A silence followed. The thunderstorm was by now over and the thunder came from far away, but it was still raining.
“And suppose it hadn’t been a woman but you shouting ‘Help!’?” said the hunter, breaking the silence. “How would you feel, you beast, if no one ran to your aid? You have upset me with your meanness, plague take you!”
After another long interval the hunter said:
“You must have money to be afraid of people! A man who is poor is not likely to be afraid. . . .”
“For those words you will answer before God,” Artyom said hoarsely from the stove. “I have no money.”
“I dare say! Scoundrels always have money. . . . Why are you afraid of people, then? So you must have! I’d like to take and rob you for spite, to teach you a lesson! . . .”
Artyom slipped noiselessly from the stove, lighted a candle, and sat down under the holy image. He was pale and did not take his eyes off the hunter.
“Here, I’ll rob you,” said the hunter, getting up. “What do you think about it? Fellows like you want a lesson. Tell me, where is your money hidden?”
Artyom drew his legs up under him and blinked. “What are you wriggling for? Where is your money hidden? Have you lost your tongue, you fool? Why don’t you answer?”
The young man jumped up and went up to the forester.