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“Roman!” he sobbed and wailed. “Roman! Revenge. We’ll come. Roman of the last generation, out with you!” On and on rolled his voice across the Giant’s Gap somewhere into the distance, his voice and its echo shouting to one another, completely filling the air. It made my flesh creep. But Stakhevich laughed. “You didn’t come out then, Belaretzky. No matter. Anyoue else in your place would have died of fright. At first we thought that you got frightened, but the next day something occurred that couldn’t be remedied. Svetilovich ran up against Varona who was on his way to recruit new men for the Hunt and he was late. And Svetilovich was just near to the paths that lead to the Reserve where our hiding-place is. And afterwards, spying on him, we saw that he met you in the forest, Belaretzky. Although at that time he didn’t tell you anything (that was clear from your behaviour), we realised that we had to put an end to him. Dubatowk sent Svetilovich a letter to lure him out of the house. Half of our people were directed to the three pines. The other half — three old hunters and the newcomers— rode off to Marsh Firs. Dubatowk himself hurried over to you, stealing up to you from behind. But you had already managed to make a couple of shots, and our raw fellows, unused to shooting, took to their heels. And yet another surprising thing: Dubatowk got such a hard beating from you that he can’t ride a horse yet and he is staying in the house. And he is at home today, so you fellows, beware. But you, Belaretzky, he fooled nicely. No sooner had you come to yourself, than you were already helping him to mount his horse. But with Svetilovich we were in luck. Varona was waiting for him, and when he appeared, said to him: “You’ve exposed the Wild Hunt, have you?” He spit at Varona. Varona shot him. And at that moment you appeared, shot at us and hit one fellow in the hand. And then you beat up a district policeofficer, and you were summoned, not without our help, to the district centre. You probably don’t know that you were to be arrested and put an end to. But you, you devil, were lucky, you turned out to be too clever, and the governor’s letter made the judge refuse us his help. On his knees he begged Dubatowk to hurry up and shoot you. By the way, when Varona shot Svetilovich, he applied such a ruse that you’ll never guess.” “But why do you think so?” I said with indifference. “Dubatowk had torn out several pages from a journal at Yanowskaya’s, and he made wads from them. You thought that if I managed to escape alive from your paws, I’d suspect Berman.” Stakhevich was scratching away at his chest, his crooked fingers resembling claws. “You devil!” he cried hoarsely, choking. “We shouldn’t have had anything to do with you. But who could have thought of that? Here they are, those who didn’t think, lying here like sacks of excrement.” Then he went on: “And yet another mistake of ours. We kept a watch on you, but not on the serfs and Rygor. While they found us out, got to our hide-out, our secret paths... And even at Roman’s cross you were in luck, we killed a chick, letting you escape from our paws. We killed on the run, without stopping. And only later we returned to check. And even here we ran up against you like a bunch of fools. Then Garaboorda disappeared, and we decided not to return home tonight until we caught you. So, here we have found you...” “That’ll do,” I said. “It’s disgusting to hear you. And although you deserve the noose, we won’t kill you. We’ve given our word. Later we’ll investigate, and if you are very much to blame, we’ll hand you over to the provincial court and if not — we’ll let you go free.” Hardly had I finished, when Stakhevich suddenly pushed two of the muzhiks away, tore off, and with exceptional swiftness made for the horses. With his foot he kicked in the belly the muzhik guarding the horses, threw himself into the saddle and started to gallop at full speed. He turned about on the way and shouted in a scathing tone. “Just you wait for the trial in the provincial court! I’m off to Dubatowk’s, he’ll have the gentry of the whole region rise against you, you skunks, and we’ll put an end to all of you. And you, you cad from the capital, there’ll be no life for you and that loose woman of yours. But you, you stupid Mikhal, let it be known to you that it was me who trampled your brother to death, and you'll get the same.” Mikhal turned the muzzle of his long gun and without taking aim pulled the trigger. Stakhevich silently turned a somersault out of the saddle, rolled over several times on the ground and fell silent. Mikhal came up to him, took the horse by the bit, shot Stakhevich straight in the forehead. Then said severely to me: “Go ahead, Chief. Your kindness to them was a bit too early. Away with kindness! The gypsy wedding will get along without marzipans. Go on, we’ll catch up with you. Take the road to the Cold Hollow. And don’t turn back to take a look.” I left... And indeed, what right had I to be sentimental? If this bandit got to Dubatowk — they would overflow