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I was driving home alone from the hunt one evening in a racing droshky. There were still about eight versts to go; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, didn't lag a single step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, an enormous purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The stifling heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry streambed overgrown with willows, climbed the hill, and entered the forest. The road wound before me between thick hazel bushes already flooded with darkness; I moved forward with difficulty. The droshky bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens that constantly crossed the deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared in the heights, the trees raged, large raindrops sharply drummed and splashed on the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I went at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was floundering, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and having covered my face, I was patiently waiting for the end of the bad weather when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, a tall figure appeared to me on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to have sprung from the earth beside my droshky.

"Who is it?" asked a resonant voice.

"And who are you?"

"I'm the local forester."

I gave my name.

"Ah, I know! Are you going home?"

"Home. But you see what a storm..."

"Yes, a storm," the voice answered.

White lightning illuminated the forester from head to foot; a crackling, short thunderclap sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with redoubled force.

"It won't pass soon," the forester continued.

"What can one do!"

"I can, if you like, lead you to my hut," he said abruptly.

"Do me the favor."

"Please remain seated."

He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle, and pulled it from the spot. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which rocked "like a boat at sea," and called the dog. My poor mare heavily sloshed through the mud with her feet, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts to the right and left like a phantom. We rode for quite a long time; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are at home, sir," he said in a calm voice. The gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in the light of the lightning saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard enclosed by a wattle fence. A dim light shone from one small window. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Coming, coming!" rang out a thin voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, the bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a little shirt belted with a strip of cloth, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold.

"Light the way for the master," he said to her, "and I'll put your droshky under the shed."

The girl glanced at me and went into the hut. I followed her.

The forester's hut consisted of one room, smoke-blackened, low and empty, without sleeping benches or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. A single-barreled gun lay on a bench; a heap of rags lay in the corner; two large pots stood near the stove. A splinter of wood burned on the table, flaring up and dying down sadly. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, tied to the end of a long pole. The girl extinguished the lantern, sat down on a tiny stool, and began to rock the cradle with her right hand and adjust the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it's no joy to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle breathed heavily and rapidly.

"Are you alone here?" I asked the girl.

"Alone," she pronounced barely audibly.

"Are you the forester's daughter?"

"The forester's," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester stepped through the threshold, bending his head. He picked up the lantern from the floor, approached the table, and lit the lamp.

"I suppose you're not used to splinters?" he said and shook his curls.

I looked at him. Rarely had I happened to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and magnificently built. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together broad eyebrows boldly gazed small hazel eyes. He slightly rested his hands on his hips and stopped before me.

I thanked him and asked his name.

"My name is Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk."

"Ah, you're Biryuk?"

I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Ermolai and from others I had often heard tales about the forester Biryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to their words, there had never been such a master of his trade: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time, even at midnight itself, he'll descend like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and nimble as a devil... And there's no way to get him: neither with vodka nor money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have tried to get rid of him, but no—he won't give in."

That's how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk.

"So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you give no one quarter."

"I do my duty," he answered gloomily, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."

He took an axe from his belt, sat on the floor, and began to chop splinters.

"Don't you have a wife?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, swinging the axe forcefully.

"She died, I suppose?"

"No... yes... she died," he added and turned away.

I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.

"She ran off with a passing tradesman," he uttered with a cruel smile. The girl looked down; the child woke and cried out; the girl approached the cradle.

"Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a soiled feeding horn into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at the child. He approached the door, stopped, and turned around.

"You, I suppose, sir," he began, "won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..."

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, as you wish. I would put the samovar on for you, but I have no tea... I'll go see about your horse."

He went out and slammed the door. I looked around again. The hut seemed even more dismal to me than before. The bitter smell of stale smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl didn't move from her place and didn't raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shirt; her bare legs hung motionless.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Ulita," she said, lowering her sad little face even more.

The forester came in and sat on the bench.

"The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence, "if you order it, I'll guide you out of the forest."

I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"They're making mischief in the forest... At Kobylye Verkh they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning look.

"Can you really hear it from here?"

"You can hear it from the yard."

We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; but above our heads dark blue sky was already visible here and there, little stars twinkled through the thin, rapidly flying clouds. The outlines of trees, sprinkled with rain and stirred by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We began to listen. The forester removed his cap and looked down. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he's chosen." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "But then I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "miss him." "I'll go with you... do you want me to?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll see you off. Let's go."

We set off: Biryuk in front, I after him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that only to listen to the sound of the axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "But where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my ear. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went farther through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded.

"He's felled it..." Biryuk muttered.

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; in the forest it grew slightly lighter. We finally climbed out of the ravine. "Wait here," the forester whispered to me, bent down and, raising his gun upward, disappeared among the bushes. I began to listen with strain. Through the constant noise of the wind I fancied nearby faint sounds: an axe was cautiously striking branches, wheels were creaking, a horse was snorting... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out pitifully, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ing, ly-ing," Biryuk kept repeating, out of breath, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at the scene of battle. By a felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he held the thief under him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Biryuk stood up and put him on his feet. I saw a muzhik, wet, in rags, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half-covered with an angular piece of matting, stood there together with the cart frame. The forester said not a word; the muzhik also remained silent and only shook his head.

"Let him go," I whispered in Biryuk's ear, "I'll pay for the tree."

Biryuk silently took the horse by the withers with his left hand; with his right he held the thief by the belt: "Well, turn around, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the axe," muttered the muzhik. "Why should it go to waste!" said the forester and picked up the axe. We set off. I walked behind... The rain began to drizzle again and soon poured in streams. With difficulty we reached the hut. Biryuk threw the captured little horse in the middle of the yard, led the muzhik into the room, loosened the knot of the sash, and seated him in the corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat on the bench.

"Look how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Won't you lie down?"

"Thank you."

"I would lock him in the closet for your honor's sake," he continued, pointing at the muzhik, "but you see, the bolt..."

"Leave him here, don't touch him," I interrupted Biryuk.

The muzhik glanced at me from under his brows. I inwardly gave myself my word to free the poor fellow at any cost. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, wrinkled face, overhanging yellow eyebrows, restless eyes, thin limbs... The girl lay down on the floor at his very feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk sat by the table, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... the rain drummed on the roof and slid along the windows; we all were silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," the muzhik suddenly began in a dull, broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich."

"What do you want?"

"Let me go."

Biryuk didn't answer.

"Let me go... from hunger... let me go."

"I know you," the forester replied gloomily, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief."

"Let me go," the muzhik kept repeating, "the bailiff... we're ruined, that's how it is... let me go!"

"Ruined!.. No one should steal."

"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't destroy me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat you alive, that's how it is."

Biryuk turned away. The muzhik twitched as if fever were shaking him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly.

"Let me go," he repeated with despondent despair, "let me go, by God, let me go! I'll pay, that's how it is, by God. By God, from hunger... the little ones are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's how it is."

"But you still shouldn't go stealing."

"The little horse," the muzhik continued, "the little horse at least... it's the only thing we have... let me go!"

"I tell you, it's impossible. I'm also a man under orders: they'll demand it from me. There's no call to indulge you either."

"Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, truly... let me go!"