t the pilgrims, and
whispered something to his comrades. When the women walked up to the
table, he arose and silently bowed to them. His comrades didn't stir,
seeming to take no notice of the guests.

"We live here like monks," said Rybin, tapping the mother lightly on
the shoulder. "No one comes to us; our master is not in the village;
the mistress was taken to the hospital. And now I'm a sort of
superintendent. Sit down at the table. Maybe you're hungry. Yefim,
bring some milk."

Without hurrying, Yefim walked into the shack. The travelers removed
the sacks from their shoulders, and one of the men, a tall, lank
fellow, rose from the table to help them. Another one, resting his
elbows thoughtfully on the table, looked at them, scratching his head
and quietly humming a song.

The pungent odor of the fresh tar blended with the stifling smell of
decaying leaves dizzied the newcomers.

"This fellow is Yakob," said Rybin, pointing to the tall man, "and that
one Ignaty. Well, how's your son?"

"He's in prison," the mother sighed.

"In prison again? He likes it, I suppose."

Ignaty stopped humming; Yakob took the staff from the mother's hand,
and said:

"Sit down, little mother."

"Yes, why don't you sit down?" Rybin extended the invitation to Sofya.

She sat down on the stump of a tree, scrutinizing Rybin seriously and
attentively.

"When did they take him?" asked Rybin, sitting down opposite the
mother, and shaking his head. "You've bad luck, Nilovna."

"Oh, well!"

"You're getting used to it?"

"I'm not used to it, but I see it's not to be helped."

"That's right. Well, tell us the story."

Yefim brought a pitcher of milk, took a cup from the table, rinsed it
with water, and after filling it shoved it across the table to Sofya.
He moved about noiselessly, listening to the mother's narrative. When
the mother had concluded her short account, all were silent for a
moment, looking at one another. Ignaty, sitting at the table, drew a
pattern with his nails on the boards. Yefim stood behind Rybin,
resting his elbows on his shoulders. Yakob leaned against the trunk of
a tree, his hands folded over his chest, his head inclined. Sofya
observed the peasants from the corner of her eye.

"Yes," Rybin drawled sullenly. "That's the course of action they've
decided on--to go out openly."

"If we were to arrange such a parade here," said Yefim, with a surly
smile, "they'd hack the peasants to deat