The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on the ground like a log.
"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the cart.

Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything they could come across--whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying mare.

Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the crowbar.

The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.
"You butchered her," someone shouted in the crowd.
"Why wouldn't she gallop then ?" "My property!" shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar in his hands.

He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to beat.
"No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices were shouting in the crowd.
But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips....