Ilya, when he saw his uncle, stopped talking, again turned his eyes gloomily toward the bench, and then addressing the stárosta said,-- "Give me some vodka, Yermil; I want something to drink." His voice was angry and stern. "This is no time for wine now," replied the stárosta, sipping his cup of kvas.--"Don't you see the folks have gone to bed? What do you want to make a disturbance for?" The words "make a disturbance" apparently suggested to him the idea of making a disturbance. "Stárosta, I'll do myself some harm, if you don't give me some vodka." "You'd better bring him to reason," said the stárosta to Dutlof, who had now lighted the lantern, but stood listening to what was coming, and looking askance with deep commiseration at his nephew, as though wondering at his childishness. Ilya, in a tone of desperation, repeated his threat,-- "Give me wine, or I'll do myself some harm." "Don't, Ilya," said the stárosta gently, "please don't. It's better not." But these words had scarcely passed his lips ere Ilya leaped up, smashed the window-pane with his fist, and screamed with all his might. "You won't listen, here's for you," and darted for the other window to smash that also. Polikéï, in the twinkling of an eye, rolled over twice, and hid himself in an angle of the stove, raising a panic among all the cockroaches. The elder threw aside his cup, and hastened after Ilya. Dutlof slowly put down the lantern, took off his girdle, clucked with his tongue, shook his head, and went to Ilya, who was already struggling with the elder and the porter, who tried to keep him from the window. They had his hands behind his back, and held him tight apparently; but as soon as he saw his uncle with the belt in his hand, tenfold strength was given to him. He tore himself away, and, rolling his eyes in frenzy, flung himself upon Dutlof with doubled fist. "I'll kill you, don't you dare--You have ruined me! Why did you make me marry? Don't you dare--I will kill you!" Ilyushka was frantic. His face was purple, his eyes were wild, his whole healthy young body trembled as in an ague. It seemed as if he could and would kill all three of the muzhíks who were trying to subdue him. "You will shed your kinsman's blood, you blood-hound!" Something passed over Dutlofs ever-calm face. He made a step forward. "You'd better not do it," he said; and then, however he got his energy, he threw himself with a quick motion on his nephew, rolled over with him on the floor, and with the help of the elder, began to bind his hands. Within five minutes they had him fast. At last Dutlof, with the aid of the muzhíks, got up, tearing Ilya's hands from his sheepskin, in which they were convulsively clutched, got up himself, and then carried the young man, with his hands behind his back, to a bench in one corner of the room.