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I was riding home from hunting one evening alone, in a racing droshky. It was still about eight versts to the house; my good trotting mare ran briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as though tied, did not fall back a single step from the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge 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 sultry heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows rapidly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream bed all overgrown with osiers, 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 jolted over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens, constantly crossing deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared in the heights, the trees raged, large drops of rain sharply drummed and slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I proceeded at a walk and soon was forced to stop: my horse floundered, I could not see a thing. Somehow I took shelter by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I was patiently waiting for the bad weather to end 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 rise from the ground beside my droshky. "Who's there?" asked a resonant voice. "And who are you?" "I'm the local forester." I gave my name. "Ah, I know! You're 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 and short clap of thunder rang out immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What can one do!" "I'll take you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly. "I'd be much obliged." "Please remain seated." He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from its place. 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 slapped her feet through the mud, 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 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 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 about twelve years old, in a shirt tied with a belt, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold. "Light the way for the gentleman," 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 platform or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. A single-barreled gun lay on the bench, a heap of rags lay in the corner; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter burned on the table, sadly flaring up and dying down. 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 bench and began rocking the cradle with her right hand, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it's not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle breathed heavily and rapidly. "Are you here alone?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she uttered barely audibly. "You're the forester's daughter?" "The forester's," she whispered. The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bowing his head. He lifted the lantern from the floor, approached the table and lit the wick. "I suppose you're not used to splinters?" he said and shook his curls. I looked at him. I had rarely had occasion to see such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and magnificently built. From under his wet homespun shirt his mighty muscles protruded. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under thick grown-together eyebrows boldly looked small brown eyes. He lightly placed his hands on his hips and stopped before me. I thanked him and asked his name. "They call me Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk" (In Oryol province, a solitary and sullen person is called Biryuk). "Ah, you're Biryuk?" I looked at him with redoubled curiosity. From my Yermolai and from others I had often heard stories about the forester Biryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been such a master of his trade in the world: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; at whatever time, even at midnight, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—he's strong, they say, and clever as a devil... And there's no way to get him: not with vodka, not with money; he won't take any bait. More than once good people have tried to do away with him, but no—he doesn't give in." This is how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk. "So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I, brother, have heard about you. They say you give no one any quarter." "I do my duty," he answered sullenly, "it's not fitting to eat the master's bread for nothing." He took an axe from his belt, sat down on the floor and began to split splinters. "Have you no wife?" I asked him. "No," he answered and swung 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 hung her head; the child woke and cried; the girl approached the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a stained feeding horn into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing to 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 set the samovar 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 than before. The bitter smell of cooled smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl did not move from her place and did not raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulled onto her shoulder the slipping shirt; her bare feet hung motionless. The forester entered and sat on the bench. "The storm is passing," he remarked after a brief silence, "if you order it, I'll see you out of the forest." I stood up. Biryuk took the gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "There's mischief in the forest... They're cutting a tree at Kobylye Verkh" (In Oryol province a ravine is called "verkh"), he added in response to my questioning look. "Can you 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 occasionally flashed; 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 agitated by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We began to listen. The forester took off his cap and hung his head. "There... there," he said suddenly and extended his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse out from under the shed. "But this way 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 out. Let's go." We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and then only to listen to the sound of the axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "Where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my hearing. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble sounded. "He's felled it..." Biryuk muttered. Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; it grew slightly lighter in the forest. 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, faint sounds seemed to me nearby: an axe cautiously tapped on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where are you going? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out piteously, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ying, ly-ying," Biryuk kept saying, 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 the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was bustling; he held the thief beneath him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a sash. I approached. Biryuk rose and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant, wet, in rags, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half covered with an angular bast mat, stood there together with the cart frame. The forester said not a word; the peasant was also 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 hand he held the thief by the belt: "Well, turn around, you crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the axe there," the peasant muttered. "Why should it be wasted!" 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 peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the sash and seated him in the corner. The girl, who had been sleeping by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to stare at us. I sat down on the bench. "Look how it's pouring," the forester remarked, "we'll have to wait it out. Would you like to lie down?" "Thank you." "I would lock him in the closet, for your honor's sake," he continued, pointing to the peasant, "but you see, the bolt..." "Leave him here, don't touch him," I interrupted Biryuk. The peasant glanced at me from under his brows. I inwardly gave myself my word to free the poor man at all costs. 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, resting his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... the rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we were all silent. "Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull and broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich." "What do you want?" "Let me go." Biryuk did not answer. "Let me go... from hunger... let me go." "I know you," the forester replied sullenly, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief." "Let me go," the peasant repeated, "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 peasant twitched as if fever shook him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly. "Let me go," he repeated with dismal despair, "let me go, by God, let me go! I'll pay, that's how it is, by God. By God, from hunger... the children are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's how it is, things are." "But you still shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," the peasant continued, "the little horse, at least let her go... she's the only one we have... let me go!" "I tell you, I can't. I'm also a man under orders: they'll hold me accountable. You can't be indulged either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, it's really that... let me go!"