Vladimir went with Yermolaï to Sutchok's. I told them I would wait for them at the church. While I was looking at the tombstones in the churchyard, I stumbled upon a blackened, four-cornered urn with the following inscription, on one side in French: 'Ci-git Théophile-Henri, Vicomte de Blangy'; on the next; 'Under this stone is laid the body of a French subject, Count Blangy; born 1737, died 1799, in the 62nd year of his age': on the third, 'Peace to his ashes': and on the fourth:-- 'Under this stone there lies from France an emigrant. Of high descent was he, and also of talent. A wife and kindred murdered he bewailed, And left his land by tyrants cruel assailed; The friendly shores of Russia he attained, And hospitable shelter here he gained; Children he taught; their parents' cares allayed: Here, by God's will, in peace he has been laid.' The approach of Yermolaï with Vladimir and the man with the strange nickname, Sutchok, broke in on my meditations. Barelegged, ragged and dishevelled, Sutchok looked like a discharged stray house-serf of sixty years old. 'Have you a boat?' I asked him. 'I have a boat,' he answered in a hoarse, cracked voice; 'but it's a very poor one.' 'How so?' 'Its boards are split apart, and the rivets have come off the cracks.' 'That's no great disaster!' interposed Yermolaï; 'we can stuff them up with tow.' 'Of course you can,' Sutchok assented. 'And who are you?' 'I am the fisherman of the manor.' 'How is it, when you're a fisherman, your boat is in such bad condition?' 'There are no fish in our river.' 'Fish don't like slimy marshes,' observed my huntsman, with the air of an authority. 'Come,' I said to Yermolaï, 'go and get some tow, and make the boat right for us as soon as you can.' Yermolaï went off. 'Well, in this way we may very likely go to the bottom,' I said to Vladimir. 'God is merciful,' he answered. 'Anyway, we must suppose that the pond is not deep.' 'No, it is not deep,' observed Sutchok, who spoke in a strange, far-away voice, as though he were in a dream, 'and there's sedge and mud at the bottom, and it's all overgrown with sedge. But there are deep holes too.' 'But if the sedge is so thick,' said Vladimir, 'it will be impossible to row.' 'Who thinks of rowing in a punt? One has to punt it. I will go with you; my pole is there--or else one can use a wooden spade.' 'With a spade it won't be easy; you won't touch the bottom perhaps in some places,' said Vladimir. 'It's true; it won't be easy.' I sat down on a tomb-stone to wait for Yermolaï. Vladimir moved a little to one side out of respect to me, and also sat down. Sutchok remained standing in the same place, his head bent and his hands clasped behind his back, according to the old habit of house-serfs. 'Tell me, please,' I began, 'have you been the fisherman here long?' 'It is seven years now,' he replied, rousing himself with a start. 'And what was your occupation before?'