The last lights had been put out in the huts. The last sounds had died away in the village. The wattle fences and the cattle gleaming white in the yards, the roofs of the houses and the stately poplars, all seemed to be sleeping the labourers’ healthy peaceful sleep. Only the incessant ringing voices of frogs from the damp distance reached the young man. In the east the stars were growing fewer and fewer and seemed to be melting in the increasing light, but overhead they were denser and deeper than before. The old man was dozing with his head on his hand. A cock crowed in the yard opposite, but Olénin still paced up and down thinking of something. The sound of a song sung by several voices reached him and he stepped up to the fence and listened. The voices of several young Cossacks carolled a merry song, and one voice was distinguishable among them all by its firm strength. “Do you know who is singing there?” said the old man, rousing himself. “It is the Brave, Lukáshka. He has killed a Chéchen and now he rejoices. And what is there to rejoice at? ... The fool, the fool!” “And have you ever killed people?” asked Olénin. “You devil!” shouted the old man. “What are you asking? One must not talk so. It is a serious thing to destroy a human being ... Ah, a very serious thing! Good-bye, my dear fellow. I’ve eaten my fill and am drunk,” he said rising. “Shall I come tomorrow to go shooting?” “Yes, come!” “Mind, get up early; if you oversleep you will be fined!” “Never fear, I’ll be up before you,” answered Olénin. The old man left. The song ceased, but one could hear footsteps and merry talk. A little later the singing broke out again but farther away, and Eróshka’s loud voice chimed in with the other. “What people, what a life!” thought Olénin with a sigh as he returned alone to his hut. Chapter XVI