“That’s not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allow me to have the pistol.”
“Be off, thou base slave! Touch me not! See this?” shouted Makár Alexéevich, brandishing the pistol. “Board them!”
“Catch hold!” whispered Gerásim to the porter.
They seized Makár Alexéevich by the arms and dragged him to the door.
The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of a tipsy, hoarse voice.
Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from the porch and the cook came running into the vestibule.
“It’s them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen!” she cried.
Gerásim and the porter let Makár Alexéevich go, and in the now silent corridor the sound of several hands knocking at the front door could be heard.
XXVIII
Pierre, having decided that until he had carried out his design he would