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It was followed by a little, old man with a sparse beard and small bright eyes. He carried a rusty single-barrelled gun. "It is grandfather, our guardian," said Kousma. The old man sat down on the ground, deposited his weapon, and looked hard at Yourii and Riasantzeff. "Been out shooting; yes, yes!" he mumbled, showing his shrivelled, discoloured gums. "He! He!
Riasantzeff, as he winked to Kousma, said: "Grandfather, hadn't you better keep an eye on your granddaughter, eh?" "What's the good!" replied Kousma, with a careless gesture. "Youth is youth." "He! He!" laughed the old man in his turn, as with his fingers he plucked a red-hot coal from the fire. Sanine's laugh was heard in the darkness.
One of the men then came across the field, walking carefully between the furrows. As he approached, Yourii saw that he was a burly, grey- haired peasant with a long beard and sinewy arms. He came up to them slowly, and said, with a smile, "You know how to shout, Anatole Pavlovitch!" "Good day, Kousma; how are you? Can I leave the horse with you?"
On reaching a broad level field Riasantzeff pulled up the sweating horse and, placing his hand to his mouth, shouted, in a clear, ringing voice, "Kousma a ... Kousma a a!" At the extreme end of the field, like silhouettes, a row of little men could be descried who, at the sound of Riasantzeff's voice, looked eagerly in his direction.
Yourii watched everything with great interest as he greedily ate large, luscious slices of a ripe melon which Kousma cut off with his pocket- knife that had a yellow bone handle. "Eat, Yourii Nicolaijevitch; this melon's good," he said. "I know your little sister, Ludmilla Nicolaijevna, and your father, too. Eat, and enjoy it."
Yourii, however, felt no desire to shoot, but he shouldered his gun and turned homeward, listening to sounds of crystalline clearness in the grey calm twilight. "How beautiful!" thought he. "All is beautiful; man alone is vile!" Far away he saw the little fire burning in the melon-field, and ere long by its light he recognized the faces of Kousma and Sanine.
"Now, then show us what you have shot," said Kousma. A heap of dead birds fell out of the game-bags, and the ground was dabbled with their blood. In the flickering firelight they had a weird, unpleasant look. The blood was almost black, and the claws seemed to move. Kousma took up a duck, and felt beneath its wings. "That's a fat one," he said approvingly.
Yourii was pleased to find that this genial old peasant knew his sister and spoke of her in such a simple, friendly way. "Now, then, let us go!" said Riasantzeff, in his cheery voice, as he walked first, after getting his gun and game-bag. "May you have luck!" cried Kousma, and then they could hear him coaxing the horse as he led it away to his hut.
"How is it that you are here?" asked Riasantzeff. "Oh! Kousma Prokorovitch and I are old friends," explained Sanine, smiling the more. Kousma laughed, showing the yellow stumps of his decayed teeth as he slapped Sanine's knee good-naturedly with his rough hand. "Yes, yes," he said. "Sit down here, Anatole Pavlovitch, and taste this melon. And you, my young master, what is your name?"
The girls may have felt ashamed, for they had moved away, and their voices were scarcely audible. "It is time to go," said Riasantzeff, as he got up. "Thank you, Kousma." "Not at all," replied the other, as with his sleeve he brushed away the black melon-pips that had stuck to his grey beard.
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