It was Grushnitski and the captain of dragoons.
I struck the latter on the head with my fist, knocked him off his feet, and darted into the bushes. All the paths of the garden which covered the slope opposite our houses were known to me.
“Thieves, guard!”... they cried.
A gunshot rang out; a smoking wad fell almost at my feet.
Within a minute I was in my own room, undressed and in bed. My manservant had only just locked the door when Grushnitski and the captain began knocking for admission.
“Pechorin! Are you asleep? Are you there?”... cried the captain.
“I am in bed,” I answered angrily.
“Get up! Thieves!... Circassians!”...
“I have a cold,” I answered. “I am afraid of catching a chill.”
They went away. I had gained no useful purpose by answering them: they would have been looking for me in the garden for another hour or so.