Shifting from one foot to the other and continually looking round him in an objectless way, he trudged lazily along the road and was apparently wondering where to go. . . .  It was not cold and the snow faintly crunched under his feet.  Not more than half a mile in front of him the wretched little district town in which his brother had just been tried lay outstretched on the hill.  On the right was the dark prison with its red roof and sentry-boxes at the corners; on the left was the big town copse, now covered with hoar-frost.  It was still; only an old man, wearing a woman’s short jacket and a huge cap, was walking ahead, coughing and shouting to a cow which he was driving to the town.

“Good-day, grandfather,” said Kirila, overtaking him.

“Good-day. . . .”

“Are you driving it to the market?”

“No,” the old man answered lazily.

“Are you a townsman?”

They got into conversation; Kirila told him what he had come to the hospital for, and what he had been talking about to the doctor.

“The doctor does not know anything about such matters, that is a sure thing,” the old man said to him as they were both entering the town; “though he is a gentleman, he is only taught to cure by every means, but to give you real advice, or, let us say, write out a petition for you—­that he cannot do.  There are special authorities to do that.  You have been to the justice of the peace and to the police captain—­they are no good for your business either.”

“Where am I to go?”

“The permanent member of the rural board is the chief person for peasants’ affairs.  Go to him, Mr. Sineokov.”

“The one who is at Zolotovo?”

“Why, yes, at Zolotovo.  He is your chief man.  If it is anything that has to do with you peasants even the police captain has no authority against him.”

“It’s a long way to go, old man. . . .  I dare say it’s twelve miles and may be more.”

“One who needs something will go seventy.”

“That is so. . . .  Should I send in a petition to him, or what?”

“You will find out there.  If you should have a petition the clerk will write you one quick enough.  The permanent member has a clerk.”

After parting from the old man Kirila stood still in the middle of the square, thought a little, and walked back out of the town.  He made up his mind to go to Zolotovo.

Five days later, as the doctor was on his way home after seeing his patients, he caught sight of Kirila again in his yard.  This time the young peasant was not alone, but with a gaunt, very pale old man who nodded his head without ceasing, like a pendulum, and mumbled with his lips.

“Your honour, I have come again to ask your gracious mercy,” began Kirila.  “Here I have come with my father.  Be merciful, let Vaska go!  The permanent member would not talk to me.  He said:  ‘Go away!’”

“Your honour,” the old man hissed in his throat, raising his twitching eyebrows, “be merciful!  We are poor people, we cannot repay your honour, but if you graciously please, Kiryushka or Vaska can repay you in work.  Let them work.”