"Take a drink, Pavloushka, and pour me one too," said Peredonov.
"Don't pay any attention to him, Pavel Vassilyevitch," said Varvara consolingly. "He's only talking, his heart doesn't know what his tongue blabs."
Volodin said nothing, and preserving his injured look began to pour the vodka from the decanter into the glasses. Varvara said sarcastically:
"How is it, Ardalyon Borisitch, that you're not afraid to drink vodka when he pours it out? Perhaps he's exorcising it—don't you see his lips moving?"
Peredonov's face bore an expression of terror. He caught the glass which Volodin had filled and flung the vodka on to the floor, shouting:
"Chure me! Chure—chure—chure![2] A spell against the spell-weaver—may the evil tongue die of thirst, may the black eye burst. To him Karachoun [death], to me chure-perechure!"
Then he turned to Volodin with a malignant face, snapped his fingers and said:
"That's for you. You're cunning, but I'm more cunning."
Varvara laughed uproariously.
Volodin bleating in an offended, trembling voice said: