Rab’ Shachneh’s hands and feet trembled, and he felt an awful bitterness in the mouth. It seemed to him, sitting in the chair, that the wild uproar of the street, the howling and the whistling, the cracking and the ringing of the shattering window-panes, were taking place within him, within his own head. The pogrom had broken out with such fearful suddenness that he found himself forced to fly home without stopping to lock his shop. But on reaching home, he discovered no one there. Sarah and the children had, seemingly, managed to hide themselves somewhere, leaving the house and their few belongings in God’s care. He himself, however, did not think of hiding. He did not think of anything, in fact. He was conscious only of the wild noises of the street, and the unbearable bitterness in his mouth. The noises sounded now nearer, now more distant, like the roar of a neighboring conflagration. But suddenly, it surrounded the house on all sides at once. The window-panes cracked, rocks flew into the room; and the next instant, young peasants with flaming, drunken faces, carrying knives and clubs, came crawling through doors and windows. It then occurred to Rab’ Shachneh that he ought to do something about it. And he lifted himself laboriously from the chair, and began to crawl under a sofa, right before the eyes of the rioters. The peasants roared with laughter. “Nah! _There_ is a fool for you!” and one of them grabbed him by a leg. “Eh, you! Get up!” This brought Rab’ Shachneh to his senses, and he began to weep like a child. “Boys,” he pleaded, “I will let you have everything--the money, the jewelry--everything. Spare my life! Why should you kill me? I have a wife and children.” But nothing availed him. They took everything, and beat him besides, struck him in the face and chest, kicked him in the abdomen with mad fury. He cried, pleaded, and they kept up their beating. “Vasily, Vasilinka, you know me! Your father worked for us. Haven’t we always paid him well? Vasilinka, save me! Save....” A violent blow on the chest cut short his pleading. Two young peasants sat on him and pressed their knees into his abdomen. Vasilinka, a small spare fellow with a crooked face and grey eyes, spoke up proudly: “You paid him, did you! Father worked, so you paid. I would have just liked to see you refuse to pay him.” Nevertheless it pleased Vasilinka greatly that Rab’ Shachneh should have appealed to him for mercy, and he thereupon turned to the others. “Now, boys, enough! Let the carcass be. You can see that it’s barely gasping.” Reluctantly, one by one, the peasants tore themselves away from their victim, and began to leave the house, smashing whatever articles had previously escaped their notice. “Nu, Shachneh,” Vasily turned to him, “you have me to thank for being alive yet. The boys would have made short work of you, if it hadn’t been for me.” He was on the point of leaving with the others, when something occurred to him that made him halt.