A cloud of dust rose in the square. Peredonov heard a noise of axes. Barely visible through the dust, a wooden wall loomed and grew. They were building a fortress. Muzhiks, savage and morose-looking, glimmered in their red shirts through the dust. The carriages ran past; the terrible vision flashed by and vanished. Peredonov looked around in terror, but nothing was visible, and he could not decide to tell anyone about his vision. A sadness tormented Peredonov the whole way. Everything looked hostilely at him. The wind blew ominously. The sky was black. The wind was in their faces and seemed to moan for something. The trees gave no shadow--they kept their shadows within themselves. But the dust rose, a long grey, half-transparent serpent. The sun hid behind the clouds--did it look out from under them? The road was undulating. Unexpected bushes, copses and fields rose from behind low hillocks, and streams appeared under the hollow-sounding, wooden arched bridges. "The eye-bird flew by," said Peredonov morosely, looking into the whitish, misty distance of the sky. "One eye and two wings, and nothing more." Varvara smiled. She thought that Peredonov had been drunk since the morning. But she did not argue with him--"for," she thought, "he might get angry and refuse to go to the wedding." All four of Routilov's sisters were already in a corner of the church, hiding behind a column. Peredonov did not see them at first, but later during the ceremony when they appeared from their ambush and came forward, he saw them and felt frightened. They actually did not do anything unpleasant, they did not demand (as he had been afraid at first) that he should chase Varvara away and take one of them. They only kept laughing all the time. And their laughter, quiet at first, resounded louder and more evil in his ears all the time, like the laughter of untameable furies. There were practically no outsiders in the church. Only two or three old women came from somewhere or other. And this was fortunate, for Peredonov conducted himself curiously and stupidly. He yawned, mumbled, nudged Varvara, complained about the smell of incense, wax and muzhiks. "Your sisters are always laughing," he grumbled, turning to Routilov. "They'll perforate their livers with laughing." Besides that, the nedotikomka disturbed him. It was dirty and dusty and kept hiding under the priest's vestments.