transparent veil, over the village.  In between the huts and beyond the church there were blue glimpses of a river, and beyond the river a misty distance.  But nothing was so different from yesterday as the road.  Something extraordinarily broad, spread out and titanic, stretched over the steppe by way of a road.  It was a grey streak well trodden down and covered with dust, like all roads.  Its width puzzled Yegorushka and brought thoughts of fairy tales to his mind.  Who travelled along that road?  Who needed so much space?  It was strange and unintelligible.  It might have been supposed that giants with immense strides, such as Ilya Muromets and Solovy the Brigand, were still surviving in Russia, and that their gigantic steeds were still alive.  Yegorushka, looking at the road, imagined some half a dozen high chariots racing along side by side, like some he used to see in pictures in his Scripture history; these chariots were each drawn by six wild furious horses, and their great wheels raised a cloud of dust to the sky, while the horses were driven by men such as one may see in one’s dreams or in imagination brooding over fairy tales.  And if those figures had existed, how perfectly in keeping with the steppe and the road they would have been!

Telegraph-poles with two wires on them stretched along the right side of the road to its furthermost limit.  Growing smaller and smaller they disappeared near the village behind the huts and green trees, and then again came into sight in the lilac distance in the form of very small thin sticks that looked like pencils stuck into the ground.  Hawks, falcons, and crows sat on the wires and looked indifferently at the moving waggons.

Yegorushka was lying in the last of the waggons, and so could see the whole string.  There were about twenty waggons, and there was a driver to every three waggons.  By the last waggon, the one in which Yegorushka was, there walked an old man with a grey beard, as short and lean as Father Christopher, but with a sunburnt, stern and brooding face.  It is very possible that the old man was not stern and not brooding, but his red eyelids and his sharp long nose gave his face a stern frigid expression such as is common with people in the habit of continually thinking of serious things in solitude.  Like Father Christopher he was wearing a wide-brimmed top-hat, not like a gentleman’s, but made of brown felt, and in shape more like a cone with the top cut off than a real top-hat.  Probably from a habit acquired in cold winters, when he must more than once have been nearly frozen as he trudged beside the waggons, he kept slapping his thighs and stamping with his feet as he walked.  Noticing that Yegorushka was awake, he looked at him and said, shrugging his shoulders as though from the cold: 

“Ah, you are awake, youngster!  So you are the son of Ivan Ivanitch?”

“No; his nephew. . . .”