“Enough nonsense, Marya Ivanovna,” said my father. “Who is going to let you go to these brigands alone? Sit here and be quiet. If we’re to die, we’ll die together. Listen, what are they saying now?”
“Do you surrender?” Shvabrin shouted. “See? In five minutes you’ll be roasted.”
“We don’t surrender, villain!” my father answered him in a firm voice.
His face, covered with wrinkles, was animated by astonishing courage, his eyes flashed menacingly under his gray eyebrows. And, turning to me, he said:
“Now’s the time!”
He opened the door. Flames burst in and shot up the beams caulked with dry moss. My father fired his pistol and stepped across the blazing threshold, shouting: “Everyone, follow me!” I seized my mother and Marya Ivanovna by the hands and quickly led them outside. By the threshold lay Shvabrin, shot down by my father’s decrepit hand; the crowd of brigands, who fled before our unexpected sortie, at once took courage and began to surround us. I still managed to deal several blows, but a well-thrown brick struck me full in the chest. I fell down and lost consciousness for a moment. On coming to, I saw Shvabrin sitting on the bloody grass, and before him our whole family. I was supported under the arms. The crowd of peasants, Cossacks, and Bashkirs stood around us. Shvabrin was terribly pale. He pressed one hand to his wounded side. His face expressed suffering and spite. He slowly raised his head, looked at me, and pronounced in a weak and indistinct voice:
“Hang him…hang all of them…except her…”
The crowd of villains surrounded us at once and, shouting, dragged us to the gates. But suddenly they abandoned us and scattered; through the gates rode Zurin and behind him his entire squadron with drawn swords.
The rebels scurried off in all directions; the hussars pursued them, cut them down and took them prisoner. Zurin jumped off his horse, bowed to my mother and father, and firmly shook my hand.
“Looks like I made it just in time,” he said to us. “Ah! Here’s your bride-to-be.”
Marya Ivanovna blushed to the ears. My father came up to him and thanked him with a calm, though moved, air. My mother embraced him, calling him an angel of deliverance.
“We bid you welcome,” my father said to him and led him to our house.
Going past Shvabrin, Zurin stopped.
“Who is this?” he asked, looking at the wounded man.
“That is the leader himself, the head of the band,” my father answered with a certain pride, revealing the old warrior in him. “God helped my decrepit hand to punish the young villain and revenge my son’s blood.”
“It’s Shvabrin,” I said to Zurin.
“Shvabrin! Very glad! Hussars! Take him! And tell our doctor to bandage his wound and cherish him like the apple of his eye. Shvabrin absolutely must be brought before the Kazan secret commission. He’s one of the chief criminals, and his testimony is sure to be important.”
Shvabrin gave him a languishing look. His face showed nothing but physical pain. The hussars carried him away on a cape.
We went into the house. I trembled as I looked around, recalling my young years. Nothing in the house had changed, everything was in the same place. Shvabrin had not allowed it to be looted, preserving in his very abasement an instinctive aversion to dishonorable greed. The servants came to the front hall. They had not taken part in the rebellion and rejoiced wholeheartedly in our deliverance. Savelyich was triumphant. It should be known that during the alarm caused by the brigands’ attack, he ran to the stable where Shvabrin’s horse was, saddled it, led it out quietly, and, thanks to the tumult, galloped off unnoticed to the crossing. He met the regiment, which was already resting on this side of the Volga. Zurin, learning of our danger from him, ordered his men to saddle up, commanded them forward, forward at a gallop—and, thank God, arrived in time.
Zurin insisted that the bailiff’s head be exposed on a pole by the tavern for several hours.
The hussars came back from their pursuit, having taken several prisoners. They were locked up in the same granary in which we had withstood the memorable siege.
We went off to our separate rooms. My old parents needed rest. Not having slept all night, I threw myself on the bed and fell fast asleep. Zurin went to give his orders.
In the evening we gathered in the drawing room around the samovar, cheerfully talking about the past danger. Marya Ivanovna poured tea, I sat beside her and was occupied with her exclusively. My parents seemed to look favorably on the tenderness of our relations. That evening lives in my memory to this day. I was happy, perfectly happy, and how many such moments are there in a poor human life?
The next day my father was informed that the peasants had come to the courtyard to confess their wrong. My father went out to the porch to meet them. When he appeared, the muzhiks knelt down.
“Well, you fools,” he said to them, “what put it into your heads to rebel?”
“We were wrong, master,” they replied with one voice.
