“But there are people on it!” exclaimed Tortchakov, “there are really! Ivan Stepanitch told me that there are people on all the planets⁠—on the sun, and on the moon! Truly⁠ ⁠… but maybe the learned men tell lies⁠—the devil only knows! Stay, surely that’s not a horse? Yes, it is!”

At the Crooked Ravine, which was just halfway on the journey home, Tortchakov and his wife saw a saddled horse standing motionless, and sniffing last year’s dry grass. On a hillock beside the roadside a red-haired Cossack was sitting doubled up, looking at his feet.

“Christ is risen!” Maxim shouted to him. “Wo-o-o!”

“Truly He is risen,” answered the Cossack, without raising his head.

“Where are you going?”

“Home on leave.”

“Why are you sitting here, then?”

“Why⁠ ⁠… I have fallen ill⁠ ⁠… I haven’t the strength to go on.”

“What is wrong?”

“I ache all over.”

“H’m. What a misfortune! People are keeping holiday, and you fall sick! But you should ride on to a village or an inn, what’s the use of sitting here!”

The Cossack raised his head, and with big, exhausted eyes, scanned Maxim, his wife, and the horse.

“Have you come from church?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“The holiday found me on the high road. It was not God’s will for me to reach home. I’d get on my horse at once and ride off, but I haven’t the strength.⁠ ⁠… You might, good Christians, give a wayfarer some Easter cake to break his fast!”