Diaboliad   ::   Булгаков Михаил Афанасьевич

The balls flashed like silver, turning black as they fell, then flashed again and disappeared. Korotkov thought he saw the beetles begin to scurry about in alarm in the sun-lit square. He bent down to get another batch of missiles, but did not have time. With a crunching and smashing of glass people appeared in the billiard room. They spilled out like peas, jumping onto the roof. Grey caps and greatcoats poured out, and the glossy old man came flying through an upper pane, without touching the ground. Then the wall collapsed completely, and a terrible clean-shaven Longjohn swept out menacingly on roller-skates with an old blunderbuss in his hands.

«Surrender!» came the howls from all sides and overhead, submerged by an unbearable deafening saucepan bass.

«This is the end,» Korotkov gasped faintly. «The end. Battle's lost. Ta-ta-ta,» he trumpeted the retreat with his lips.

The courage of death took possession of him. By hanging on and balancing, Korotkov made his way to a post on the parapet, clutched it swaying, drew himself up to his full height and shouted:

«Better death than dishonour!»

His persecutors were close on his heels now. Korotkov saw the outstretched hands, the flame leaping out of Longjohn's mouth. The lure of the sunny abyss was so strong that it took his breath away. He jumped with a piercing triumphant cry and soared upwards. For a second he stopped breathing. Indistinctly, very indistinctly, he saw something grey fly up past him with black holes as if from an explosion. Then he saw very clearly that the grey thing had fallen down. He himself was rising up to the narrow crack of the side-street which lay above him. Then the blood-red sun burst resoundingly in his head, and he saw nothing more.