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“How could I have been so careless?” I thought. Yes, the sooner we put an end to him, the better. We just had to do it. He, alone, is more dangerous than ten Wild Hunts. It’s well that during our fight I deprived him for a while of the possibility of riding his horse, for otherwise it would have been tough for us. He would not have placed himself right in front of a bullet, he would not have split up his detachment,— he would have run us down like kittens with his horse’s hoofs, and we’d have been lying now at the bottom of the Gap with our eyes put out. “Rygor, send seven men here. Have them break down the door of the entrance, while I’ll try to tear off a board from the shed and make an unexpected attack on him from there. But see to it, everybody together...” “Perhaps we could pretend we are the Hunt and knock at the window, and when he opens it, we’ll grab him. He’s sent his relatives somewhere, he’s at home alone,” Rygor suggested. “Nothing will come of that. He’s a sly fox.” “Nevertheless, let’s have a try. You understand, a pity to lose so much blood...” “See that it doesn’t turn out to be for the worse,” I said, shaking my head. The horses were led up to the house. 1 was happy to see Dubatowk’s face in the window brightening up. He went up to the door with a candlelight, but suddenly stopped, stood stockstill, on his face a puzzled expression. In a twinkling he blew out the candle and the room was drowned in darkness. The plan had fallen through. “Come on, fellows,” I shouted. “Break down the door!” Hasty footfalls and cries were heard. They began breaking down the door, beating it with something heavy. And a shot rang out from the attic. Following upon the shot there resounded a voice full of fury. “Surrounded! Just wait, you dogs! The gentry does not give in so easily!” And from another window in the attic a cone of bullets came flying. Dubatowk was running, evidently, from one window to another, shooting at the advancing attackers from all sides. “Oho! He must have a whole arsenal there,” Rygor said quietly. His words were interrupted by yet another shot. A young fellow, standing beside me, fell on the ground with a hole in his head. Dubatowk shot better than the best hunter in Polessye. And yet another shot. “Flatten yourselves against the walls!” I shouted. “The bullets won’t reach there.” The bullets of our men, standing behind the trees, broke off the boards from the attic and the plastering. It was impossible to guess at which window Dubatowk would appear. Our victory promised to be a Pyrrhic one. “Andrei!” Dubatowk’s voice thundered. “You, too, will get what’s coming to you. You devils have come after my soul, but you’ll be giving up your own.” “Light the torches,” I commanded. “Throw them onto the roof.” In the twinkling of an eye scores of fires burst out surrounding the house. Some of them describing an arc in the air, fell on the roof and sprayed tar, and tongues of flames were gradually reaching the windows of the attic. In answer to this, a howl was heard: “Forty against one! And using fire! What nobility!” “Be quiet!” I shouted. “Sending 20 bandits against one girl — that’s nobility? There they are, your Hunters, lying in the quagmire and you will be there, too.” In answer a bullet clicked at my head, striking against the plaster. Dubatowk’s house was ablaze. Moving farther away from the walls of the house, I made for the trees and almost perished: a bullet from King Stakh sang at my ear. My hair even stirred. Flames penetrated into the attic, and there, in the fire, guns loaded in good time, of them selves began to shoot. Our minds set at ease, we had left the house behind, now that it had become a candle, when suddenly the fellow near the horses began to shout. We looked in his direction and saw Dubatowk creeping out from his dungeon, over a hundred metres away from the house. “Ah!” Rygor gritted his teeth. ‘We forgot that a fox always has an extra passage in his burrow.” And Dubatowk ran in loops in the direction of the Giant’s Gap. His right hand was hanging. We had, obviously, given the skunk a good treat. He raced at a surprising rate for a man as stout as he. I shot from my revolver — far off. A whole volley from my people like water off a duck’s back Dubatowk crossed a small meadow, leaped rashly into a bog and began to jump from hummock to hummock like a grasshopper. Finding himself at a safe distance, he threatened us with his fist. “Beware, you rats!” his frightful voice came flying to us. “Not one of you shall remain alive. I swear in the name of the gentry, I swear by my blood to slaughter you together with your children.” We were stunned. But at this moment such a loud whistle was heard that it deafened my ears. And I saw a young fellow sticking a bunch of stinging dry thistle into one of the horses right under his tail. And again a piercing whistle... The horses neighed. We understood this youth’s plan and rushed to the horses, and began to whip them. In a twinkling the herd dashed