Volodin did not suspect to the last minute that Peredonov wanted to kill him. He kept on bleating, making a fool of himself, and uttering nonsense, which made Varvara laugh. But Peredonov did not forget his knife the whole evening. When Volodin or Varvara walked up to that side where the knife was hidden, Peredonov savagely warned them off. Sometimes he pointed at his pocket and said: "I have a trick here, Pavloushka, that will make you quack." Varvara and Volodin laughed. "I can always quack, Ardasha," said Volodin. "Kra, Kra. It's quite easy." Red, and drunken with vodka, Volodin protruded his lips and quacked. He became more and more arrogant towards Peredonov. "You've been taken in, Ardasha," he said with contemptuous pity. "I'll take you in," bellowed Peredonov in fury. Volodin appeared terrible to him and menacing. He must defend himself. Peredonov quickly pulled out his knife, threw himself on Volodin, and slashed him across his throat. The blood gushed out in a stream. Peredonov was frightened. The knife fell out of his hands. Volodin kept up his bleat, and tried to catch hold of his throat with his hands. It was evident that he was deadly frightened, that he was growing weaker, and that his hands would never reach his throat. Suddenly he grew deathly pale, and fell on Peredonov. There was a broken squeal--as if he choked--then he was silent. Peredonov cried out in horror, and Varvara after him. Peredonov pushed Volodin away. Volodin fell heavily to the floor. He groaned, moved his feet, and was soon dead. His open eyes grew glassy, and their fixed stare was directed upwards. The cat walked out of the next room, smelt the blood, and mewed malignantly. Varvara stood as if in a trance. Klavdia upon hearing the noise, came running in. "Oh, Lord, they've cut his throat," she wailed. Varvara roused herself, and with a scream rushed from the dining-room together with Klavdia. The news of the event spread quickly. The neighbours collected in the street, and in the garden. The bolder ones went into the house. They did not venture to enter the dining-room for some time. They peeped in and whispered. Peredonov was looking at the corpse with his vacant eyes, and listened to the whispers behind the door.... A dull sadness tormented him. He had no thoughts. At last they grew bolder, and entered. Peredonov was sitting with downcast eyes, and mumbling incoherent, meaningless words. [1] Tarakan is Russian for blackbeetle. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little Demon, by Feodor Sologub