“That’s nothing, father; let us go,” said the deputy cheerfully. “Do you think it so far? Can’t be more than twenty versts! You’ll be there before you know it. We shall make a nice trip of it. And afterwards you shall have a rest.” “In a cool place,” explained the _Starosta_. “That’s nothing,” the deputy hastened to say. “A man, when he is very tired, will find rest even in jail. And especially after a hot day you will find it cool and comfortable there.” The prisoner eyed his escort sharply; the latter smiled good-naturedly and frankly. “Well, come along, honest father! Good-bye, Vasil Gavrilich! Let’s go!” “God be with you, Efimushka! Use both your eyes.” “Yes, you’ll have to look sharp!” was the suggestion thrown at the deputy by a young peasant in the crowd. “What, do you think I’m an infant?” They started, keeping close to the huts, so as to be within the strip of shadow. The man in the cassock walked in front, with the loose but rapid gait of a being accustomed to roaming. The deputy, with a sturdy stick in his hand, followed. Efimushka was a little peasant, low in stature, but built strongly, with a broad, good-natured face framed in an unkempt red beard beginning just below his bright gray eyes. He nearly always smiled at something, showing his healthy yellow teeth, and wrinkling his nose as if he wanted to sneeze. He was dressed in a long garment whose folds were caught up at the waist with a belt, so that they might not hamper his feet; on his head was stuck a dark green cap, without a visor, reminding one of a prisoner’s cap. His companion moved on as if oblivious of another presence. They walked along by a narrow by-path, which wound its way through a billowy sea of rye; and the shadows of the travellers glided along against the gold of the corn. Looking towards the horizon, the crest of a wood appeared blue against the sky. To the left stretched endlessly field upon field; in their midst, like a dark patch, lay a village; and beyond the village again fields, losing themselves finally in the bluish haze. To the right, from behind a group of willows, a church spire covered with tin-plate, as yet unpainted, pierced the blue sky. It glistened so strongly in the sun that it was painful to look at. Up high the larks twittered; and in the rye the cornflowers smiled; and it was hot--almost stifling. From under the feet of the travellers the dust flew up. Efimushka, clearing his throat, began to sing in falsetto voice. “It’s no use. I can’t make my voice carry! And yet--there was a time when I could sing.... The Vishensky teacher would say, ‘Well, Efimushka, make a start!’ And we would sing together! A fine fellow he was, too!” “Who was he?”, asked the man in the cassock, in a dull bass voice. “The Vishensky teacher.” “Was Vishensky his name?” “No, brother; that’s the name of the village. The teacher’s name was Pavel Mikhalich. A first-rate sort he was. Died three years ago.” “Was he young?” “He wasn’t thirty.”