THE AGENT
a little as if the sun were in their faces, and their breathing came quicker.)
'Well, what is it?' Arkady Pavlitch said again; and turning at once to Sofron, 'Of what family?'
'The Tobolyev family,' the agent answered slowly.
'Well, what do you want?' Mr. Pyenotchkin said again; 'have you lost your tongues, or what? Tell me, you, what is it you want?' he added, with a nod at the old man. 'And don't be afraid, stupid.'
The old man craned forward his dark brown, wrinkled neck, opened his bluish twitching lips, and in a hoarse voice uttered the words, 'Protect us, lord!' and again he bent his forehead to the earth. The young peasant prostrated himself too. Arkady Pavlitch looked at their bent necks with an air of dignity, threw back his head, and stood with his legs rather wide apart. 'What is it? Whom do you complain of?'
'Have mercy, lord! Let us breathe . . . We are crushed, worried, tormented to death quite. (The old man spoke with difficulty.)
'Who worries you?'
'Sofron Yakovlitch, your honour.'
Arkady Pavlitch was silent a minute.
'What's your name?'
'Antip, your honour.'
'And who's this?'
'My boy, your honour.'
Arkady Pavlitch was silent again; he pulled his moustaches.
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