impulse was to throw myself upon the Count, but I restrained
myself; such a violent interference would but have aggravated the
fate of Ivan. I clasped my hands and with a stifled voice cried:
"Mercy! mercy!" The Count did not hear me. Then I threw myself
between the executioner and his victim. Stupefied, with arm raised
and immovable, the Count stared at me with flaming eyes; little by
little he became calm, and his face resumed its ordinary
expression.

"Let it pass for this time," said he at last, in a hollow voice;
"but in future meddle no more in my affairs!"

Then dropping the whip to the ground, he strode away. Ivan raised
his eyes to me full of tears, his glance expressed at once
tenderness, gratitude, and admiration. He seized my hands and
covered them with kisses, after which he passed his handkerchief
over his face, streaming with perspiration, foam, and blood, and
taking the two horses by the bridles, quietly led them to the
stable. I found the Count at the table; he had recovered his good
humor; he discharged several arrows of playful sarcasm at my
"heresies" in matters of history. It was not without effort that I
answered him, for at this moment he inspired me with an aversion
that I could hardly conceal. But I felt bound to recognize the
victory which he had gained over himself in abridging Ivan's
punishment. After dinner he sent for the serf, who appeared with
his forehead and hands furrowed with bloody scars. His lips bore
their habitual smile, which was always a mystery to me. His master
ordered him to take off his vest, turn down his shirt, and kneel
before him; then drawing from his pocket a vial full of some
ointment whose virtues he lauded highly, he dressed the wounds of