I was half-way across the square now, and my unsolicited companion continued to trail along at my heels. I was just making up my mind to be rid of the fellow, when we found our path obstructed by a dense mass of people, congregated about two Russians who were grappling each other in a fierce hand-to-hand battle. The crowd pushing us aside, I was turning away, when my companion uttered a cry, and leaping into the mass of humanity, pushed his way through, and threw himself upon the combatants. I was caught in the throng and thrust to the front of the ring, an unwilling witness of the hostilities. My unknown companion had seized one of the combatants around the waist and was dragging him off the other, by main force, while the bystanders shouted for fair play. It was evident that the quarrel was purely personal, and that the rabble were merely interested in it as a kind of diversion, and not a little disappointed when my acquaintance succeeded in separating them. Keeping his grip on the smaller of the two men, he told the other to be off before he was thrashed into eternity. The fellow addressed, who looked like some boyar’s retainer, was only too glad to sneak off through the jeering crowd, for he had been badly whipped. The other man allowed himself to be jerked along by the collar, submissive enough in the stranger’s relentless grip. He was a small man to have been so puissant, and I saw that he was a little misshapen, one shoulder being very high, and his thin, pale face was ill-favored. The bystanders began to laugh as they saw how meekly he submitted to the authority of the tall, hard-featured man who had seized him.
“Oh, come!” cried one of the rascals, “what is this new meekness? You fought well, but you can’t keep your head up now!”
“Let go of him, master!” shouted another; “it is a shame to spoil our pastime.”
Without heeding, the stranger forced his way among them, dragging along his captive, and only bestowing a scornful glance on the populace. I was more than ever struck with his air of authority, and saw that these men all gave way to him,—a tacit recognition of his commanding mien, for a less determined man could never have broken up that quarrel and dispersed the crowd. My interest was sufficiently roused to make me forget my anxiety to be rid of him, and as he pushed along with the crestfallen victor, I joined him. As we proceeded, part of the rabble followed, evidently actuated by idle curiosity.
“Let us move faster,” I remarked to the stranger; “now that the election is over, the crowd is breaking away, and we shall presently have the canaille at our heels.”
He looked at me scornfully, I thought, but still mended his pace; and as we were now a little away from the mob, he took his hand off the other’s collar, addressing him sharply.
“You fool!” he said, in his grim way. “You will spoil all with your absurd brawls. Can’t you see that villain’s cook in the highway without thrashing him, and forthwith drawing the notice of all the tale-bearers and spies in Moscow?”
“I beg your excellency’s pardon,” stammered the man, shamefaced, “but it was that carrion Polotsky, and I would rather die than not beat him!”
“Ay!” retorted the other, grimly, “you should have cut his throat long ago; but, as it is, he is the worst one you could have selected for a street brawl. You are an ass, Michael Gregorievitch, and will not only hang yourself, but your master if you can find enough rope!”
The other man glanced at me obliquely out of his narrow eyes, and his master, noting the look and the interrogation in his face, smiled.