A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES
Suddenly the peasant stood erect. His eyes were glittering, and his face flushed dark red. 'Come, then, here; strike yourself, here,' he began, his eyes puckering up and the corners of his mouth dropping; 'come, cursed destroyer of men's souls! drink Christian blood, drink.'
The forester turned round.
'I'm speaking to you, Asiatic, blood-sucker, you!'
'Are you drunk or what, to set to being abusive?' began the forester, puzzled. 'Are you out of your senses, hey?'
'Drunk! not at your expense, cursed destroyer of souls—brute, brute, brute!'
'Ah, youI'll show you!'
'What's that to me? It's all one; I'm done for; what can I do without a home? Kill me—it's the same in the end; whether it's through hunger or like this—it's all one. Ruin us all—wife, children . . . kill us all at once. But, wait a bit, we'll get at you!'
Biryuk got up.
'Kill me, kill me,' the peasant went on in savage tones; 'kill me; come, come, kill me. . . .' (The little girl jumped up hastily from the ground and stared at him.) 'Kill me, kill me!'
'Silence!' thundered the forester, and he took two steps forward.
'Stop, Foma, stop,' I shouted; 'let him go. . . . Peace be with him.'
'I won't be silent,' the luckless wretch went on.
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