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"Let us throw their tools into the stream." "Yes, and start a riot," was Silantiev's comment as he squatted before the embers of the fire. Around the barraque, picked out against the yellow of its framework, a number of dark figures were surging to and fro as around a conflagration.
There, spare, but with his withered form erect, and his head slightly tilted, he had been gazing at the Crucifix with a radiant smile, and moving his thin lips in a sort of whispered, confidential, friendly conversation with the Saviour. Again had I encountered the man when I had had supper at the workmen's barraque, and then proceeded to the monastery's guest-chamber.
From the smooth yellow walls of the barraque dark, round, knot-holes were gazing at the rivulet like eyes. Only in a single window without a frame was there visible a faint light, while at intervals there issued thence fragmentary, angry exclamations such as: "Look sharp there, and deal! Clubs will be the winners." "Ah! Here is a trump!" "Indeed? What luck, damn it!"
Also, a moist breeze blew constantly from the dark-blue depths of the defile, and caused the stiff, upright larches on the knoll behind the barraque to rustle their boughs, and distilled from the rank soil the voluptuous scents of ace-rose and pitch-pine, and evoked in the trees' quiet gloom a soft, crooning, somnolent lullaby.
I set forth in search of chips among the stones which lay around the barraque, and, in so doing, stumbled across the newcomer, who was lying with his body resting on an elbow, and his head on his hand, as he conned a manuscript spread out before him. As he raised his eyes to gaze vaguely, inquiringly into my face, I saw that one of his eyes was larger than the other.
From the barraque the distance to the point where the defile debouched upon the valley was about a hundred paces, and as one issued thence one could see, away to the left, the level steppes of the Cis-Caucasus, with a boundary wall of blue hills, topped by the silver-hewn saddle of Mount Elburz behind it.
And as it does so it feels crushed, as in a vice, beneath the burden of great and inexorable sorrow with which all life is dowered. In a mountain defile near a little tributary of the Sunzha, there was being built a workman's barraque a low, long edifice which reminded one of a large coffin lid.
"Silence!" a threatening voice near the barraque broke in. "I am the foreman here." The voice of the ex-soldier replied: "What workmen are these of yours? They are mere sectarians, fellows who are for ever singing hymns." To which someone else added: "Besides, old devil that you are, aren't you bound to finish all building work before the beginning of a Sunday?"
"A knife!" again she whispered with her livid lips. "Cut it!" My pocket-knife I had had stolen from me in the workmen's barraque; but with my teeth I severed the caul, and then the child gave renewed tongue in true Orlovian fashion, while the mother smiled.
Well, your face is familiar to me. Yes, I remember that I noticed you in Sukhum when once you were arguing with the barraque superintendent over the question of rations. As I did so the thought occurred to me: 'Surely that bold young fellow must have gone and spent his means on drink? Yes, that is how it must be."
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