“What was it?” asked the forester.
“A peasant woman driving in a cart; she had got off the road . . .” answered the young man, struggling with his breathlessness. “She was caught in a thicket.”
“Ah, the silly thing! She was frightened, then. . . . Well, did you put her on the road?”
“I don’t care to talk to a scoundrel like you.”
The young man flung his wet cap on the bench and went on:
“I know now that you are a scoundrel and the lowest of men. And you a keeper, too, getting a salary! You blackguard!”
The forester slunk with a guilty step to the stove, cleared his throat, and lay down. The young man sat on the bench, thought a little, and lay down on it full length. Not long afterwards he got up, put out the candle, and lay down again. During a particularly loud clap of thunder he turned over, spat on the floor, and growled out:
“He’s afraid. . . . And what if the woman were being murdered? Whose business is it to defend her? And he an old man, too, and a Christian . . . . He’s a pig and nothing else.”
The forester cleared his throat and heaved a deep sigh. Somewhere in the darkness Flerka shook his wet coat vigorously, which sent drops of water flying about all over the room.
“So you wouldn’t care if the woman were murdered?” the hunter went on. “Well—strike me, God—I had no notion you were that sort of man. . . .”