The beginning came one day when Ilya, returning with Jakov from an excursion, noticed a crowd in the gateway of the house.
"Look!" said Jakov to his friend, "they're fighting again. Come along, let's get in quick!"
They hurried full speed to the house, and as they came into the courtyard, saw that there were strange men gathered there who called out:
Pressing round the smithy was a dense crowd of men, silent, motionless, with frightened faces. Children who had crept to the front, struggled away terrified. At their feet on the snow lay a woman, with her face to the ground. Her neck and the back of her head were covered with blood, and a pasty mass of something, and the snow round about her was reddened with blood. By her lay a crumpled white kerchief and a pair of big smith's tongs. Savel crouched in the smithy door and stared dumbly at the woman's hands. They were outstretched, buried deep in the snow, and the head lay between them as though she had tried to take refuge from him in the earth and hide there. The smith's brows were drawn gloomily, his face convulsed, his teeth clenched fast, the cheek bones stood out like great swellings. He supported himself with his right hand against the door post, his black fingers moved quiveringly like a cat's claws, and except for his fingers he was motionless. But to Ilya it seemed as though his close-locked lips must open, and his mighty breast cry out with all its strength. The crowd gazed without a sound; their faces were stern and earnest and though noise and tumult filled the courtyard, by the smithy all was still and motionless.
Suddenly old Jeremy crept with heavy steps from the crowd, all torn and covered with sweat, with trembling hand he held out to the smith a cup of water and said: "There! drink!"
"Don't give him water, the murderer! It's a rope round his neck he deserves," said some one, half aloud.
Savel took the cup in his left hand and drank--drank deep, and when all was gone, he looked into the empty vessel and said in a dull voice:
"I warned her. Let be, you harlot," I said, "or I'll strike you dead. I forgave her--how many times I forgave her. But she would not leave it--and so--now--it has come to pass. My Pashka is an orphan now, look to him, grandfather. God loves you, look to my boy!"