ell, if the sexton wanted paper he could get some for himself. Neither
he nor I have set eyes upon your piece."

"Ah! Wait a bit, for on the Judgment Day you will be roasted by devils
on iron spits. Just see if you are not!"

"But why should I be roasted when I have never even TOUCHED the paper?
You might accuse me of any other fault than theft."

"Nay, devils shall roast you, sure enough. They will say to you, 'Bad
woman, we are doing this because you robbed your master,' and then stoke
up the fire still hotter."

"Nevertheless _I_ shall continue to say, 'You are roasting me for
nothing, for I never stole anything at all.' Why, THERE it is, lying on
the table! You have been accusing me for no reason whatever!"

And, sure enough, the sheet of paper was lying before Plushkin's very
eyes. For a moment or two he chewed silently. Then he went on:

"Well, and what are you making such a noise about? If one says a single
word to you, you answer back with ten. Go and fetch me a candle to seal
a letter with. And mind you bring a TALLOW candle, for it will not cost
so much as the other sort. And bring me a match too."

Mavra departed, and Plushkin, seating himself, and taking up a pen, sat
turning the sheet of paper over and over, as though in doubt whether
to tear from it yet another morsel. At length he came to the conclusion
that it was impossible to do so, and therefore, dipping the pen into the
mixture of mouldy fluid and dead flies which the ink bottle contained,
started to indite the letter in characters as bold as the notes of a
music score, while momentarily checking the speed of his hand, lest it
should meander too much over the paper, and crawling from line to line
as though he regretted that there was so little vacant space left on the
sheet.

"And do you happen to know any one to whom a few runaway serfs would be
of use?" he asked as subsequently he folded the letter.

"What? You have some runaways as well?" exclaimed Chichikov, again
greatly interested.

"Certainly I have. My son-in-law has laid the necessary information
against them, but says that their tracks have grown cold. However, he is
only a military man--that is to say, good at clinking a pair of spurs,
but of no use for laying a plea before a court."

"And how many runaways have you?"

"About seventy."

"Surely not?"

"Alas, yes. Never does a year pass without a certain number of them
making off. Yet so gluttonous and idle are my serfs tha