into the house, took with him both his
purchases and his saddle.

The first room into which he went was large and very hot, and smelt
of freshly washed floors. A short, lean peasant of about forty,
with a small, fair beard, wearing a dark blue shirt, was sitting
at the table under the holy images. It was Kalashnikov, an arrant
scoundrel and horse-stealer, whose father and uncle kept a tavern
in Bogalyovka, and disposed of the stolen horses where they could.
He too had been to the hospital more than once, not for medical
treatment, but to see the doctor about horses--to ask whether he
had not one for sale, and whether his honour would not like to swop
his bay mare for a dun-coloured gelding. Now his head was pomaded
and a silver ear-ring glittered in his ear, and altogether he had
a holiday air. Frowning and dropping his lower lip, he was looking
intently at a big dog's-eared picture-book. Another peasant lay
stretched on the floor near the stove; his head, his shoulders, and
his chest were covered with a sheepskin--he was probably asleep;
beside his new boots, with shining bits of metal on the heels, there
were two dark pools of melted snow.

Seeing the hospital assistant, Kalashnikov greeted him.

"Yes, it is weather," said Yergunov, rubbing his chilled knees with
his open hands. "The snow is up to one's neck; I am soaked to the
skin, I can tell you. And I believe my revolver is, too. . . ."

He took out his revolver, looked it all over, and put it back in
his knapsack. But the revolver made no impression at all; the peasant
went on looking at the book.

"Yes, it is weather. . . . I lost my way, and if it had not been
for the dogs here, I do believe it would have been my death. There
would have been a nice to-do. And where are the women?"

"The old woman has gone to Ryepino, and the girl is getting supper
ready . . ." answered Kalashnikov.

Silence followed. Yergunov, shivering and gasping, breathed on his
hands, huddled up, and made a show of being very cold and exhausted.
The still angry dogs could be heard howling outside. It was dreary.

"You come from Bogalyovka, don't you?" he asked the peasant sternly.

"Yes, from Bogalyovka."

And to while away the time Yergunov began to think about Bogalyovka.
It was a big village and it lay in a deep ravine, so that when one
drove along the highroad on a moonlight night, and looked down into
the dark ravine and then up at the sky, it seemed as though the
moon wer