“Goodness knows what it will be like, Dmítri Andréich,” said the panting Vanyúsha to Olénin, who, dressed in a Circassian coat and mounted on a Kabardá horse which he had bought in Gróznoe, was after a five-hours’ march gaily entering the yard of the quarters assigned to him. “Why, what’s the matter?” he asked, caressing his horse and looking merrily at the perspiring, dishevelled, and worried Vanyúsha, who had arrived with the baggage wagons and was unpacking. Olénin looked quite a different man. In place of his clean-shaven lips and chin he had a youthful moustache and a small beard. Instead of a sallow complexion, the result of nights turned into day, his cheeks, his forehead, and the skin behind his ears were now red with healthy sunburn. In place of a clean new black suit he wore a dirty white Circassian coat with a deeply pleated skirt, and he bore arms. Instead of a freshly starched collar, his neck was tightly clasped by the red band of his silk _beshmet_. He wore Circassian dress but did not wear it well, and anyone would have known him for a Russian and not a Tartar brave. It was the thing—but not the real thing. But for all that, his whole person breathed health, joy, and satisfaction. “Yes, it seems funny to you,” said Vanyúsha, “but just try to talk to these people yourself: they set themselves against one and there’s an end of it. You can’t get as much as a word out of them.” Vanyúsha angrily threw down a pail on the threshold. “Somehow they don’t seem like Russians.” “You should speak to the Chief of the Village!” “But I don’t know where he lives,” said Vanyúsha in an offended tone. “Who has upset you so?” asked Olénin, looking round. “The devil only knows. Faugh! There is no real master here. They say he has gone to some kind of _kriga_, and the old woman is a real devil. God preserve us!” answered Vanyúsha, putting his hands to his head. “How we shall live here I don’t know. They are worse than Tartars, I do declare—though they consider themselves Christians! A Tartar is bad enough, but all the same he is more noble. Gone to the _kriga_ indeed! What this _kriga_ they have invented is, I don’t know!” concluded Vanyúsha, and turned aside. “It’s not as it is in the serfs’ quarters at home, eh?” chaffed Olénin without dismounting. “Please sir, may I have your horse?” said Vanyúsha, evidently perplexed by this new order of things but resigning himself to his fate. “So a Tartar is more noble, eh, Vanyúsha?” repeated Olénin, dismounting and slapping the saddle. “Yes, you’re laughing! You think it funny,” muttered Vanyúsha angrily. “Come, don’t be angry, Vanyúsha,” replied Olénin, still smiling. “Wait a minute, I’ll go and speak to the people of the house; you’ll see I shall arrange everything. You don’t know what a jolly life we shall have here. Only don’t get upset.”