ook of anxiety
and apprehension that he would not find Varlamov, that he would be
late, that he would miss a good price; nothing of that sort, so
characteristic of small and dependent persons, could be seen in the
face or figure of Varlamov. This man made the price himself, was
not looking for anyone, and did not depend on anyone; however
ordinary his exterior, yet in everything, even in the manner of
holding his whip, there was a sense of power and habitual authority
over the steppe.

As he rode by Yegorushka he did not glance at him. Only the little
stallion deigned to notice Yegorushka; he looked at him with his
large foolish eyes, and even he showed no interest. Panteley bowed
to Varlamov; the latter noticed it, and without taking his eyes off
the sheets of paper, said lisping:

"How are you, old man?"

Varlamov's conversation with the horseman and the way he had
brandished his whip had evidently made an overwhelming impression
on the whole party. Everyone looked grave. The man on horseback,
cast down at the anger of the great man, remained stationary, with
his hat off, and the rein loose by the foremost waggon; he was
silent, and seemed unable to grasp that the day had begun so badly
for him.

"He is a harsh old man, . ." muttered Panteley. "It's a pity he is
so harsh! But he is all right, a good man. . . . He doesn't abuse
men for nothing. . . . It's no matter. . . ."

After examining the papers, Varlamov thrust the book into his pocket;
the little stallion, as though he knew what was in his mind, without
waiting for orders, started and dashed along the highroad.

VII

On the following night the waggoners had halted and were cooking
their porridge. On this occasion there was a sense of overwhelming
oppression over everyone. It was sultry; they all drank a great
deal, but could not quench their thirst. The moon was intensely
crimson and sullen, as though it were sick. The stars, too, were
sullen, the mist was thicker, the distance more clouded. Nature
seemed as though languid and weighed down by some foreboding.

There was not the same liveliness and talk round the camp fire as
there had been the day before. All were dreary and spoke listlessly
and without interest. Panteley did nothing but sigh and complain
of his feet, and continually alluded to impenitent deathbeds.

Dymov was lying on his stomach, chewing a straw in silence; there
was an expression of disgust on his face as though the straw smelt