'The bit of an axe there, take it,' muttered the peasant. 'No reason to lose it, certainly,' said the forester, and he picked up the axe. We started. I walked behind.... The rain began sprinkling again, and soon fell in torrents. With difficulty we made our way to the hut. Biryuk pushed the captured horse into the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot in the kerchief, and made him sit down in a corner. The little girl, who had fallen asleep near the oven, jumped up and began staring at us in silent terror. I sat down on the locker. 'Ugh, what a downpour!' remarked the forester; 'you will have to wait till it's over. Won't you lie down?' 'Thanks.' 'I would have shut him in the store loft, on your honour's account,' he went on, indicating the peasant; 'but you see the bolt--' 'Leave him here; don't touch him,' I interrupted. The peasant stole a glance at me from under his brows. I vowed inwardly to set the poor wretch free, come what might. He sat without stirring on the locker. By the light of the lantern I could make out his worn, wrinkled face, his overhanging yellow eyebrows, his restless eyes, his thin limbs.... The little girl lay down on the floor, just at his feet, and again dropped asleep. Biryuk sat at the table, his head in his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner ... the rain pattered on the roof and streamed down the windows; we were all silent. 'Foma Kuzmitch,' said the peasant suddenly in a thick, broken voice; 'Foma Kuzmitch!' 'What is it?' 'Let me go.' Biryuk made no answer. 'Let me go ... hunger drove me to it; let me go.' 'I know you,' retorted the forester severely; 'your set's all alike--all thieves.' 'Let me go,' repeated the peasant. 'Our manager ... we 're ruined, that's what it is--let me go!' 'Ruined, indeed!... Nobody need steal.' 'Let me go, Foma Kuzmitch.... Don't destroy me. Your manager, you know yourself, will have no mercy on me; that's what it is.' Biryuk turned away. The peasant was shivering as though he were in the throes of fever. His head was shaking, and his breathing came in broken gasps. 'Let me go,' he repeated with mournful desperation. 'Let me go; by God, let me go! I'll pay; see, by God, I will! By God, it was through hunger!... the little ones are crying, you know yourself. It's hard for us, see.' 'You needn't go stealing, for all that.' 'My little horse,' the peasant went on, 'my poor little horse, at least ... our only beast ... let it go.' 'I tell you I can't. I'm not a free man; I'm made responsible. You oughtn't to be spoilt, either.' 'Let me go! It's through want, Foma Kuzmitch, want--and nothing else--let me go!' 'I know you!' 'Oh, let me go!' 'Ugh, what's the use of talking to you! sit quiet, or else you'll catch it. Don't you see the gentleman, hey?' The poor wretch hung his head.... Biryuk yawned and laid his head on the table. The rain still persisted. I was waiting to see what would happen.