Nothing was left of the fire but two little red eyes, which kept on growing smaller and smaller. Konstantin and the wagoners were sitting by it, dark motionless figures, and it seemed as though there were many more of them than before. The twin crosses were equally visible, and far, far away, somewhere by the high road there gleamed a red light⁠—other people cooking their porridge, most likely.

“Our Mother Russia is the he-ad of all the world!” Kiruha sang out suddenly in a harsh voice, choked and subsided. The steppe echo caught up his voice, carried it on, and it seemed as though stupidity itself were rolling on heavy wheels over the steppe.

“It’s time to go,” said Panteley. “Get up, lads.”

While they were putting the horses in, Konstantin walked by the wagons and talked rapturously of his wife.

“Goodbye, mates!” he cried when the wagons started. “Thank you for your hospitality. I shall go on again towards that light. It’s more than I can stand.”

And he quickly vanished in the mist, and for a long time they could hear him striding in the direction of the light to tell those other strangers of his happiness.

When Yegorushka woke up next day it was early morning; the sun had not yet risen. The wagons were at a standstill. A man in a white cap and a suit of cheap grey material, mounted on a little Cossack stallion, was talking to Dymov and Kiruha beside the foremost wagon. A mile and a half ahead there were long low white barns and little houses with tiled roofs; there were neither yards nor trees to be seen beside the little houses.

“What village is that, Grandfather?” asked Yegorushka.

“That’s the Armenian Settlement, youngster,” answered Panteley. “The Armenians live there. They are a good sort of people,⁠ ⁠… the Armenians are.”

The man in grey had finished talking to Dymov and Kiruha; he pulled up his little stallion and looked across towards the settlement.