁠… My heart beat fast, I must confess; for I knew that one of us, either he or I, must fall.⁠ ⁠… So I made a plunge forward and struck at him with the knife, but missed him. Then he, seizing my arm, struck the knife out of my hand and threw me to the ground⁠—almost crushing me, in his great strength. But just as he was about to take off his belt, preparing to bind me, I drew from my boot another knife, which I had made ready for just such a crisis as this; and, bending, I stabbed him under the ribs.⁠ ⁠… He gave one groan, and, turning me face upwards, looked me in the eyes.⁠ ⁠… ‘Ah, my instinct warned me!⁠ ⁠… Well, go thy way, but don’t torture me. Thou hast killed me.’ I got up⁠ ⁠… and saw that he was in agony.⁠ ⁠… He tried to lift himself, but could not. ‘Forgive me,’ I cried.⁠—‘Go thy way, go thy way! May God forgive thee⁠ ⁠… as I do!’ Then I left him, and I tell you the truth when I say that I did not go near him again.⁠ ⁠… This is Kostínkin’s work; probably, after I went away, he fell upon him.⁠ ⁠…”

The vagrant was silent, and threw himself on the bench, while Proskuróf hastened to finish his writing. All was still.

“Now,” continued the examiner, “complete your frank confession. What merchant was with you on the occasion of the first attack, and in whose name did Kostiúshka promise you a reward for the murder of Feódor Mikháïlof?”

Bezrýlof sat gazing with disappointment at the softened vagrant. But suddenly the latter rose from the bench and resumed his former air of indifference.

“That will do!” he said, firmly; “I shall tell nothing more!⁠ ⁠… Enough!⁠ ⁠… You have put down all that about Kostiúshka, haven’t you? It serves him right, and perhaps it will teach him better than to be such a brute in the future! You may as well order them to take me away, Your Excellency, for I shall say nothing more.”

“Listen, ‘Iván, aged thirty-eight,’ ” said the examiner, “I deem it my duty to inform you that the fuller your confession, the more leniency you may expect from the hands of justice. You cannot save your mates.”

The vagrant shrugged his shoulders.

“That is not my lookout. It is all the same to me.”

Evidently, there was no hope of obtaining any further information from him, and he was removed from the room.

It still remained to examine the witnesses.

The priest was expected, to administer the oath, and meanwhile they huddled together at the inner wall. The gray crowd, with sombre faces, stood shuffling their feet, in dead silence. Yevséyitch stood in front. His face was red, his lips drawn tightly together, his forehead wrinkled, and, as he gazed gloomily from under his brows, his eyes rested alternately on Bezrýlof and the examiner. It was evident enough that between this crowd and Yevséyitch a decision had been reached.

Bezrýlof sat on the bench, with his legs spread apart, snapping his fingers. While the peasants were entering and taking their places, he gazed at them attentively and thoughtfully; then, after giving them one cold, disdainful glance, he turned to Proskuróf, nodded, and, with an almost imperceptible smile, exclaimed:

“By the way, Afanásy Ivánovitch, I almost forgot to congratulate you!⁠ ⁠… I have a pleasing bit of news.⁠ ⁠… Excuse me!⁠ ⁠… With all this business⁠ ⁠… it actually slipped my mind.⁠ ⁠…”

“On what subject?” inquired Proskuróf, still reading over the deposition.

Bezrýlof was beaming. “Can it be possible that you have not heard, and am I to be the first to impart this agreeable intelligence!⁠ ⁠… I am very, very glad!⁠ ⁠…”

The examiner raised his eyes and gazed at the inspector, who thereupon came up to him, clanking his spurs, and smiling in a way meant to be irresistible. “You are temporarily appointed to the place of Treasurer of the City of N⁠⸺⁠ ⁠… Of course, this is merely a form, and there can be no doubt but that your appointment will be confirmed. I congratulate you, my dear fellow,” continued Bezrýlof, in his most cordial and flattering voice, seizing Proskurófs hand; “I congratulate you with all my heart.”

But Proskuróf failed to appreciate these friendly congratulations. Quickly withdrawing his hand, he sprang from his seat.

