"Here's some water from Spridinoff's well!... They did not want to let me take it, the dogs!"
He placed the bucket on the ground, disappeared quickly into a corner of the room, and re-appeared with a glass, which he handed to Orloff. Then he went on chattering—
"They said we had cholera here. Well, I said, what does that matter?... It will come to you, too—it's going all round the town. Then I got a box on the ear...."
Orloff took the glass, filled it from the bucket, and drank it off in one draught In his ears still rang the words of the sick man—
"I—must—die."
Tschischik wriggled about the room like an eel; he seemed to be quite in his element.
"Give me water," moaned the accordion-player, leaning his trembling body forward on the table.
Tschischik ran up to him and held a glass of water to his black, swelled lips. Grigori stood as if spell-bound or in a bad dream, leaning against the wall near the door. He heard how the sick man gulped down the water, and how Tschischik asked him if he should undress him and put him on the bed; and then he heard once more the voice of the painter's cook. He could see her fat face glancing with an expression of mingled fear and pity from one of the windows of the courtyard, as she said in a whining tone—"Mix two tablespoonfuls of soot with pine-juice and rum, and give it to him."
Some one whom he could not see, but who stood behind her, recommended cucumber-pickle and aqua regia.
Orloff felt suddenly with a clear flash the strong silent voice of his soul speaking. In order to strengthen the flickering flame, he rubbed his forehead briskly; then he left the room suddenly, ran across the yard, and disappeared down the street.