For whom do they call and who hears them on that plain, God only knows, but there is deep sadness and lamentation in their cry.⁠ ⁠… There is a scent of hay and dry grass and belated flowers, but the scent is heavy, sweetly mawkish and soft.

“Don’t be unkind to him, you devils!” he heard Deniska’s voice below.

“Goodbye, lads; good luck to you,” shouted Kuzmitchov. “I rely upon you!”

“Don’t you be uneasy, Ivan Ivanitch!”

Deniska shouted to the horses, the chaise creaked and started, not along the road, but somewhere off to the side. For two minutes there was silence, as though the wagons were asleep and there was no sound except the clanking of the pails tied on at the back of the chaise as it slowly died away in the distance. Then someone at the head of the wagons shouted:

“Kiruha! Sta-art!”