"You see," cried the little old man, "that he is deceiving you. All the
deserters are unanimous in declaring famine and plague are in Orenburg,
that they are eating carrion there as a dish of honour. And his lordship
assures us there is abundance of all. If you wish to hang Chvabrine,
hang on the same gallows this lad, so that they need have naught
wherewith to reproach each other."
The words of the confounded old man seemed to have shaken Pugatchef.
Happily, Khlopusha began to contradict his companion.
"Hold your tongue, Naumitch," said he; "you only think of hanging and
strangling. It certainly suits you well to play the hero. Already you
have one foot in the grave, and you want to kill others. Have you not
enough blood on your conscience?"
"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.