All this while Ordynov’s face had been undergoing a gradual change, while Yaroslav Ilyitch, for his part, kept looking anxiously from the one to the other of the two men.

“Even that, sir,” went on Murin, with a toss of his head, “is not what I wanted to say to you. The girl of whom I speak is a veritable whirlwind, a perpetual tempest. What a loving, fiery young creature she is, to be sure! Well, she cannot do without some very particular friend—some (if I may use the term) particular sweetheart. It is that which has turned her brain. True, I can soothe her a little by telling her stories—yes, I have done her a great deal of good in that way; but I see clearly (of course you must excuse my plain speaking, sir)” [here Murin bowed low again, and wiped his beard on his sleeve], “that she has a fancy for you; and you, sir, I doubt not, were led by your passion for her to come and lodge with us.”

Yaroslav Ilyitch threw a glance of disapproval at Murin—a glance which said plainly that he did not care for such disjointed utterances. Ordynov also could hardly contain himself.

“Yet,” went on Murin, “even that is not what I meant to say, sir. I am only a simple peasant; we are but humble folk, she and I—but humble folk” (Murin again bowed), “but none the less we will always pray to God for you, my ward and I. . . . To continue—what do she and I need? Food and health. Yet, under the circumstances, what are we to do? Am I to go and hang myself? Judge for yourself, sir. It is a very simple matter. What is to become of us if she were to go and take a lover? Of course the term is rather a plain one (if you will excuse it, sir?), but you must not forget that I am a peasant speaking to a gentleman. You are yet young, your nobility, and lusty, and full of life. She too is young, sir—a mere inexperienced child. Would it, then, take much to send her astray? Remember that she is a beautiful child, and full-blooded and strong, and that I am only an old epileptic. Yet I shall know how to soothe her with tales when your nobility is gone; yes, yes, I shall know how to soothe her! And how she and I will ever pray to God for your nobility! I could not say how much we shall not pray! . . . Even if you were to fall in love with her, she could never be aught but a peasant-woman, a rough-and-ready stripling: and a peasant-woman, my good sir, ought to be no concern of yours. . . . Nevertheless, how we will pray for you, how we will pray for you!”

Once more Murin bowed to the ground, and in that posture continued stroking his beard. Yaroslav Ilyitch hardly knew what to do for the best.