“Wait, my dear sir, wait!” he hastily exclaimed, almost stuttering as he spoke. “This is no place for joking!⁠ ⁠… no place whatever!⁠ ⁠… , Perhaps you think that I do not see through your policy?⁠ ⁠… You are mistaken, my dear sir! I am no calf!⁠ ⁠… no, sir!⁠ ⁠… no calf!⁠ ⁠…”⁠—“God bless you, Afanásy Ivánovitch! what is the matter?” exclaimed Bezrýlof, in surprise, and, with a deprecatory wave of his hand, he glanced round the room, as if summoning those present to contemplate Proskuróf’s ingratitude. “Do you think I should dare to joke on such a subject⁠ ⁠… an official appointment!⁠ ⁠… I read it myself⁠ ⁠… I assure you!⁠ ⁠… And, I must say, a very desirable position it is,” he continued, changing his tone, and again assuming one of easy familiarity. “You will have no more trouble with unpleasant cases of this kind, while we, luckless mortals that we are, must finish this one without your assistance. I am sorry, of course!⁠ ⁠… Still, I am delighted for your sake! It’s an easy, comfortable office⁠ ⁠… ha-ha-ha!⁠ ⁠… One that exactly⁠ ⁠… ha-ha-ha!⁠ ⁠… suits your temperament.⁠ ⁠… And, moreover, you are likely to receive⁠ ⁠… from the merchants⁠ ⁠… ha-ha-ha!⁠ ⁠… substantial tokens of gratitude.⁠ ⁠…”

Bezrýlof seemed to have abandoned all reserve, and his stout person was convulsed by excessive laughter. Proskuróf stood before him motionless, grasping the table with both hands. His face, which wore an expression of mingled grief and astonishment, lengthened visibly, and grew fairly livid.

Alas, for him! At that moment, he really made one think⁠ ⁠… of a calf.

I glanced at the peasants. They were craning their necks; only Yevséyitch bent his head, as he had the habit of doing, and listened attentively, without losing a syllable. As I felt no further interest in the examination, I went out into the entry, where, on a bench in the corner, sat the prisoner. At a short distance from him stood several of the peasant watchers. As I drew near, and seated myself beside him, he looked up and made room for me.

“Tell me,” I said, “is it true that you really felt no enmity against the deceased Mikháïlof?”

He raised his calm blue eyes.

“What did you say!” he asked. “How could I have felt enmity, when I never saw him before!”

“Why did you kill him, then? Surely, it could not have been for the fifty rubles that were found on your person?”⁠—“No, of course not,”⁠ ⁠… he replied thoughtfully. “As we live, even ten times that sum hardly lasts a week. I simply wanted to know⁠ ⁠… if it was a possible thing that a knife-blade could have no effect.”

“You don’t mean to say that you have killed a man and made a wreck of your own life out of mere curiosity!”

He looked at me with surprise.

“Life, did you say?⁠ ⁠… My own life, you mean?⁠ ⁠… What is that? Today it happens that I have killed Mikháïlitch, but, if things had turned out differently, he might have put an end to me.⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, no, he would never have killed you!”

“Yes, I think you are right; had he killed me, he would have been alive today.”

The vagrant gave me a look in which animosity was plainly to be seen.

“Go away! What do you want?” he said; and then added, letting fall his head, “Such is my lot!⁠ ⁠…”

“What is your lot?”

“Such as it is⁠ ⁠… prison life ever since I was a boy.”

“Have you no fear of God?”

“God?”⁠ ⁠… he repeated, smiling, and tossed his head. “I squared up my accounts with the Lord a long time ago, and well I might!⁠ ⁠… Considering all my prayers, I shouldn’t wonder if He were still my debtor. Look here, sir!” he said, changing his tone, “those things are not for the like of us. Why do you hound me? Haven’t I told you that such is my lot! I can talk pleasantly to you here, but if we happened to meet in the forest, or as we did that time in the Hollow⁠—then, it would be a very different matter.⁠ ⁠… It is all fate.⁠ ⁠… Heigh-ho!”

He shook his brown locks, exclaiming:⁠—

“Won’t you give me some tobacco, sir? I want it badly!” But the light tone in which he spoke seemed to me forced and artificial.

I gave him a cigarette, and, leaving him, went out into the vestibule. Away beyond the forest the sun was just rising; and the night-mist, drifting eastward, rested on the tops of the pines and the cedars.⁠ ⁠… The dew sparkled on the grass, and through the window I could see the yellow flame of the tapers that stood near the head of the corpse.