КНІГІ ОНЛАЙН
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But he attempted to twist my hands behind my back and whistled in a husky whisper: “S-stand, S-s-satan, wait... W-won’t run awway, y-you w-won’t, you bandit, murderer... H-hold, you rotter...” I understood that if I didn’t employ all my adroitness I’d perish. I remember only that I thought with regret of the spectral Hunt that I had shot at, but hadn’t harmed even one of its hairs. The next instant, feeling someone’s paw stealing up to my throat, I used an ancient well-tested method to put it out of action. Something warm came running down my face: he had with his own hand smashed his nose. I grabbed him by the hand and twisted it under myself, rolling together with him on the ground. He groaned loudly and I understood that my second move had also been successful. But immediately after this, I received such a blow on the bridge of my nose that the bog began to swim before my eyes and my hair stood on end. Luckily, I had instinctively strained the muscles of my abdomen in time, and therefore the following blow below the belt did not harm me. His hairy hands had already reached my throat when I recalled my grandfather’s advice in case of a fight with an opponent stronger than myself. With unbelieving strength I turned over on my back, pressed my hands hard against the heavy belly of the unknown man and drove my sharp, hard knee into the most sensitive spot. Involuntarily he gave way and fell on me with his face and chest. Gathering all my remaining forces, I thrust him up into the air as far as possible with my knee and outstretched arms. I had, evidently, thrust too hard, for, as it turned out, he made a half-circle in the air and his heavy body,— Oh! What a heavy body! — struck against the ground. Simultaneously I fainted. When I came to, I heard someone groaning somewhere behind my head. My opponent could not move from his place, while I was making a great effort to stand up on my feet. I decided to give him a hard kick under his heart so he shouldn’t be able to breathe, but at first I took a glance at the swamp where the Wild Hunt had disappeared. And suddenly I heard a very familiar voice, the voice of the one who wajs moaning and groaning. ‘‘Oh, damn it, where is this blockhead from? What a skunk! Our holy martyrs!” I burst out laughing. The same voice answered: “It’s you, Mr. Belaretzky! I doubt whether I can be a desireable guest with the ladies after today. Why did you crawl away from the fence? That only made it worse. While those devils are now, fa-ar away, to the devil with you... excuse me.” “Mr. Dubatowk!” I exclaimed in surprise. “The devil take you, Mr. Belaretzky... Oh! Excuse me!” The very large shadow sat down, holding on to its belly. “You see, I was lying in wait. I got worried. Rumours had reached me that some nasty events had been taking place at my niece’s. O-Oh! And you, too, were on the look-out? Damn you *on the day of Christ’s birth.” I picked up the revolver from the ground. “And why did you throw yourself on me like that, Mr. Dubatowk?” “The devil alone knows! Some worm was creeping, I thought, so I grabbed at it. May your parents meet you in the next world as you have met me in this one. However, you skunk, how terribly you fight!” It turned out that the old man had learned without us about the visits of the Wild Hunt and he had decided to lie in wait for it, “since the young ones are such weak ones — the wind swings them, and they are such cowards that they cannot defend a woman.” The end of this unexpected meeting you know. Hardly able to keep from laughing, which might have seemed disrespectful, I helped the groaning Dubatowk onto his freezing horse standing not far away. He mounted him groaning and swearing, sat sidewise, muttered something like “the devil tugged me to fight ghosts — ran up against a fool with sharp knees” and rode off. His pinched face, his crooked one-sided figure were so pitiful, that I choked with laughter. He rode off to his house, groaning, moaning, casting curses on all my kin until the twelfth generation. Dubatowk disappeared in the darkness, and here an indescribable, an inexplicable alarm pierced my heart. A kind of fearful guess stirred in my subconscious, but would not come to light. “Hands?” No, I could not recollect why this word worried me. Here there was something different... Why had there been so few horsemen? Why had only eight ghosts appeared today near the broken-down fence? What had happened to the rest? And suddenly an alarming thought struck me: “Svetilovich! His meeting with a person at Cold Hollow. His foolish joke about the Wild Hunt that might be interpreted as meaning that he suspected someone or had discovered the participants in this dark affair. My God! If that person is indeed a bandit, he will inevitably make an attempt to kill Svetilovich even today. Why so few of them? Probably the second half made its way to my new friend, and these to Marsh Firs. Maybe they even saw us talking, after all, we, like fools, were standing