"There are many wicked people in the world," remarked Emilian.
"Many, many!" affirmed Panteli, and drew nearer the fire, just as if he had grown apprehensive. "Many," he con- tinued in an undertone. "In my time I have seen life inside and out. . . . Ah, yes, wicked people. . . . Saintly and righteous have I seen many, and sinful more than I can count. . . . Save and have mercy, Heavenly Virgin! ... I re- member once, thirteen years ago, and maybe more, I wa? taking a merchant out of Morchanska, an estimable merchant both in himself and with his money, that merchant was . . . a good fellow, nitchevo. . . . So, therefore, we drove and stopped to spend the night at a tavern. In Greater Russia the taverns are not like what they are in these parts. There the yarsa are roofed like foundations, or let us say sheds, on the big farms—only the sheds are higher. Well, we stopped and all went well—my merchant to his room and I to the horses, all as it should be. And now, mates, with a prayer to God, so as consequentiy to sleep, I took a walk around the yard. The night was dark—couldn't see a thing however you tried. I walked on a bit, and when beyond the waggons I see the dim light of a fire. What is that? Methought the taverner had long ago gone to bed, and except myself and the merchant there were no other inmates. What was the meaning of tha' fire? A doubt seized me. I crept up closer . . . to that fire . . . Lord have mercy and save us! Holy Virgin! I look; a little window near the ground with iron bars . . . in the house. ... I lay on the ground to see in—as I look a shiver runs through my body. . . ."
Kiruha, trying not to make a noise, shoves a bundle of grass into the fire. Waiting till the steppe-grass has finished crackling and hissing, the old man then went on:
"I see there a cellar, not very large, and dark as pitch. . . . On a barrel burns a little lantern. In the centre of that cellar stand ten men in red shirts with turned-up sleeves and sharpening their long knives. . . . Ho—he! So then we have fallen among a gang of thieves! What was to be done? I ran to the merchant, gently woke him up, and said to him: 'Mer- chant, don't you be frightened, but this is a nasty business
. . we have fallen into a robber's nest.' His face dropped, and he asked: 'And what now, Panteli, shall we do? I have so much orphans' money with me. As for my soul, it is in the hands of God. I have no fear of death, but,' says he, 'it is very grievous that orphans' money should go astray.' . . . What could we do? The gates were locked, no possible means of escape. . . • If there had been a fence one could have climbed over it, but that yard was roofed! . . . 'Well,' says I, 'mer- chant, be not afraid, but pray to God. Maybe the Lord has no wish to wrong orphans. You remain here, and do not lose courage. I in the interval may think of something.' Agreed. ... I prayed, and God put a thought in my mind. . . • I climbed into our carriage, and gently, very gently, so that no one should hear, I began pulling the straw from the thatch- ing, made a hole and clambered out—yes, out. . . . Then I jumped down from the roof, and fled along the road as if there were an evil spirit after me. I ran and ran, exhausting myself to death. ... I must have run five versts without drawing breath, if not more. . . • Then, thank God, I saw a village. I ran to a cottage, and knocked at the window. 'Oh! Orthodox, if such you be, let not a Christian soul perish.'
• . They all awoke—the moujiks assembled and followed me . . . some with ropes . . . some with cudgels, some with pitchforks. . . . We beat down the gates of the tavern-yard and so into the cellar. . . . The robbers had just finished sharpening their knives, and were preparing to slay the merchant. The moujiks seized every one of them, bound them, and led them to the authorities. The merchant in his joy of- fered them three hundred roubles, and to me five golden coins and engraved my name in his memory. They say, that in the cellar were afterwards found untold numbers of human bones. . . . Those bones signified that folk were plundered, and afterwards buried so that no trace should remain. . . . Well, so then, the robbers were taken to Morchanska and handed over to the executioner."
Panteli, having finished his story, glanced at his listeners. They all were silent, with their eyes fixed on him. The water was boiling, and Stepka removed the scum.
"Is the fat ready?" Kiruha asked him in a whisper.
"\Vait another bit . . . soon."
Stepka without taking his eyes off Panteli, as if afraid he would begin some story without him, ran towards the waggons. and quickly returned from thence with a small wooden cup, in which he began to bray some pig's fat.
"I went another time also with a merchant," continued Panteli, as before in an undertone and without blinking. "He was called, as I remember, Peter Gregoritch. He was a goodly fellow . . . that merchant was. . . . We stopped in the same manner as before at a tavern. . . . He to his room, I to my horses. . . . The taverner and his wife seemed goodly, kindly folk, the workers seemed quite all right, but, mates, I could not sleep, my mind was not at ease—just not at ease. The gates were open, plenty of people around, but all the same there was something fearful—not as it should be. Everyone had long ago fallen asleep, it was altogether night, and ^n we should have to get up, and I alone, lying in the ^riage, had my eyes wide open, just as if I were a brown owl. But, mates, something I hear: 'Tup, tup, tup!' Someone is creeping up to the carriage. I raise my head, I look—a woman in noth. ing but a chemise, barelegged, stands there. . . . 'What is it, woman?' say I. She, all of a tremble and scared out of her wits, says, 'Good fellow, get up! Disaster. . . . The master and mistre^ have imagined evil . . . they intend to slay your merchant. I myself heard the master whispering to the mistress'. . . . So it was not for nothing my mind was un- easy! 'But you, who are you?' I ask. '1,' says she, 'am their cook. . . .' Agreed. ... I climb out of the carriage and go to the merchant; I awake him and say: 'There is, Peter Gregoritch, rather a dirty business. . . . May your Honour have had sleep enough, and now, while there is time, dress and with a whole skin escape from evil. . . .' He had no sooner started putting on his clothes when the door opened, and—God bless you, I see—Holy Mother! into the room walk the taverner and his wife and three labourers; that is, they had told the labourers: 'The merchant has a lot of ;<noney, so you see we'll divide.' . . . All five had long knives in their hands. . . . Each a knife . . . the master locks the door and says: 'Pray, travellers, to God. . . . But should you be disposed to scream we shall not give you time to pray before you die.' . . . Where was he who could scream? Our throats were choked by fear, and there was no scream in us. . . . The merchant sobbed, and said: 'Oh! Orthodox, you have resolved to kill me because you are covetous of my money. So be it. I am not the first and I am not the last; many others of my brother-merchants have been slain, in these tav- erns. But wherefore,' said he, 'my brothers-Orthodox, kill my driver? Why inflict that pain on him in order to take my money?' So compassionately he said this. And the master an- swered: 'Yet if we leave him among the living then will he be chief witness against us. It's all the same,' said he, 'if we kill one or two. To seven wrongs the same end. . . . Pray to God, and have done with it—talking is no good!' The merchant and I knelt down side by side, wept, and said our prayer to God. He thought of his children; at that time I was a youth and wanted to live. . . . We look at the picture of the saint; we pray, and so piteously that tears still flow. . . . The mistress looked at us and said: 'You,' says she, 'are good people; do not bear us a grudge for this, and do not pray God to visit this upon us, for we are doing this out of necessity.' We prayed, we prayed, we wept, we wept, and God heard us. He was moved to pity, that is. . . . At the very moment when the taverner seized the merchant by the beard to cut his throat there was a knock outside on the window! We all nearly sat down, and the knife fell out of the taverner's hand. . . . Someone was knocking at the window, and seemed to call out: 'Peter Gregoritch, are you there? Get ready, let us go!' That taverner and his wife seeing someone had come to fetch the merchant, were scared and took to their heels. . . . We were in the yard double quick, put the horses to, and away like a vision . . . ."