A cry has arisen 820 "Have mercy! Have mercy!" A check to the story; They hurry off quickly To see what has happened; And there on a bank Of a ditch near the roadside, Some peasants are birching A drunken old lackey, Just taken in thieving. A court had been summoned, 830 The judges deciding To birch the offender, That each of the jury (About three and twenty) Should give him a stroke Turn in turn of the rod.... The lackey was up And made off, in a twinkling, He took to his heels Without stopping to argue, 840 On two scraggy legs. "How he trips it--the dandy!" The peasants cry, laughing; They've soon recognized him; The boaster who prated So much of his illness From drinking strange liquors. "Ho! where has it gone to, Your noble complaint? Look how nimble he's getting!" 850 "Well, well, Little Father, Now finish the story!" "It's time to go home now, My children,--God willing, We'll meet again some day And finish it then...." The people disperse As the dawn is approaching. Our peasants begin To bethink them of sleeping, 860 When all of a sudden A "troika" [30] comes flying From no one sees where, With its silver bells ringing. Within it is sitting A plump little Barin, His little mouth smoking A little cigar. The peasants draw up In a line on the roadway, 870 Thus barring the passage In front of the horses; And, standing bareheaded, Bow low to the Barin. CHAPTER V THE POMYESHCHICK The "troika" is drawing The local Pomyeshchick-- Gavril Afanasich Obolt-Oboldooeff. A portly Pomyeshchick, With long grey moustaches, Some sixty years old. His bearing is stately, His cheeks very rosy, He wears a short top-coat, 10 Tight-fitting and braided, Hungarian fashion; And very wide trousers. Gavril Afanasich Was probably startled At seeing the peasants Unflinchingly barring The way to his horses; He promptly produces A loaded revolver 20 As bulky and round As himself; and directs it Upon the intruders: "You brigands! You cut-throats! Don't move, or I shoot!" "How can we be brigands?" The peasants say, laughing, "No knives and no pitchforks, No hatchets have we!" "Who are you? And what 30 Do you want?" said the Barin. "A trouble torments us, It draws us away From our wives, from our children, Away from our work, Kills our appetites too, Do give us your promise To answer us truly, Consulting your conscience And searching your knowledge, 40 Not sneering, nor feigning The question we put you, And then we will tell you The cause of our trouble." "I promise. I give you The oath of a noble."