The muzhik had evidently only just jumped out of his grave; he was barely awake, and he had not yet realized himself or understood his condition. He was all dishevelled and in rags. His eyes were turbid. Curses and indecent words issued from his dead lips. He was angry because he had been disturbed, and he bawled:
“By what right? You are lying there and not doing any one any harm, and are roused and made to walk along. What new rules have they got for us—disturbing the dead! You’ve only just found your earth—when up you must be and moving.”
Unsteady on his feet, the muzhik continued to pour out his coarse abuse; when he saw Trirodov he opened his eyes wide and went straight to him. He was blindly conscious of being in the presence of a stranger and an enemy and he wished to destroy him. Kirsha trembled and grew pale. He clung to his father in fear. The quiet boy, retaining his tranquil sadness, stood at their side, like an angel on guard.
The muzhik touched the enchanted line. Pain and terror transpierced him. He stared with his dead eyes, but quickly lowered them; as he was unable to withstand the look of the living, he fell with his forehead to the ground just beyond the line and begged for mercy.
“Go!” said Trirodov.
The muzhik rose to his feet and scampered away. But he soon paused, and again burst out into abuse; then ran farther.
Two lean, poorly dressed boys, with green faces, walked by. The rags which bound their feet hung loosely. One of them said:
“Do you understand? They tormented me, tyrannized over me. I ran away and they caught me again—I had no strength left. I went to the garret and strangled myself. I don’t know what I shall get for it now.”
The other green boy replied:
“As for me, I was beaten with salted rods. My hands are quite clean.”