The bell for early Mass begins, though for some time past the hamlet
has been astir, and humming in a sedate and non-festive fashion.

I enter the hut to fetch my wallet, and find the place empty. Evidently
the whole party has left by the gap in the broken-down wall.

I repair, next, to the Ataman's office, where I receive back my
passport before setting out to look for my companions in the square.

In similar fashion to yesterday those "folk from Russia" are lolling
alongside the churchyard wall, and also have seated among them, leaning
his back against a log, the fat-jowled youth from Penza, with his
bruised face looking even larger and uglier than before, for the reason
that his eyes are sunken amid purple protuberances.

Presently there arrives a newcomer in the shape of an old man with a
grey head adorned with a faded velvet skull-cap, a pointed beard, a
lean, withered frame, prominent cheekbones, a red, porous-looking,
cunningly hooked nose, and the eyes of a thief.

Him a flaxen-haired youth from Orel joins with a similar youth in
accosting.

"Why are YOU tramping?" inquires the former.

"And why are YOU?" the old man retorts in nasal tones as, looking at no
one, he proceeds to mend the handle of a battered metal teapot with a
piece of wire.

"We are travelling in search of work, and therefore living as we have
been commanded to live."

"By WHOM commanded?"

"By God. Have you forgotten?"

Carelessly, but succinctly, the old man retorts:

"Take heed lest upon you, some day, God vomit all the dust and litter
which you are raising by tramping His earth!"

"How?" cries one of the youths, a long-eared stripling.

"Were not Christ and His Apostles also tramps?"

"Yes, CHRIST," is the old man's meaning reply as he raises his sharp
eyes to those of his opponent. "But what are you talking of, you fools?
With whom are you daring to compare yourselves? Take care lest I report
you to the Cossacks!"

I have listened to many such arguments, and always found them
distasteful, even as I have done discussions regarding the soul. Hence
I feel inclined to depart.

At this moment, however, Konev makes his appearance. His mien is
dejected, and his body perspiring, while his eyes keep blinking rapidly.

"Has any one seen Tanka--that woman from Riazan?" he inquires. "No?
Then the bitch must have bolted during the night. The fact is that,
overnight, someone gave me a drop or two to drink, a mere dram, but
enough