"Have pity on me, sir," he exclaimed, almost sobbing. "What is it you
deign to tell me--that I am the cause of your wound? But God knows I was
only running to stand between you and Alexey Iványtch's sword. Accursed
old age alone prevented me. What have I now done to your mother?"

"What did you do?" I retorted. "Who told you to write and denounce me?
Were you put in my service to be a spy upon me?"

"I denounce you!" replied Savéliitch, in tears. "Oh, good heavens! Here,
be so good as to read what master has written to me, and see if it was I
who denounced you."

With this he drew from his pocket a letter, which he offered to me, and
I read as follows:--

"Shame on you, you old dog, for never writing and telling me anything
about my son, Petr' Andréjïtch, in spite of my strict orders, and that
it should be from strangers that I learn his follies! Is it thus you do
your duty and act up to your master's wishes? I shall send you to keep
the pigs, old rascal, for having hid from me the truth, and for your
weak compliance with the lad's whims. On receipt of this letter, I order
you to let me know directly the state of his health, which, judging by
what I hear, is improving, and to tell me exactly the place where he was
hit, and if the wound be well healed."

Evidently Savéliitch had not been the least to blame, and it was I who
had insulted him by my suspicions and reproaches. I begged his pardon,
but the old man was inconsolable.

"That I should have lived to see it!" repeated he. "These be the thanks