“But are you a saint yourself?” retorted Beloborodoff.  “Wherefore, then, this pity?”

“Without doubt,” replied Khlopusha, “I am also a sinner, and this hand” (he closed his bony fist, and turning back his sleeve displayed his hairy arm), “and this hand is guilty of having shed Christian blood.  But I killed my enemy, and not my host, on the free highway and in the dark wood, but not in the house, and behind the stove with axe and club, neither with old women’s gossip.”

The old man averted his head, and muttered between his teeth—­

“Branded!”

“What are you muttering there, old owl?” rejoined Khlopusha.  “I’ll brand you!  Wait a bit, your turn will come.  By heaven, I hope some day you may smell the hot pincers, and till then have a care that I do not tear out your ugly beard.”

“Gentlemen,” said Pugatchef, with dignity, “stop quarrelling.  It would not be a great misfortune if all the mangy curs of Orenburg dangled their legs beneath the same cross-bar, but it would be a pity if our good dogs took to biting each other.”

Khlopusha and Beloborodoff said nothing, and exchanged black looks.

I felt it was necessary to change the subject of the interview, which might end in a very disagreeable manner for me.  Turning toward Pugatchef, I said to him, smiling—­

“Ah!  I had forgotten to thank you for your horse and ‘touloup.’  Had it not been for you, I should never have reached the town, for I should have died of cold on the journey.”

My stratagem succeeded.  Pugatchef became good-humoured.

“The beauty of a debt is the payment!” said he, with his usual wink.  “Now, tell me the whole story.  What have you to do with this young girl whom Chvabrine is persecuting?  Has she not hooked your young affections, eh?”

“She is my betrothed,” I replied, as I observed the favourable change taking place in Pugatchef, and seeing no risk in telling him the truth.

“Your betrothed!” cried Pugatchef.  “Why didn’t you tell me before?  We will marry you, and have a fine junket at your wedding.”  Then, turning to Beloborodoff, “Listen, field-marshal,” said he, “we are old friends, his lordship and me; let us sit down to supper.  To-morrow we will see what is to be done with him; one’s brains are clearer in the morning than by night.”

I should willingly have refused the proposed honour, but I could not get out of it.  Two young Cossack girls, children of the master of the “izba,” laid the table with a white cloth, brought bread, fish, soup, and big jugs of wine and beer.

Thus for the second time I found myself at the table of Pugatchef and his terrible companions.  The orgy of which I became the involuntary witness went on till far into the night.

At last drunkenness overcame the guests; Pugatchef fell asleep in his place, and his companions rose, making me a sign to leave him.