“He is an Old Believer,” Styopka and Vassya answered in a whisper. And as they said it they looked as though they were speaking of some secret vice or weakness.

All sat silent, thinking. After the terrible stories there was no inclination to speak of ordinary things. All at once in the midst of the silence Vassya drew himself up and, fixing his lustreless eyes on one point, pricked up his ears.

“What is it?” Dymov asked him.

“Someone is coming,” answered Vassya.

“Where do you see him?”

“Yo-on-der! There’s something white⁠ ⁠…”

There was nothing to be seen but darkness in the direction in which Vassya was looking; everyone listened, but they could hear no sound of steps.

“Is he coming by the high road?” asked Dymov.

“No, over the open country.⁠ ⁠… He is coming this way.”

A minute passed in silence.

“And maybe it’s the merchant who was buried here walking over the steppe,” said Dymov.

All looked askance at the cross, exchanged glances and suddenly broke into a laugh. They felt ashamed of their terror.

“Why should he walk?” asked Panteley. “It’s only those walk at night whom the earth will not take to herself. And the merchants were all right.⁠ ⁠… The merchants have received the crown of martyrs.”

But all at once they heard the sound of steps; someone was coming in haste.

“He’s carrying something,” said Vassya.