in view of everybody over the precipice. Oh! If all is really so, what a mistake you made today, Andrei Svetilovich, when you did not tell us who that man is!” It was clear that I had to make haste! Perhaps I could yet be in time. Our success in this affair and the life of a kind, young soul depended on the speed of my feet. And I ran off so fast, faster than I had run that night when King Stakh’s Wild Hunt raced after me. I dashed straight through the park, climbed over the fence and rushed to Svetilovich’s house. I did not fly in a frenzy. I understood very well that I would not last all the way, therefore ran at a measured pace: 300 steps running as fast as I could, and 50 steps more slowly. And I kept to this pace, although after the first two versts my heart was ready to jump out of my chest. Then it became easier. I alternated running with walking almost mechanically and increased the running norm to 400 steps. Stamp-stampstamp... and so 400 times, tap-tap... 50 times. Misty, solitary fire swam past. A smarting pain in my chest, my consciousness almost not working, towards the finish my counting mechanical. I was so tired that I’d have gladly lain down on the ground or at least have increased by five the number of such calm and pleasant steps, but I honestly fought temptation. In this way I came running up to Svctilovich’s house — a white-washed building, not a large one, in the back of a stunted little garden. Straight across empty beds, crushing the last cabbages coming under my feet, I darted onto the porch decorated with four wooden columns and began to drum on the door. In the last window a still, small light flickered, then a senile voice asked from behind the door: “What’s brought someone here?” It was the old man, a former attendant, who was living with Svetilovich. “Open the door, Kandrat. It’s me, Belaretzky.” “Oh, my God! What’s happened? Why are you panting so?” The door opened. Kandrat in a long shirt and in felt boots was standing before me, in one hand a gun, and in the other — a candle. “Is the master at home?” I asked, breathing heavily. “No, he’s not,” he answered calmly. “But where did he go?” “How should I know? Is he a child, sir, he should tell me where he is going?” “Lead into the house,” I screamed, stung by this coldness. “What for?” “Maybe he’s left a note.” We entered Svetilovich’s room. The bed of an ascetic, covered with a grey blanket, the floor washed to a yellow colour and waxed, a carpet on the floor. On a plain pine table a few thick books, papers, pens thrown about. An engraved portrait of Marat in his bath, stabbed with a dagger, and above the table a pencil portrait of Kalinowsky. On another wall a caricature: Muravyov with a whip in his hand standing over a heap of skulls. His face that of a bull-dog, a frightful one. Katkov, bending low, is licking his backside. I turned over all the papers on the table, but in my excitement found nothing except a sheet on which in Svetilovich’s handwriting was: “Can it really be he?” I seized the woven wastepaper basket and shook out all its contents on the floor: nothing interesting there except an envelope made of rough paper, on which was written: “For Andrei Svetilovich”. “Were there any letters today for the gentleman?” I asked Kadrat, who was completely dumbfounded and perplexed. “There was one, I found it under the door when I returned from the vegetable garden — of course I gave it to the owner.” ‘‘It wasn’t in this envelope, was it?” “Just a minute... well yes, in this one.” “And where is the letter itself?” “The letter? The devil knows. Maybe in the stove.” I rushed to the stove, opened the door — a whiff of warm air came out from it. I saw two cigarette butts at the very door and a small scrap of white paper. I grabbed it — the handwriting exactly the same as that on the envelope. “Your luck, the devil take you,” I swore, “that you heated the stove early.” But not quite good luck yet. The paper was folded in half, and the side closer to the corners, now covered already with grey ash, had become brown. Impossible to make out the letters there. "Andrei! I learned... are intere... Wild Hunt... Ki... Nadzeya Ram... in danger... my da... (a large piece burnt out)... Today I spo... He agrees... left for town. "Dryckgants... chie... When you receive this letter, go immediately... to... ain, where only three pines stand. Beloretzky and I will wait... ly ma... is going on on this ea... Come without fail. Burn this letter, because it is very dang... for me. You... fir... They are also in mortal danger which only you can ward off... (again much burnt out)... me. Your well-wisher Likol...” All was obvious: somebody had sent the letter to lure Svetilovich out of the house. He believed every word. He evidently knew very well the person who had written it. Something subtle had been planned here. He shouldn’t come to me, they wrote they had spoken with me, that I had left for town, I would be awaiting him somewhere at “ain” where three pines stand alone. What is this “...ain"? At the plain?