“What an idea,” said Tortchakov’s wife angrily.  “I won’t let you slice up the Easter cake!  What should I look like, taking it home already cut!  Ride on to the peasants in the village, and break your fast there!”

The wife took the napkin with the Easter cake in it out of her husband’s hands and said: 

“I won’t allow it!  One must do things properly; it’s not a loaf, but a holy Easter cake.  And it’s a sin to cut it just anyhow.”

“Well, Cossack, don’t be angry,” laughed Tortchakov.  “The wife forbids it!  Good-bye.  Good luck on your journey!”

Maxim shook the reins, clicked to his horse, and the chaise rolled on squeaking.  For some time his wife went on grumbling, and declaring that to cut the Easter cake before reaching home was a sin and not the proper thing.  In the east the first rays of the rising sun shone out, cutting their way through the feathery clouds, and the song of the lark was heard in the sky.  Now not one but three kites were hovering over the steppe at a respectful distance from one another.  Grasshoppers began churring in the young grass.

When they had driven three-quarters of a mile from the Crooked Ravine, Tortchakov looked round and stared intently into the distance.

“I can’t see the Cossack,” he said.  “Poor, dear fellow, to take it into his head to fall ill on the road.  There couldn’t be a worse misfortune, to have to travel and not have the strength. . . .  I shouldn’t wonder if he dies by the roadside.  We didn’t give him any Easter cake, Lizaveta, and we ought to have given it.  I’ll be bound he wants to break his fast too.”

The sun had risen, but whether it was dancing or not Tortchakov did not see.  He remained silent all the way home, thinking and keeping his eyes fixed on the horse’s black tail.  For some unknown reason he felt overcome by depression, and not a trace of the holiday gladness was left in his heart.  When he had arrived home and said, “Christ is risen” to his workmen, he grew cheerful again and began talking, but when he had sat down to break the fast and had taken a bite from his piece of Easter cake, he looked regretfully at his wife, and said: 

“It wasn’t right of us, Lizaveta, not to give that Cossack something to eat.”

“You are a queer one, upon my word,” said Lizaveta, shrugging her shoulders in surprise.  “Where did you pick up such a fashion as giving away the holy Easter cake on the high road?  Is it an ordinary loaf?  Now that it is cut and lying on the table, let anyone eat it that likes—­your Cossack too!  Do you suppose I grudge it?”

“That’s all right, but we ought to have given the Cossack some. . . .  Why, he was worse off than a beggar or an orphan.  On the road, and far from home, and sick too.”

Tortchakov drank half a glass of tea, and neither ate nor drank anything more.  He had no appetite, the tea seemed to choke him, and he felt depressed again.  After breaking their fast, his wife and he lay down to sleep.  When Lizaveta woke two hours later, he was standing by the window, looking into the yard.