the whole region with blood. And Dubatowk must be captured all the sooner. Today, this very night, we must take him. From behind I heard moaning and groaning. The wounded there were being finished off. I wanted to turn back, but couldn’t. My throat was parched. But wouldn’t they have done even worse with us? The muzhiks caught up with me half way to the Hollow. They raced on the dryckgants with pitchforks in their hands. “Mount, Chief,” Mikhal said good-naturedly, pointing to a horse. “With these everything is over. And the Gap won’t tell anybody.” I answered as calmly as I could: “Let bygones be bygones. But now as quickly as possible to Rygor. Then together with him we’ll go to Dubatowk’s house.” We hastened to the Hollow, reaching it in the twinkling of an eye, and there we found the very end of the same tragedy. Rygor kept his word, though they didn't deal with the participants of the Wild Hunt as they did with horsethieves. Horse-thieves they simply killed outright. The last of the living hunters here lay on his back in front of Rygor. He was quite a young fellow. And he, guessing from my clothes that I was not a peasant, suddenly began to scream: “Mother mine! Mother mine! They’re killing me.” “Rygor,” I begged. “You don’t need to kill him, he’s so young yet.” And I seized him by the shoulder, but my hands were caught from behind. “Away with you!” Rygor shouted. “Take him away, this blockhead. Did they have any pity for our children in Yarki? They died of hunger — of hunger! A person, in your opinion, has no right to eat? This one has a mother dear! And haven’t we mothers? Or didn’ Mikhal have a mother? Haven’t you got one, that you are so kind? You sniveller! And don’t you know that this very ‘young fellow’shot Symon, Zoska’s brother, and killed him? Never mind, we’ll commit such outrages as in the song “The Vampires’ Night”.* And Rygor, turning, struck his pitchfork into the man lying prostrate on the ground. I went aside and sat down. I was sick and didn’t immediately hear Rygor coming up to me and taking me by the shoulder when the dead were already being thrown into the quagmire. * “The Vampires’ Night” — a great slaughter of aristocrats committed by peasants during the Murashka Rebellion in the 17th century. “You’re a fool, you are! You think I’m not sorry? My heart is bleeding. It seems to me I’ll never again in my life be able to sleep calmly, but suffering must be endured,, and once we’ve begun, then on to the end. Not a single one to be left, only we alone by mutual guarantee should know... ‘A young one!’ You think this young one wouldn’t have grown into an old skunk? He would, certainly! Especially when recalling this night. His ‘pity’ for our people, bondsmen, will be something only to marvel at. Let him go — and we’ll have the law here. For me and you — the noose, for Mikhal and the rest — penal servitude. The region will overflow with blood, they’ll beat so hard that the flesh from our backsides will come off in rags.” “I understand,” I said. “Not a single one of these must remain alive. I’ve just recalled Svetilovich. We must go to Dubatowk — to the last one left alive.” “Well,” Rygor grumbled, though tenderly. “Lead the way.” With our detachment behind us, we moved on towards Dubatowsk’s house.. We flew at a gallop, our horses raced as if wolves were after them. The moon dimly shone on our calvacade, on the muzhiks’ leather coats, the pitchforks, the dark faces, the scarecrows on some of the horses. We had to skirt the marsh round the Yanowsky Reserve. The road seemed a rather long one till we came to where we saw the linden tree-tops near Dubatowk’s house. The moon flooded them with a deathly pale light; although it was very late, a light was burning in three windows. I ordered the people to dismount about fifty metres away from the house and surround it in a close circle. The torches to be held in readiness and to light them when the signal was given. The command was fulfilled in silence. I crept over a low fence and walked through rows of almost bare apple trees lit by a flickering uncertain moonlight. “Who’s with the horses?” I asked Rygor who was walking behind me. “One of the boys. In case anything should happen, he will signal us. He whistles very well.” We stole on farther, and our boots stepped softly on the wet earth. I came up to a window. Dubatowk was nervously walking from one corner of the room to another, glancing often at the clock on the wall. He was unrecognizable. This was an altogether different Dubatowk, and alone by himself, the real one, of course. What had become of his kindness, cordiality and tenderness? Where had that rosy face disappeared to, a face as healthy and merry as the face of Santa Claus? The face of this Dubatowk was yellow, the corners of his mouth were sharply lowered, near his nose were sharp wrinkles. His sunken eyes looked dead and dark. I was horrified on seeing him, as a person becomes horrified, when on awakening in the morning after a night’s sleep, he finds a snake in his bed, the snake having crept into it to warm itself, and then spent the night with him there.