“Will you play?” the Count asked again. “Mind!”

The same silence and a rapid glance over the spectacles at the Count’s face, which was beginning to frown.

“Will you play?” shouted the Count very loud, striking the table with his hand so that the bottle toppled over and the wine was spilt. “You know you did not win fairly?⁠ ⁠… Will you play?⁠—I ask you for the third time.”

“I said I would not. This is really strange, Count! and it is not at all proper to come and hold a knife to a man’s throat,” remarked Loúhnof, not raising his eyes. A momentary silence followed, during which the Count’s face grew paler and paler. Suddenly a terrible blow on the head stupefied Loúhnof. He fell on the sofa trying to seize the money, and uttered such a piercingly despairing cry as no one could have expected from so calm and imposing a person. Toúrbin gathered up what money lay on the table, shoved aside the servant who ran in to his master’s assistance, and left the room with quick steps.