“Why, that’s our Tíkhon,” said the esaul .

“So it is! It is!”

“The wascal!” said Denísov.

“He’ll get away!” said the esaul , screwing up his eyes.

The man whom they called Tíkhon, having run to the stream, plunged in so that the water splashed in the air, and, having disappeared for an instant, scrambled out on all fours, all black with the wet, and ran on. The French who had been pursuing him stopped.

“Smart, that!” said the esaul .

“What a beast!” said Denísov with his former look of vexation. “What has he been doing all this time?”