A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
'Ugh, what a downpour!' remarked the forester; 'you will have to wait till it's over. Won't you lie down?'
'Thanks.'
'I would have shut him in the store loft, on your honour's account,' he went on, indicating the peasant; 'but you see the bolt'
'Leave him here; don't touch him,' I interrupted.
The peasant stole a glance at me from under his brows. I vowed inwardly to set the poor wretch free, come what might. He sat without stirring on the locker. By the light of the lantern I could make out his worn, wrinkled face, his overhanging yellow eyebrows, his restless eyes, his thin limbs. . . . The little girl lay down on the floor, just at his feet, and again dropped asleep. Biryuk sat at the table, his head in his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner. . . . the rain pattered on the roof and streamed down the windows; we were all silent.
'Foma Kuzmitch,' said the peasant suddenly in a thick, broken voice; 'Foma Kuzmitch!'
'What is it?'
'Let me go.'
Biryuk made no answer.
'Let me go . . . hunger drove me to it; let me go.'
'I know you,' retorted the forester severely; 'your set's all alike—all thieves.'
'Let me go,' repeated the peasant. 'Our manager . . . we're ruined, that's what it is—let me go!'
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