off, panic-stricken, to the Giant’s Gap. The figures of the scarecrow hunters were still sitting on some of the horses. The wild stamping of hoofs broke into the night. The horses raced like wild ones. Dubatowk, apparently, also understood what it meant, and after a wild scream, ran off; the horses rushed in pursuit, having been taught to do that by this very man who was now running away from them. We watched the mad race of King Stakh’s Wild Hunt, now without horsemen on their backs. Their manes waved with the wind, mud flew from under their hoofs, and a lonely star burned in the sky above the horses’ hoofs. Nearer and nearer they came! The distance between Dubatowk and the furious animals was growing less and less. In despair he turned away from the paths, but the horses, having gone mad, also turned away. A scream full of deathly fright came flying towards us. “To my rescue! Oh! King Stakh!” At that very moment his feet fell recklessly into the abyss, and the horses, having caught up with him, also began to fall into it. The first horse smashed Dubatowk with his hoofs, pushing him deeper and deeper into the stinking swamp, and began to neigh. The quagmire began to bubble. “King Stakh!” reached our ears from there. Then an enormous thing turned over in the depths of the abyss, swallowing water. The horses and the man disappeared, and only the large bubbles whistled at the top as they burst. Like a candle burned the house of the last of the “Knights”, knights who like wolves marauded in the night. The muzhiks, in leather coats turned inside out and with pitchforks in their hands, surrounded the house, a crimson and alarming light illuminating them. CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH I came home dirty and tired and, when the watchman opened the door for me, I immediately went to my room. At last, everything connected with these horrors was quite over and finished with; we had run down and crushed the cast-iron Wild Force. I was so exhausted that after lighting the candle, I almost fell asleep in the armchair, with one boot pulled off half-way. And when I finally got into bed everything was swimming before my eyes: the swamp, the flames over Dubatowk’s house, the measured stamping of the horses’ hoofs, the frightful screams, Rygor’s face as he lowered a heavy fork on somebody’s head. I fell asleep only after some time had elapsed; a heavy sleep overcame me. I pushed my head into my pillow as the horse had pushed Dubatowk’s head. In my sleep even, I was experiencing the events of the night all over again: I ran, shot, jumped, and felt my feet moving in my sleep. My awakening was a strange one, although the state I was in could hardly have been called an awakening. Stil sleeping, a feeling of something heavy arose, as if the shadow of some great and last misfortune were threatening me. It seemed that someone was sitting on my feet, so heavy had they become. I opened my eyes and saw Death nearby with Dubatowk laughing boisterously. I understood that this was all in a dream, but the misfortune was tangible and alive in the room, it was moving, it was coming nearer and nearer. The canopy was threatening me, was floating down to me, choking me, its tassels were swinging right in front of my eyes. My heart was thumping madly. I felt something mysterious approaching me, its heavy steps sounding along the passages, but I was weak and helpless, nor was there any need for strength, the evil monster was about to catch me now, or rather, not me, but her; and her thin, weak little bones were about to crack. But I hadn’t the strength to prevent it, I shook my head and mumbled something, unable to shake off this horrible nightmare. And suddenly the flame of a candle turned towards the ceiling, began to grow smaller and, weakened by its struggle with the darkness, finally died out altogether. I looked at the door — it was ajar. The moon had cast a deathly light along the walls of the room and made window squares on the floor. The candlelight in going out, gave off a puff of smoke that rose upward as if in a blurred fog. Suddenly I saw two very large eyes looking at me through the transparent curtain. It was awful! I shook my head: a woman was looking at me. But her eyes did not see me, they were staring somewhere behind me, as if they were looking through me, not noticing me at all. Then she floated away. I looked at her, at the Lady-in-Blue of Marsh Firs, and my hair stood on end, though I knew not whether it was reality or a dream, a dream of my weakened mind. It was reality, the woman from the portrait, resembling Nadzeya Yanowskaya, and at the same time not at all like her: the face elongated and calm, as peaceful as death,— the expression on her face and altogether different one. She herself was taller and stronger. The eyes looked lifeless but penetrating, deep as a pool. The Lady-in-Blue came floating over, was already here in her amazing attire, which in the moonlight fog played like shining waves; she was floating into the middle of the room, reaching out with her waving hands.