“Let him rot, the factory buck!” Aglaia brought out with repulsion, still keeping the iron in her hand.  The white bloodstained kerchief slipped on to her shoulders and her grey hair fell in disorder.  “He’s got what he deserved!”

Everything was terrible.  Dashutka sat on the floor near the stove with the yarn in her hands, sobbing, and continually bowing down, uttering at each bow a gasping sound.  But nothing was so terrible to Yakov as the potato in the blood, on which he was afraid of stepping, and there was something else terrible which weighed upon him like a bad dream and seemed the worst danger, though he could not take it in for the first minute.  This was the waiter, Sergey Nikanoritch, who was standing in the doorway with the reckoning beads in his hands, very pale, looking with horror at what was happening in the kitchen.  Only when he turned and went quickly into the passage and from there outside, Yakov grasped who it was and followed him.

Wiping his hands on the snow as he went, he reflected.  The idea flashed through his mind that their labourer had gone away long before and had asked leave to stay the night at home in the village; the day before they had killed a pig, and there were huge bloodstains in the snow and on the sledge, and even one side of the top of the well was splattered with blood, so that it could not have seemed suspicious even if the whole of Yakov’s family had been stained with blood.  To conceal the murder would be agonizing, but for the policeman, who would whistle and smile ironically, to come from the station, for the peasants to arrive and bind Yakov’s and Aglaia’s hands, and take them solemnly to the district courthouse and from there to the town, while everyone on the way would point at them and say mirthfully, “They are taking the Godlies!”—­this seemed to Yakov more agonizing than anything, and he longed to lengthen out the time somehow, so as to endure this shame not now, but later, in the future.

“I can lend you a thousand roubles, . . .” he said, overtaking Sergey Nikanoritch.  “If you tell anyone, it will do no good. . . .  There’s no bringing the man back, anyway;” and with difficulty keeping up with the waiter, who did not look round, but tried to walk away faster than ever, he went on:  “I can give you fifteen hundred. . . .”

He stopped because he was out of breath, while Sergey Nikanoritch walked on as quickly as ever, probably afraid that he would be killed, too.  Only after passing the railway crossing and going half the way from the crossing to the station, he furtively looked round and walked more slowly.  Lights, red and green, were already gleaming in the station and along the line; the wind had fallen, but flakes of snow were still coming down and the road had turned white again.  But just at the station Sergey Nikanoritch stopped, thought a minute, and turned resolutely back.  It was growing dark.

“Oblige me with the fifteen hundred, Yakov Ivanitch,” he said, trembling all over.  “I agree.”