At last Kirdjali was free and armed. What must have been his sensations. He began digging rapidly, the guard assisting. Suddenly he thrust his dagger into one of them, leaving the blade sticking in the man's breast; he snatched from his girdle a couple of pistols.
The remaining six, seeing Kirdjali armed with two pistols, ran away.
Kirdjali is now carrying on his brigandage near Jassy. Not long ago he wrote to the Hospodar, demanding from him five thousand louis, and threatening, in the event of the money not being paid, to set fire to Jassy, and to reach the Hospodar himself. The five thousand louis were forwarded to him.
A fine fellow Kirdjali!
THE HISTORY OF THE VILLAGE OF GOROHINA.
Of all professions that of a man of letters has always seemed to me most enviable.
My parents, respectable but humble folk, had been brought up in the old fashion. They never read anything; and beyond an alphabet (bought for me), an almanack, and the latest letter-writer, they had no books in the house.
The letter-writer had long provided me with entertainment. I knew it by heart, yet daily found in it fresh beauties; and next to General N——, to whom my father had been aide-de-camp, Kurganoff, its author, was, in my estimation, one of the greatest men. I questioned everyone about him; but unhappily no one could gratify my curiosity. Nobody knew him personally. To all my questioning the reply was that Kurganoff was the author of the latest letter-writer, but that I knew already. He was wrapped in darkness and mystery like some ancient demi-god. At times I doubted even his existence. His name was perhaps an invention, the legend about him an empty myth awaiting the investigation of some new Niebuhr. Nevertheless he dogged my imagination. I tried to give some form to this very personage, and finally decided that he must be like the land-judge, Koriuchkin, a little old man with a red nose and glittering eyes.