She clasps me with the one arm, and with the other makes the sign of the cross, adding: "Good-bye, dear friend, and may Christ requite you for all your words, for all your sympathy!" "Then shall we travel together?" At the words she frees herself, and says firmly, nay, sternly: "Not so. Never would I consent to such a plan. Of course, had you been a muzhik--but no. Even then what would have been the use of it, seeing that life is to be measured, not by a single hour, but by years?" And, quietly smiling me a farewell, she moves away towards the hut, whilst I, remaining seated, lose myself in thoughts of her. Will she ever overtake her quest in life? Shall I ever behold her again? The bell for early Mass begins, though for some time past the hamlet has been astir, and humming in a sedate and non-festive fashion. I enter the hut to fetch my wallet, and find the place empty. Evidently the whole party has left by the gap in the broken-down wall. I repair, next, to the Ataman's office, where I receive back my passport before setting out to look for my companions in the square. In similar fashion to yesterday those "folk from Russia" are lolling alongside the churchyard wall, and also have seated among them, leaning his back against a log, the fat-jowled youth from Penza, with his bruised face looking even larger and uglier than before, for the reason that his eyes are sunken amid purple protuberances. Presently there arrives a newcomer in the shape of an old man with a grey head adorned with a faded velvet skull-cap, a pointed beard, a lean, withered frame, prominent cheekbones, a red, porous-looking, cunningly hooked nose, and the eyes of a thief. Him a flaxen-haired youth from Orel joins with a similar youth in accosting. "Why are YOU tramping?" inquires the former. "And why are YOU?" the old man retorts in nasal tones as, looking at no one, he proceeds to mend the handle of a battered metal teapot with a piece of wire. "We are travelling in search of work, and therefore living as we have been commanded to live." "By WHOM commanded?" "By God. Have you forgotten?" Carelessly, but succinctly, the old man retorts: "Take heed lest upon you, some day, God vomit all the dust and litter which you are raising by tramping His earth!" "How?" cries one of the youths, a long-eared stripling. "Were not Christ and His Apostles also tramps?" "Yes, CHRIST," is the old man's meaning reply as he raises his sharp eyes to those of his opponent. "But what are you talking of, you fools? With whom are you daring to compare yourselves? Take care lest I report you to the Cossacks!" I have listened to many such arguments, and always found them distasteful, even as I have done discussions regarding the soul. Hence I feel inclined to depart. At this moment, however, Konev makes his appearance. His mien is dejected, and his body perspiring, while his eyes keep blinking rapidly.