“Done! nothing in the world but work at my trade, and pay my obrok truly to my lord” (for he was one of that numerous class of serfs who were permitted by their lords to work on their own account, upon payment of an annual tax, or _obrok_). “But he raised my obrok three times, until at last I could scarcely live, and was left no chance of saving a rouble or two for the future. Then last summer I fell from the scaffolding of a house I was building, and was sore hurt. Only that the people I lodged with were good Christians, it would have gone ill with me. But I recovered, thanks to my patron St. Stefen; and when the spring came on I got work again--government work too, which is well paid. I made up my obrok, and then--why then, my brothers, the world went well with me, and my heart was light. Little Katinka, the daughter of the kind soul that took care of me while I was ill, was the prettiest girl in the quarter, and good and pure like a candle of white wax made to burn before the picture of a holy saint. So we gave each other our troth; and I think the Czar himself on his golden throne was scarce happier than I. But five days ago there came a messenger from Klopti to call me home at once. My lord wants to make him a new house, and must needs have me to build it for him and to teach the men of the village to build also. It was sudden; but my lord does not think much of us poor people--God forgive him!” “But, brother;--what is it you call yourself?” asked the mujik who had spoken before. “Stefen Alexitch, at your service.” “Well, then, Brother Stefen, why did you not set out at once? You would have been by this time at your journey’s end.” “I know it. Indeed I was wrong, very wrong. But the very next day was Katinka’s feast-day, and as I knew only too well that I was never likely to look on her sweet face again, I was tempted to stay, just that I might dance one more measure with her. I thought I could have walked more quickly. And now this cursed delay! God grant my lord may not lose patience altogether, and wreak his vengeance on my poor old father and mother! That would be worse than the knout across my own shoulders.” Stefen’s narrative elicited many expressions of compassion. “Poor lad! thy case is hard indeed,” said one. “Ah,” sighed another, “how true the proverb, ‘Heaven is high, and the Czar far off.’” But at that moment a third exclaimed joyfully,-- “Look, brothers!--the boat at last!” So it was. At first it was seen to shoot rapidly across the strong current of the river; but by-and-by the rower seemed to flag, and his strokes grew uncertain and unsteady. The mujiks were too glad to see him on any terms to be critical about the quality of his performances. They crowded to the river’s brink, that they might be ready to spring into the boat the moment it touched the land.