At that moment one of the young fellows whom we were seeing off—the tall one—came up with long, energetic strides, and stooped to speak to the one who played the accordion.
“What a fine fellow,” I thought; “they will put him in the Guards.” I did not know who he was or what house he belonged to.
“Whose son is that one? That gallant fellow?” I asked a little old man, pointing to the fine lad.
The old man raised his cap and bowed to me, but did not hear my question.
“What did you say?” asked he.
I had not recognised him, but as soon as he spoke I knew him at once. He is a hardworking, good peasant who, as often happens, seems specially marked out for misfortune: first, two horses were stolen from him, then his house burnt down, and then his wife died. I had not seen Prokófey for a long time, and remembered him as a bright red-haired man of medium height; whereas he was now not red, but quite grey-haired, and small.
“Ah, Prokófey, it’s you!” I said. “I was asking whose son that fine fellow is—that one who has just spoken to Alexander?”
“That one?” Prokófey replied, pointing with a motion of his head to the tall lad. He shook his head and mumbled something I did not understand.
“I’m asking whose son the lad is?” I repeated, and turned to look at Prokófey.
His face was puckered, and his jaw trembled.