"Why, about the wood ... I understand ... I mean that when we came to the wood you meant to knock me down--knock me down, I say--and bolt across the fields or through the wood. Isn't that so?" "You're a fool!"--and the enigmatic man shrugged his shoulders.... "Come now, where could I go?" "Where? why where you liked, that was your affair." "But where?" Efimushka's comrade was either angry or really wished to hear from his escort where he might have been expected to go. "I tell you, wherever you chose," Efimushka explained quietly. "I have nowhere to run to, my brother, nowhere!" said his companion calmly. "Well, well!" exclaimed his escort, incredulously, and even waved his hand. "There's always somewhere to run to. The earth is large. There is always room for a man on it." "But what do you mean? Do you really want me to run away, then?" inquired the prisoner curiously, with a smile. "Go along! You are really too good! Is that right now? You run away, and instead of you someone else is put into gaol! I also should be locked up. No, thank you. I've a word, to say to that." "You are a blessed fool, you are ... but you seem a good sort of muzhik too," said Efimushka's comrade with a sigh. Efimushka did not hesitate to agree with him. "Exactly, they do call me blessed sometimes, and it is also true that I am a good muzhik. I am simple-minded, that's the chief cause of it. Other folks get on by artfulness and cunning, but what is that to me? I am a man all by myself in the world. Deal falsely--and you will die; deal justly--and you will die all the same. So I always keep straight, it is greater." "You're a good fellow!" observed his companion indifferently. "How! Why should I make my soul crooked when I stand here all alone. I'm a free man, little brother. I live as I wish to live, I go through life and am a law to myself.... Well, well!--But, say! what do they call you?" "What? Well--say Ivan Ivanov." "So! Are you of a priestly stock or what?" "No." "Really? I thought you were of a priestly family." "Because I am dressed like this, eh?" "It's like this. You've all the appearance of a runaway monk or of an unfrocked priest But then, your face does not correspond. By your face I should take you for a soldier. God only knows what manner of man you are"--and Efimushka cast an inquisitive look upon the pilgrim. The latter sighed, readjusted his hat, wiped his sweating forehead, and asked the Sotsky: "Do you smoke?" "Alas! crying your clemency! I do, indeed, smoke." He drew from his bosom a greasy tobacco-pouch, and bowing his head, but without stopping, began stuffing the tobacco into the clay pipe. "There you are, then, smoke away!" The prisoner stopped, and bending down to the match lighted by his escort, drew in his cheeks. A little blue cloud rose into the air. "Well, what may your people have been? City people, eh?"