bent his head. A
silence followed again.... All three were pondering. The peasants were
racking their brains in the effort to grasp in their imagination what
can be grasped by none but God--that is, the vast expanse dividing
them from the land of freedom. Into the tramp's mind thronged clear
and distinct pictures more terrible than that expanse. Before him rose
vividly the picture of the long legal delays and procrastinations,
the temporary and permanent prisons, the convict boats, the wearisome
stoppages on the way, the frozen winters, illnesses, deaths of
companions....

The tramp blinked guiltily, wiped the tiny drops of sweat from his
forehead with his sleeve, drew a deep breath as though he had just leapt
out of a very hot bath, then wiped his forehead with the other sleeve
and looked round fearfully.

"That's true; you won't get there!" Ptaha agreed. "You are not much of a
walker! Look at you--nothing but skin and bone! You'll die, brother!"

"Of course he'll die! What could he do?" said Nikandr. "He's fit for the
hospital now.... For sure!"

The man who had forgotten his name looked at the stern, unconcerned
faces of his sinister companions, and without taking off his cap,
hurriedly crossed himself, staring with wide-open eyes.... He trembled,
his head shook, and he began twitching all over, like a caterpillar when
it is stepped upon....

"Well, it's time to go," said Nikandr, getting up; "we've had a rest."

A minute later they were stepping along the muddy road. The tramp was
more bent than ever, and he thrust his hands further up his sleeves.
Ptaha was silent.

THE PIPE

MELITON SHISHKIN, a bailiff from the Dementyev farm, exhausted by
the sultry heat of the fir-wood and covered with spiders' webs and
pine-needles, made his way with his gun to the edge of the wood. His
Damka--a mongrel between a yard dog and a setter--an extremely thin
bitch heavy with young, trailed after her master with her wet tail
between her legs, doing all she could to avoid pricking her nose. It was
a dull, overcast morning. Big drops dripped from the bracken and from
the trees that were wrapped in a light mist; there was a pungent smell
of decay from the dampness of the wood.

There were birch-trees ahead of him where the wood ended, and between
their stems and branches he could see the misty distance. Beyond the
birch-trees someone was playing on a shepherd's rustic pipe. The player
produced no more than five or six