It was a dull autumn morning. The sun was invisible, and a warm, moist breeze came from the sea.
The fresh air, the sight of houses, the town, the horses, the people who looked at him, all distracted Svetlogoúb. Sitting on the bench of the car, with his back to the driver, he involuntarily examined the faces of the convoy soldiers and of the people in the streets.
It was early morning. The streets along which he was driven were almost empty, and they only met a few workmen. Some bricklayers with aprons on, all bespattered with mortar, who met the car, stopped and turned back again as it passed, as though to accompany it. One of them said something, then waved his hand, and then they all turned back again and went to their work. Some carters, carting loads of rattling iron bars, moved their heavy horses to let the car pass, and stood looking at Svetlogoúb with perplexed curiosity. One of them took off his cap and crossed himself. A cook with a white apron, a cap on her head and a basket on her arm, came out of a gate; but, seeing the car, she quickly turned back and ran out again with another woman, and they breathlessly followed the car with very wide-open eyes as long as it was in sight. A tattered, unshaven, grey-haired man explained something with energetic and evidently disapproving gestures to a porter, as he pointed to Svetlogoúb. Two boys ran after the car at a trot, caught up with it, and with their faces turned towards it, went along the pavement without looking where they were going. The older one walked with big strides, the little one, bareheaded, clung to the elder, looking at the car with frightened eyes, stumbling on his short legs, and keeping up with the other with difficulty. When Svetlogoúb’s eyes met those of the little boy, Svetlogoúb nodded to him. This action of the terrible man in the car