All the
deserters are unanimous in declaring famine and plague are in Orenburg,
that they are eating carrion there as a dish of honour. And his lordship
assures us there is abundance of all. If you wish to hang Chvabrine,
hang on the same gallows this lad, so that they need have naught
wherewith to reproach each other."
The words of the confounded old man seemed to have shaken Pugatchef.
Happily, Khlopusha began to contradict his companion.
"Hold your tongue, Naumitch," said he; "you only think of hanging and
strangling. It certainly suits you well to play the hero. Already you
have one foot in the grave, and you want to kill others. Have you not
enough blood on your conscience?"
"But are you a saint yourself?" retorted Beloborodoff. "Wherefore, then,
this pity?"
"Without doubt," replied Khlopusha, "I am also a sinner, and this hand"
(he closed his bony fist, and turning back his sleeve displayed his
hairy arm), "and this hand is guilty of having shed Christian blood. But
_I_ killed my enemy, and not my host, on the free highway and in the
dark wood, but not in the house, and behind the stove with axe and club,
neither with old women's gossip."
The old man averted his head, and muttered between his teeth--
"Branded!"
"What are you muttering there, old owl?" rejoined Khlopusha.
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