'This insult must be washed out in blood, in blood. . .'
'I've found the road! ' cried the coachman, making his appearance at the right front wheel. 'I made a little mistake, kept too much to the left . . . it 's no matter now! We'll be there in no time; there 's not a mile before us. Be pleased to sit still!'
He clambered on to the box, took the reins from Markelov, turned the shaft horse's head. . . . The coach, after two violent jolts, rolled along more easily and evenly, the darkness seemed to part and to lift, there was a smell of smoke, in front rose a sort of hillock. Then a light twinkled . . . and vanished.. . . Another glimmered. . . . A dog barked.. . .
'Our huts,' said the coachman; 'ah, get along, my pretty pussies!'
The lights came more and more often to meet them.
'After that insult,' Nezhdanov began at last, 'you will readily understand, Sergei Mihalovitch, that I cannot spend a night under your roof; I am therefore, unpleasant as it is to me, forced to ask you to lend me your coach, when you reach home, so that I may return to the town; to-morrow I will find means of getting home; and then you shall receive from me the communication you doubtless expect.'
6
