The forester had the advantage. True, it was no easy matter, for he was much exhausted, and the old man fought a good fight. Again and again, both fell down, and rolled about like rival dogs, and bruised each other on the ground. But Boryna now was more and more frequently undermost; his cap had fallen off, and his white head was again and again battered against the gnarled roots of the trees. Antek glanced round a second time, drew the gun from under his sheepskin, crouched down to take aim, and—crossing himself mechanically!—levelled the weapon at his father’s head! But before he could pull the trigger, both combatants had risen to their feet, Antek rose likewise, and his barrel pointed straight at his father.... But no shot came.—A sense of unspeakable horror had entered his heart: he could hardly draw breath for the pain of it. His hands shook as with an ague; all his body trembled; a mist veiled his eyes. Then, suddenly, a short piercing shriek burst forth. “Killed! I’m killed!” The forester had just clubbed Boryna with his gunstock. The blood spurted; the old man threw up his arms and fell headlong to the ground. Antek, flinging his gun away, sprang to his father’s side, whose breath rattled in his throat. The skull was terribly injured; he still was alive, but his eyes stared glassily, and his feet moved with continuous jerks. “My father! O Jesus! my father!” he exclaimed at the top of his voice. Taking up the insensible body, he pressed it to his bosom, and cried again, in tones of despair: “My father! they have slain him ... slain him!” And his voice was the howl of a wild beast that has lost her cubs. Several men who were close by came to Boryna’s aid, placed him upon a litter of boughs, applied snow to his wounded head, and assisted him to the best of their knowledge. Antek had sat down on the ground, tearing his hair and crying out as one mad: “They have killed him ... killed him!” till the folk began to think him really distracted. Suddenly he stopped.—All came upon him in a flash: he at once darted upon the forester with such a shriek of rage, with such a rabid glare in his eyes, that the latter trembled and would have fled. Soon aware, however, that flight could not save him, he turned and fired, so close that Antek’s face was blackened with powder. By some miracle, he missed—and the avenger was on him like a thunderbolt. Resistance, attempts to escape, prayers for mercy forced from him by despair and fear of death, were all in vain. Antek’s clutch was the grip of a maddened wolf. He throttled him till the gristle of his windpipe cracked, then whirling him on high, thrashed a tree with his body until the breath was quite beaten out of it.