"Brigand!"—he moaned at last;—"the brigand... Hey, Fédka, Mítka, wife, wife, seize him, seize him—hold him!"
He had completely lost his wits.
"Look out, look out,"—ejaculated Naúm, menacingly:—"look out, old man, don't play the fool...."
"But beat him, beat him, wife!"—Akím kept repeating in a tearful voice, vainly and impotently trying to leave his place.—"The soul-ruiner, the brigand... She was n't enough for thee ... thou wantest to take my house away from me also, and everything.... But no, stay .... that cannot be.... I will go myself. I will tell her myself ... how .... but why sell?... Stop .... stop...."
And he rushed hatless into the street.
"Whither art thou running, Akím Ivánitch, whither art thou running, dear little father?"—cried the maid-servant Fetínya, who collided with him in the doorway.
"To the mistress! let me go! To the mistress...." roared Akím, and catching sight of Naúm's cart, which the servants had not yet had time to put in the stable-yard, he sprang into it, seized the reins, and lashing the horse with all his might, he set off at a gallop to the lady's manor-house.
"Dear little mother, Lizavéta Prókhorovna,"—he kept repeating to himself all the way,—"why such unkindness? I have shown zeal, methinks!"
And, in the meantime, he kept on beating the horse. Those who met him drew aside and gazed long after him.