he was now he could not tell: certainly he was not in bed.
Groping, he pushed a door, and a glimmer of light came in. He was
in a closet of the room in which Sambo slept--and something was to
do about his bed. He rose softly and peeped out, There stood
several men, and a struggle was going on--nearly noiseless. Gibbie
was half-dazed, and could not understand; but he had little anxiety
about Sambo, in whose prowess he had a triumphant confidence.
Suddenly came the sound of a great gush, and the group parted from
the bed and vanished. Gibbie darted towards it. The words, "O Lord
Jesus!" came to his ears, and he heard no more: they were poor
Sambo's last in this world. The light of a street lamp fell upon
the bed: the blood was welling, in great thick throbs, out of his
huge black throat. They had bent his head back, and the gash gaped
wide.

For some moments Gibbie stood in ghastly terror. No sound except a
low gurgle came to his ears, and the horror of the stillness
overmastered him. He never could recall what came next. When he
knew himself again, he was in the street, running like the wind, he
knew not whither. It was not that he dreaded any hurt to himself;
horror, not fear, was behind him.

His next recollection of himself was in the first of the morning, on
the lofty chain-bridge over the river Daur. Before him lay he knew
not what, only escape from what was behind. His faith in men seemed
ruined. The city, his home, was frightful to him. Quarrels and
curses and blows he had been used to, and amidst them life could be
lived. If he did not consciously weave them into his theories, he
unconsciously wrapped them up in his confidence, and was at peace.
But the last night had revealed something unknown before. It was
as if the darkness had been cloven, and through the cleft he saw
into hell. A thing had been done that could not be undone, and he
thought it must be what people called murder. And Sambo was such a
good man! He was almost as good a man as Gibbie's father, and now
he would not breathe any more! Was he gone where Gibbie's father
was gone? Was it the good men that stopped breathing and grew cold?
But it was those wicked men that had deaded Sambo! And with that
his first vague perception of evil and wrong in the world began to
dawn.

He lifted his head from gazing down on the dark river. A man was
approaching the bridge. He came from the awful city! Perhaps he
wanted him! He