The black-bearded man hurried me along. "Lively, comrade, lively!" I asked him on the way: "Who are you?" "One of yours," he answered. The boy without the cap followed us silently. We crossed gardens, came to a ravine at the bottom of which a stream ran along, and found a footpath in the brush. The dark man led me by the hand, looked into my eyes and said, smiling: "Well, good luck to you. Here, Fediok will conduct you to a good road. Go." "You had better hurry. They might get you." The dark man bent down, began crawling up the mountain, and Fediok and I went along by the stream. "Who is that man?" I asked him. "A blacksmith. An exile--for political reasons." "I know such people," I answered. I felt happy, but he was silent. I looked at the young man. His face was round, his nose short. His head seemed cut out from stone, and his gray eyes bulged far apart. He spoke low, walked noiselessly and held his head forward, as if he was listening or was pulled from above by some great force. He kept his hands behind his back, as my father-in-law used to. "Are you a native here?" "Yes, I am a farm hand at the priest's." "Where is you cap?" He felt his head, looked at me and asked: "Why do you care about the cap?" "Just so. It is night, and you will be cold." He remained silent. Then he muttered unwillingly: "What does it matter about the cap as long as one's head is saved?" The ravine became deeper, the stream sounded clearer, and night rose from the underbrush. My soul was unclear, yet I felt happy, and I wished to speak with the young man. "Have you only one exile here?" I asked. Here the young man opened himself as one opens an overcoat. Slowly and low, he said: "Four. There is a nobleman from Moscow and three from the Don. Two of them are quiet fellows. They even drink vodka. But the nobleman and that Ratkof who was here before, speak, though in secret, with whomever they can. They have not yet begun to speak openly before the people. There are many of them here, many around us. I, from Birsky--Fedor Mitkof, am here five years. During this time there were eleven men here. In Olekhine there are eight; in Shishkof there are three." He counted for a long time, and he reached about sixty. When he finished he became thoughtful; then began to speak, gesticulating with his finger. "There are even some peasants among them. They all say the same thing; this life is unbearable; it stifles them. I lived in peace until I heard these words, and now I see I am not yet full grown and I must bow my head. Then, in truth, it must be that this life is stifling." The young fellow spoke with difficulty, tearing each word from under his feet. He walked ahead of me and did not look at me. He was broad-shouldered and strong. "Can you read and write?" I asked him.