On arriving at the skirts of the wood Efimushka and his comrade resolved to rest, and sat down on the grass round the trunk of a huge oak. The prisoner slowly unloosed his knapsack from his shoulder, and said to the Sotsky indifferently: "Would you like some bread?" "Give me some, and I'll show you," said Efimushka, smiling. And they began to munch their bread in silence. Efimushka ate slowly, sighing to himself from time to time, and gazing about the fields to the left of him; but his comrade, altogether absorbed in the process of assimilation, ate quickly, and chewed noisily, with his eyes fixed steadily on his morsel of bread. The fields were growing dark, the ears of corn had already lost their golden colouring, and were turning a rosy-yellow; ragged clouds were creeping up the sky from the south-west, and their shadows fell upon the plain--fell and crept along the corn towards the wood, where sat the two dusky human figures. And from the trees also shadows descended upon the earth, and the breath of these shadows wafted sorrow into the soul. "Glory be to Thee, O Lord!" exclaimed Efimushka, gathering up the crumbs of his piece of bread from the ground, and licking them off the palm of his hand.... "The Lord hath fed us, no eye beheld us. And if any eye hath seen, unoffended it hath been. Well, friend, shall we sit here a little while? How about that cold dungeon of ours?" The other shook his head. "Well, this is a very nice place, and has many memories for me. Over there used to be the mansion of Squire Tuchkov...." "Where?" asked the prisoner quickly, turning in the direction indicated by a wave of Efimushka's hand. "Over there, behind that rising land. Everything around here belongs to them They were the richest people hereabouts, but after the emancipation they dwindled ... I also belonged to them once. All of us hereabouts belonged to them It was a great family. The squire himself, Aleksander Nikietich Tuchkov, was a colonel. There were children, too, four sons; I wonder what has become of them all now? Really folks are carried away like autumn leaves by the wind. Only one of them, Ivan Aleksandrovich, is safe and sound--I am taking you to him now--he is our district magistrate.... He is old already." The prisoner laughed. It was a hollow, internal sort of laugh--his bosom and his stomach were convulsed, but his face remained immovable, and through his gnashing teeth came hollow sounds like sharp barks. Efimushka shuddered painfully, and, moving his stick closer to his hand, asked: "What ails you? Is anything the matter?" "Nothing--or at any rate, it is all over now," said the prisoner, spasmodically, but amicably--"but go on with your story."