“All my own people are at home, and we didn’t invite strangers,” said the figure grimly.  “And what are you knocking for?  The gate is not locked.”

Yergunov drove into the yard and stopped at the steps.

“Bid your labourer take my horse out, granny,” said he.

“I am not granny.”

And indeed she was not a granny.  While she was putting out the lantern the light fell on her face, and Yergunov saw black eyebrows, and recognized Lyubka.

“There are no labourers about now,” she said as she went into the house.  “Some are drunk and asleep, and some have been gone to Ryepino since the morning.  It’s a holiday. . . .”

As he fastened his horse up in the shed, Yergunov heard a neigh, and distinguished in the darkness another horse, and felt on it a Cossack saddle.  So there must be someone else in the house besides the woman and her daughter.  For greater security Yergunov unsaddled his horse, and when he went into the house, took with him both his purchases and his saddle.

The first room into which he went was large and very hot, and smelt of freshly washed floors.  A short, lean peasant of about forty, with a small, fair beard, wearing a dark blue shirt, was sitting at the table under the holy images.  It was Kalashnikov, an arrant scoundrel and horse-stealer, whose father and uncle kept a tavern in Bogalyovka, and disposed of the stolen horses where they could.  He too had been to the hospital more than once, not for medical treatment, but to see the doctor about horses—­to ask whether he had not one for sale, and whether his honour would not like to swop his bay mare for a dun-coloured gelding.  Now his head was pomaded and a silver ear-ring glittered in his ear, and altogether he had a holiday air.  Frowning and dropping his lower lip, he was looking intently at a big dog’s-eared picture-book.  Another peasant lay stretched on the floor near the stove; his head, his shoulders, and his chest were covered with a sheepskin—­he was probably asleep; beside his new boots, with shining bits of metal on the heels, there were two dark pools of melted snow.

Seeing the hospital assistant, Kalashnikov greeted him.

“Yes, it is weather,” said Yergunov, rubbing his chilled knees with his open hands.  “The snow is up to one’s neck; I am soaked to the skin, I can tell you.  And I believe my revolver is, too. . . .”

He took out his revolver, looked it all over, and put it back in his knapsack.  But the revolver made no impression at all; the peasant went on looking at the book.

“Yes, it is weather. . . .  I lost my way, and if it had not been for the dogs here, I do believe it would have been my death.  There would have been a nice to-do.  And where are the women?”

“The old woman has gone to Ryepino, and the girl is getting supper ready . . .” answered Kalashnikov.

Silence followed.  Yergunov, shivering and gasping, breathed on his hands, huddled up, and made a show of being very cold and exhausted.  The still angry dogs could be heard howling outside.  It was dreary.