Paul stumbled down two steps.  The cottage was dark.  The starosta had apparently trodden on a chicken, which screamed shrilly and fluttered about in the dark with that complete abandon which belongs to chickens, sheep, and some women.

“Have you no light?” cried the starosta.

Paul retreated to the top step, where he had a short-lived struggle with a well-grown calf which had been living in the room with the family, and evinced a very creditable desire for fresh air.

“Yes, yes, we have a little petroleum,” said a voice.  “But we have no matches.”

The starosta struck a light.

“I have brought the Moscow doctor to see you.”

“The Moscow doctor!” cried several voices.  “Sbogom—­sbogom!  God be with you!”

In the dim light the whole of the floor seemed to get up and shake itself.  There were at least seven persons sleeping in the hut.  Two of them did not get up.  One was dead.  The other was dying of cholera.

A heavily built man reached down from the top of the brick stove a cheap tin paraffin lamp, which he handed to the starosta.  By the light of this Paul came again into the hut.  The floor was filthy, as may be imagined, for beasts and human beings lived here together.

The man—­Vasilli Tula—­threw himself down on his knees, clawing at Paul’s coat with great unwashed hands, whining out a tale of sorrow and misfortune.  In a moment they were all on their knees, clinging to him, crying to him for help:  Tula himself, a wild-looking Slav of fifty or thereabouts; his wife, haggard, emaciated, horrible to look upon, for she was toothless and almost blind; two women and a loutish boy of sixteen.

Paul pushed his way, not unkindly, toward the corner where the two motionless forms lay half concealed by a mass of ragged sheepskin.

“Here,” he said, “this woman is dead.  Take her out.  When will you learn to be clean?  This boy may live—­with care.  Bring the light closer, little mother.  So, it is well.  He will live.  Come, don’t sit crying.  Take all these rags out and burn them.  All of you go out.  It is a fine night.  You are better in the cart-shed than here.  Here, you, Tula, go round with the starosta to his store.  He will give you clean blankets.”

They obeyed him blindly.  Tula and one of the young women (his daughters) dragged the dead body, which was that of a very old woman, out into the night.  The starosta had retired to the door-way when the lamp was lighted, his courage having failed him.  The air was foul with the reek of smoke and filth and infection.

“Come, Vasilli Tula,” the village elder said, with suspicious eagerness.  “Come with me, I will give you what the good doctor says.  Though you owe me money, and you never try to pay me.”

But Tula was kissing and mumbling over the hem of Paul’s coat.  Paul took no notice of him.