come in for the heaviest of the
downpour, and now the water ran from them as from washed clothes
before they have been wrung out.

"What was it?" asked the forester.

"A peasant woman driving in a cart; she had got off the road . . ."
answered the young man, struggling with his breathlessness. "She
was caught in a thicket."

"Ah, the silly thing! She was frightened, then. . . . Well, did you
put her on the road?"

"I don't care to talk to a scoundrel like you."

The young man flung his wet cap on the bench and went on:

"I know now that you are a scoundrel and the lowest of men. And you
a keeper, too, getting a salary! You blackguard!"

The forester slunk with a guilty step to the stove, cleared his
throat, and lay down. The young man sat on the bench, thought a
little, and lay down on it full length. Not long afterwards he got
up, put out the candle, and lay down again. During a particularly
loud clap of thunder he turned over, spat on the floor, and growled
out:

"He's afraid. . . . And what if the woman were being murdered? Whose
business is it to defend her? And he an old man, too, and a Christian
. . . . He's a pig and nothing else."

The forester cleared his throat and heaved a deep sigh. Somewhere
in the darkness Flerka shook his wet coat vigorously, which sent
drops of water flying about all over the room.

"So you wouldn't care if the woman were murdered?" the hunter went
on. "Well--strike me, God--I had no notion you were that sort of
man. . . ."

A silence followed. The thunderstorm was by now over and the thunder
came from far away, but it was still raining.

"And suppose it hadn't been a woman but you shouting 'Help!'?" said
the hunter, breaking the silence. "How would you feel, you beast,
if no one ran to your aid? You have upset me with your meanness,
plague take you!"

After another long interval the hunter said:

"You must have money to be afraid of people! A man who is poor is
not likely to be afraid. . . ."

"For those words you will answer before God," Artyom said hoarsely
from the stove. "I have no money."

"I dare say! Scoundrels always have money. . . . Why are you afraid
of people, then? So you must have! I'd like to take and rob you for
spite, to teach you a lesson! . . ."

Artyom slipped noiselessly from the stove, lighted a candle, and
sat down under the holy image. He was pale and did not take his
eyes off the hunter.

"Here, I'll rob you," said the hunter, getting