'I dare say you're not used to the splinter light?' said he, and he shook back his curls.
I looked at him. Rarely has it been my fortune to behold such a comely creature. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and in marvellous proportion. His powerful muscles stood out in strong relief under his wet homespun shirt. A curly, black beard hid half of his stern and manly face; small brown eyes looked out boldly from under broad eyebrows which met in the middle. He stood before me, his arms held lightly akimbo.
I thanked him, and asked his name.
'My name's Foma,' he answered, 'and my nickname's Biryuk' (i.e. wolf). [Footnote: The name Biryuk is used in the Orel province to denote a solitary, misanthropic man.—Author's Note.]
'Oh, you're Biryuk.'
I looked with redoubled curiosity at him. From my Yermolaï and others I had often heard stories about the forester Biryuk, whom all the peasants of the surrounding districts feared as they feared fire. According to them there had never been such a master of his business in the world before. 'He won't let you carry off a handful of brushwood; he'll drop upon you like a fall of snow, whatever time it may be, even in the middle of the night, and you needn't think of resisting him—he's strong, and cunning as the devil…. And there's no getting at him anyhow; neither by brandy nor by money; there's no snare he'll walk into. More than once good folks have planned to put him out of the world, but no—it's never come off.'
That was how the neighbouring peasants spoke of Biryuk.
'So you're Biryuk,' I repeated; 'I've heard talk of you, brother. They say you show no mercy to anyone.'
'I do my duty,' he answered grimly; 'it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing.'
He took an axe from his girdle and began splitting splinters.