“Is he coming by the highroad?” asked Dymov.

“No, over the open country. . . .  He is coming this way.”

A minute passed in silence.

“And maybe it’s the merchant who was buried here walking over the steppe,” said Dymov.

All looked askance at the cross, exchanged glances and suddenly broke into a laugh.  They felt ashamed of their terror.

“Why should he walk?” asked Panteley.  “It’s only those walk at night whom the earth will not take to herself.  And the merchants were all right. . . .  The merchants have received the crown of martyrs.”

But all at once they heard the sound of steps; someone was coming in haste.

“He’s carrying something,” said Vassya.

They could hear the grass rustling and the dry twigs crackling under the feet of the approaching wayfarer.  But from the glare of the camp fire nothing could be seen.  At last the steps sounded close by, and someone coughed.  The flickering light seemed to part; a veil dropped from the waggoners’ eyes, and they saw a man facing them.

Whether it was due to the flickering light or because everyone wanted to make out the man’s face first of all, it happened, strangely enough, that at the first glance at him they all saw, first of all, not his face nor his clothes, but his smile.  It was an extraordinarily good-natured, broad, soft smile, like that of a baby on waking, one of those infectious smiles to which it is difficult not to respond by smiling too.  The stranger, when they did get a good look at him, turned out to be a man of thirty, ugly and in no way remarkable.  He was a tall Little Russian, with a long nose, long arms and long legs; everything about him seemed long except his neck, which was so short that it made him seem stooping.  He was wearing a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar, white trousers, and new high boots, and in comparison with the waggoners he looked quite a dandy.  In his arms he was carrying something big, white, and at the first glance strange-looking, and the stock of a gun also peeped out from behind his shoulder.

Coming from the darkness into the circle of light, he stopped short as though petrified, and for half a minute looked at the waggoners as though he would have said:  “Just look what a smile I have!”

Then he took a step towards the fire, smiled still more radiantly and said: 

“Bread and salt, friends!”

“You are very welcome!” Panteley answered for them all.

The stranger put down by the fire what he was carrying in his arms —­it was a dead bustard—­and greeted them once more.

They all went up to the bustard and began examining it.

“A fine big bird; what did you kill it with?” asked Dymov.

“Grape-shot.  You can’t get him with small shot, he won’t let you get near enough.  Buy it, friends!  I will let you have it for twenty kopecks.”

“What use would it be to us?  It’s good roast, but I bet it would be tough boiled; you could not get your teeth into it. . . .”