The young man flung his wet cap on the bench and went on: 

“I know now that you are a scoundrel and the lowest of men.  And you a keeper, too, getting a salary!  You blackguard!”

The forester slunk with a guilty step to the stove, cleared his throat, and lay down.  The young man sat on the bench, thought a little, and lay down on it full length.  Not long afterwards he got up, put out the candle, and lay down again.  During a particularly loud clap of thunder he turned over, spat on the floor, and growled out: 

“He’s afraid. . . .  And what if the woman were being murdered?  Whose business is it to defend her?  And he an old man, too, and a Christian . . . .  He’s a pig and nothing else.”

The forester cleared his throat and heaved a deep sigh.  Somewhere in the darkness Flerka shook his wet coat vigorously, which sent drops of water flying about all over the room.

“So you wouldn’t care if the woman were murdered?” the hunter went on.  “Well—­strike me, God—­I had no notion you were that sort of man. . . .”

A silence followed.  The thunderstorm was by now over and the thunder came from far away, but it was still raining.

“And suppose it hadn’t been a woman but you shouting ’Help!’?” said the hunter, breaking the silence.  “How would you feel, you beast, if no one ran to your aid?  You have upset me with your meanness, plague take you!”

After another long interval the hunter said: 

“You must have money to be afraid of people!  A man who is poor is not likely to be afraid. . . .”

“For those words you will answer before God,” Artyom said hoarsely from the stove.  “I have no money.”

“I dare say!  Scoundrels always have money. . . .  Why are you afraid of people, then?  So you must have!  I’d like to take and rob you for spite, to teach you a lesson! . . .”

Artyom slipped noiselessly from the stove, lighted a candle, and sat down under the holy image.  He was pale and did not take his eyes off the hunter.

“Here, I’ll rob you,” said the hunter, getting up.  “What do you think about it?  Fellows like you want a lesson.  Tell me, where is your money hidden?”

Artyom drew his legs up under him and blinked.  “What are you wriggling for?  Where is your money hidden?  Have you lost your tongue, you fool?  Why don’t you answer?”

The young man jumped up and went up to the forester.

“He is blinking like an owl!  Well?  Give me your money, or I will shoot you with my gun.”

“Why do you keep on at me?” squealed the forester, and big tears rolled from his eyes.  “What’s the reason of it?  God sees all!  You will have to answer, for every word you say, to God.  You have no right whatever to ask for my money.”

The young man looked at Artyom’s tearful face, frowned, and walked up and down the hut, then angrily clapped his cap on his head and picked up his gun.