BIRYUK
'Ruined, indeed! . . . Nobody need steal.'
'Let me go, Foma Kuzmitch . . . Don't destroy me. Your manager, you know yourself, will have no mercy on me; that's what it is.'
Biryuk turned away. The peasant was shivering as though he were in the throes of fever. His head was shaking, and his breathing came in broken gasps.
'Let me go,' he repeated with mournful desperation. 'Let me go; by God, let me go! I'll pay; see, by God, I will! By God, it was through hunger! . . . the little ones are crying, you know yourself. It's hard for us, see.'
'You needn't go stealing, for all that.'
'My little horse,' the peasant went on, 'my poor little horse, at least . . . our only beast . . . let it go.'
'I tell you I can't. I'm not a free man; I'm made responsible. You oughtn't to be spoilt, either.'
'Let me go! It's through want, Foma Kuzmitch, want—and nothing else—let me go!'
'I know you!'
'Oh, let me go!'
'Ugh, what's the use of talking to you! sit quiet, or else you'll catch it. Don't you see the gentleman, hey?'
The poor wretch hung his head. . . . Biryuk yawned and laid his head on the table. The rain still persisted. I was waiting to see what would happen.
