We were sitting in the shade; but even in the shade it was stifling. The sultry atmosphere was faint and heavy; one lifted one's burning face uneasily, seeking a breath of wind; but there was no wind. The sun beat down from blue and darkening skies; right opposite us, on the other bank, was a yellow field of oats, overgrown here and there with wormwood; not one ear of the oats quivered. A little lower down a peasant's horse stood in the river up to its knees, and slowly shook its wet tail; from time to time, under an overhanging bush, a large fish shot up, bringing bubbles to the surface, and gently sank down to the bottom, leaving a slight ripple behind it. The grasshoppers chirped in the scorched grass; the quail's cry sounded languid and reluctant; hawks sailed smoothly over the meadows, often resting in the same spot, rapidly fluttering their wings and opening their tails into a fan. We sat motionless, overpowered with the heat. Suddenly there was a sound behind us in the creek; someone came down to the spring. I looked round, and saw a peasant of about fifty, covered with dust, in a smock, and wearing bast slippers; he carried a wickerwork pannier and a cloak on his shoulders. He went down to the spring, drank thirstily, and got up. 'Ah, Vlass!' cried Tuman, staring at him; 'good health to you, friend! Where has God sent you from?' 'Good health to you, Mihal Savelitch!' said the peasant, coming nearer to us; 'from a long way off.' 'Where have you been?' Tuman asked him. 'I have been to Moscow, to my master.' 'What for?' 'I went to ask him a favour.' 'What about?' 'Oh, to lessen my rent, or to let me work it out in labour, or to put me on another piece of land, or something.... My son is dead--so I can't manage it now alone.' 'Your son is dead?' 'He is dead. My son,' added the peasant, after a pause, 'lived in Moscow as a cabman; he paid, I must confess, rent for me.' 'Then are you now paying rent?' 'Yes, we pay rent.' 'What did your master say?' 'What did the master say! He drove me away! Says he, "How dare you come straight to me; there is a bailiff for such things. You ought first," says he, "to apply to the bailiff ... and where am I to put you on other land? You first," says he, "bring the debt you owe." He was angry altogether.' 'What then--did you come back?' 'I came back. I wanted to find out if my son had not left any goods of his own, but I couldn't get a straight answer. I say to his employer, "I am Philip's father"; and he says, "What do I know about that? And your son," says he, "left nothing; he was even in debt to me." So I came away.' The peasant related all this with a smile, as though he were speaking of someone else; but tears were starting into his small, screwed-up eyes, and his lips were quivering. 'Well, are you going home then now?' 'Where can I go? Of course I'm going home. My wife, I suppose, is pretty well starved by now.'