The air was still hot though the sun was setting, when the squadron entered Morózovka. Before them, along the dusty village street, trotted a brindled cow separated from the herd, looking round and now and then stopping and lowing, but never suspecting that all she had to do was to turn aside. The peasants—old men, women and children—and servants from the manor-house, crowded on both sides of the street, gazing eagerly at the hussars. The hussars were riding their black, curbed horses, which now and then stamped and snorted, through a thick cloud of dust. To the right of the squadron two officers rode carelessly on their fine black horses. One was the Commander, Count Toúrbin, the other a very young man who had not long been promoted from a cadet: his name was Pólozof.
An hussar in a white linen coat came out of the best of the huts, raised his cap, and approached the officers.
“Where are the quarters assigned for us?”