“What’s one to say, brother?” said Yergunov, and he shrugged one shoulder.  “If one reasons from science, of course there are no devils, for it’s a superstition; but if one looks at it simply, as you and I do now, there are devils, to put it shortly. . . .  I have seen a great deal in my life. . . .  When I finished my studies I served as medical assistant in the army in a regiment of the dragoons, and I have been in the war, of course.  I have a medal and a decoration from the Red Cross, but after the treaty of San Stefano I returned to Russia and went into the service of the Zemstvo.  And in consequence of my enormous circulation about the world, I may say I have seen more than many another has dreamed of.  It has happened to me to see devils, too; that is, not devils with horns and a tail—­that is all nonsense—­but just, to speak precisely, something of the sort.”

“Where?” asked Kalashnikov.

“In various places.  There is no need to go far.  Last year I met him here—­speak of him not at night—­near this very inn.  I was driving, I remember, to Golyshino; I was going there to vaccinate.  Of course, as usual, I had the racing droshky and a horse, and all the necessary paraphernalia, and, what’s more, I had a watch and all the rest of it, so I was on my guard as I drove along, for fear of some mischance.  There are lots of tramps of all sorts.  I came up to the Zmeinoy Ravine—­damnation take it—­and was just going down it, when all at once somebody comes up to me—­such a fellow!  Black hair, black eyes, and his whole face looked smutted with soot . . . .  He comes straight up to the horse and takes hold of the left rein:  ‘Stop!’ He looked at the horse, then at me, then dropped the reins, and without saying a bad word, ‘Where are you going?’ says he.  And he showed his teeth in a grin, and his eyes were spiteful-looking.

“‘Ah,’ thought I, ‘you are a queer customer!’ ’I am going to vaccinate for the smallpox,’ said I.  ‘And what is that to you?’ ‘Well, if that’s so,’ says he, ’vaccinate me.  He bared his arm and thrust it under my nose.  Of course, I did not bandy words with him; I just vaccinated him to get rid of him.  Afterwards I looked at my lancet and it had gone rusty.”

The peasant who was asleep near the stove suddenly turned over and flung off the sheepskin; to his great surprise, Yergunov recognized the stranger he had met that day at Zmeinoy Ravine.  This peasant’s hair, beard, and eyes were black as soot; his face was swarthy; and, to add to the effect, there was a black spot the size of a lentil on his right cheek.  He looked mockingly at the hospital assistant and said: 

“I did take hold of the left rein—­that was so; but about the smallpox you are lying, sir.  And there was not a word said about the smallpox between us.”

Yergunov was disconcerted.

“I’m not talking about you,” he said.  “Lie down, since you are lying down.”

The dark-skinned peasant had never been to the hospital, and Yergunov did not know who he was or where he came from; and now, looking at him, he made up his mind that the man must be a gypsy.  The peasant got up and, stretching and yawning loudly, went up to Lyubka and Kalashnikov, and sat down beside them, and he, too, began looking at the book.  His sleepy face softened and a look of envy came into it.