“Wait a moment,” said he to Arkhip: “I think, in my hurry, that I locked the doors of the hall. Go quickly and open them.”
Arkhip ran to the vestibule: the doors were open. He locked them, muttering in an undertone: “It’s likely that I’ll leave them open!” and then returned to Doubrovsky.
Doubrovsky applied the torch to the hay, which burst into a blaze, the flames rising to a great height and illuminating the whole courtyard.
“Alas!” cried Egorovna plaintively: “Vladimir Andreivitch, what are you doing?”
“Silence!” said Doubrovsky. “Now, children, farewell; I am going where God may direct me. Be happy with your new master.”
“Our father, our benefactor!” cried the peasants, “we will die—but we will not leave you, we will go with you.”
The horses were ready. Doubrovsky took his seat in the cart with Grisha; Anton whipped the horses and they drove out of the courtyard.
In one moment the whole house was enveloped in flames. The floors cracked and gave way; the burning beams began to fall; a red smoke rose above the roof, and there arose piteous groans and cries of “Help, help!”
“Shout away!” said Arkhip, with a malicious smile, contemplating the fire.
“Dear Arkhip,” said Egorovna to him, “save them, the scoundrels, and God will reward you.”