“Yes, they were killed,” Dymov said reluctantly.  “Two merchants, father and son, were travelling, selling holy images.  They put up in the inn not far from here that is now kept by Ignat Fomin.  The old man had a drop too much, and began boasting that he had a lot of money with him.  We all know merchants are a boastful set, God preserve us. . . .  They can’t resist showing off before the likes of us.  And at the time some mowers were staying the night at the inn.  So they overheard what the merchants said and took note of it.”

“O Lord! . . .  Holy Mother!” sighed Panteley.

“Next day, as soon as it was light,” Dymov went on, “the merchants were preparing to set off and the mowers tried to join them.  ’Let us go together, your worships.  It will be more cheerful and there will be less danger, for this is an out-of-the-way place. . . .’  The merchants had to travel at a walking pace to avoid breaking the images, and that just suited the mowers. . . .”

Dymov rose into a kneeling position and stretched.

“Yes,” he went on, yawning.  “Everything went all right till they reached this spot, and then the mowers let fly at them with their scythes.  The son, he was a fine young fellow, snatched the scythe from one of them, and he used it, too. . . .  Well, of course, they got the best of it because there were eight of them.  They hacked at the merchants so that there was not a sound place left on their bodies; when they had finished they dragged both of them off the road, the father to one side and the son to the other.  Opposite that cross there is another cross on this side. . . .  Whether it is still standing, I don’t know. . . .  I can’t see from here. . . .”

“It is,” said Kiruha.

“They say they did not find much money afterwards.”

“No,” Panteley confirmed; “they only found a hundred roubles.”

“And three of them died afterwards, for the merchant had cut them badly with the scythe, too.  They died from loss of blood.  One had his hand cut off, so that they say he ran three miles without his hand, and they found him on a mound close to Kurikovo.  He was squatting on his heels, with his head on his knees, as though he were lost in thought, but when they looked at him there was no life in him and he was dead. . . .”

“They found him by the track of blood,” said Panteley.

Everyone looked at the cross, and again there was a hush.  From somewhere, most likely from the creek, floated the mournful cry of the bird:  “Sleep! sleep! sleep!”

“There are a great many wicked people in the world,” said Emelyan.