XXX
One fine morning, just as I was sealing up a parcel which I was about to send by the guard, who was to take Urbenin to the town, where he was to be imprisoned in the castle-prison, I heard a terrible noise. Looking out of the window I saw an amusing sight: some dozen strong young fellows were dragging one-eyed Kuz'ma out of the servants' kitchen.
Kuz'ma pale and dishevelled had his feet firmly planted on the ground, and being deprived of the use of his arms, butted at his adversaries with his large head.
“Your Honour, please go there!” Il'ya said to me, in great alarm, “he … does not want to come!”
“Who does not want to come?”
“The murderer.”
“What murderer?”
“Kuz'ma.… He committed the murder, your Honour … Pëtr Egorych is suffering unjustly.… By God, sir.”
I went into the yard and walked towards the servant's kitchen, where Kuz'ma, who had torn himself out of the strong arms of his opponents, was administering cuffs to right and left.
“What's the matter?” I asked, when I came up to the crowd.