By the time they reached the hut it was quite dark. The melon-field was
immersed in gloom, and only the foremost rows of melons shimmered white
in the firelight, casting long shadows. The horse stood, snorting,
beside the hut, where a bright little fire of dried steppe-grass burnt
and crackled. They could hear men talking and women laughing, and one
voice, mellow and cheery in tone, seemed familiar to Yourii.
"Why, it's Sanine," said Riasantzeff, in astonishment. "How did he get
here?"
They approached the fire. Grey-bearded Kousma, seated beside it, looked
up, and nodded to welcome them.
"Any luck?" he asked, in his deep bass voice, through a drooping
moustache.
"Just a bit," replied Riasantzeff.
Sanine, sitting on a huge pumpkin, also raised his head and smiled at
them.
"How is it that you are here?" asked Riasantzeff.
"Oh! Kousma Prokorovitch and I are old friends," explained Sanine,
smiling the more.
Kousma laughed, showing the yellow stumps of his decayed teeth as he
slapped Sanine's knee good-naturedly with his rough hand.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Sit down here, Anatole Pavlovitch, and taste this
melon. And you, my young master, what is your name?"
"Yourii Nicolaijevitch," replied Yourii, pleasantly.
He felt somewhat embarrassed, but he at once took a liking to this
gentle old peasant with his friendly speech, half Russian, half
dialect.
"Yourii Nicolaijevitch! Aha! We must make each other's acquaintance,
eh? Sit you down, Yourii Nicolaijevitch."
Yourii and Riasantzeff sat down by the fire on two big pumpkins.
"Now, then show us what you have shot," said Kousma.
A heap of dead birds fell out of the game-bags, and the ground was
dabbled with their blood. In the flickering firelight they had a weird,
unpleasant look. The blood was almost black, and the claws seemed to
move. Kousma took up a duck, and felt beneath its wings.
"That's a fat one," he said approvingly. "You might spare me a brace,
Anatole Pavlovitch. What will you do with such a lot?"
"Have them all!" exclaimed Yourii, blushing.
"Why all? Come, come, you're too generous," laughed the old man. "I'll
just have a brace, to show that there's no ill-feeling."
Other peasants and their wives now approached the fire, but, dazzled by
the blaze, Yourii could not plainly distinguish them. First one and
then another face swiftly emerged from the gloom, and then vanished.
Sanine, frowning, regarded the dead birds, and, turning away, suddenly
rose. The sight of these beautiful creatures lying there in blood and
dust, with broken wings, was distasteful to him.