The latter was silent, looking at me with wild eyes, and all the while putting a strange restraint upon himself.
"Be quiet, you devilskin!" said Smouri.
"As you are not the piper, you can't call the tune," answered the soldier.
I saw that the cook was confused. His blown-out cheeks became flabby; he spat, and went away, taking me with him. I walked after him, feeling foolish, with backward glances at the soldier. But Smouri muttered in a worried tone:
"There's a wild creature for you! What? What do you think of him?"
Sergei overtook us and said in a whisper:
"He is going to kill himself."
"Where is he?" cried Smouri, and he ran.
The soldier was standing at the door of the steward's cabin with a large knife in his hand. It was the knife which was used for cutting off the heads of fowls and for cutting up sticks for the stoves. It was blunt, and notched like a saw. In front of the cabin the passengers were assembled, looking at the funny little man with the wet head. His snub-nosed face shook like a jelly; his mouth hung wearily open; his lips twitched. He roared:
"Tormentors! Tormentors!"