A light breeze set a thousand little waves to dancing.  The clouds became thinner and more transparent although still covering the sky.  The wind swept lightly and freely over the entire surface of the sea, but the clouds remained motionless, and seemed to be plunged in a dull, gray reverie.

“Come, brother, wake up, it’s time!  Your soul seems to have been shaken out of your skin; there’s nothing left but a bag of bones.  My dear fellow!  We have hold of the good end, eh?”

Gavrilo was glad to hear a human voice, even though it was that of Tchelkache.

“I know it,” said he, very low.

“That’s right, little man!  Take the tiller, I’ll row; You’re tired, aren’t you?”

Gavrilo mechanically changed places, and when Tchelkache saw that he staggered, he pitied him more still and patted him on the shoulder,

“Don’t be afraid!  You’ve made a good thing out of it.  I’ll pay you well.  Would you like to have twenty-five rubles, eh?”

“I—­I don’t need anything.  All I ask is to reach land!”

Tchelkache removed his hand, spat and began to row; his long arms sent the oars far back of him.

The sea had awakened.  It sported with its tiny waves, brought them forth, adorned them with a fringe of foam, tumbled them over each other and broke them into spray.  The foam as it melted sighed and the air was filled with harmonious sounds and the plashing of water.  The darkness seemed to be alive.

“Well! tell me . . .” began Tchelkache.  “You’ll return to the village, you’ll marry, you’ll set to work to plough and sow, your wife’ll present you with many children, you’ll not have enough bread and you’ll just manage to keep soul and body together all your life!  So . . . is it such a pleasant prospect?”

“What pleasure can there be in that?” timidly and shudderingly replied Gavrilo.  “What can one do?”

Here and there, the clouds were rent by the wind and, through the spaces, the cold sky studded with a few stars looked down.  Reflected by the joyous sea, these stars leaped upon the waves, now disappearing, now shining brightly.

“More to the left!” said Tchelkache.  “We shall soon be there, Yes! . . . it is ended.  We’ve done a good stroke of work.  In a single night, you understand—­five hundred rubles gained!  Isn’t that doing well, say?”

“Five hundred rubles!” repeated Gavrilo, distrustfully, but he was immediately seized with fright and quickly asked, kicking the bales at the bottom of the boat:  “What are those things?”

“That’s silk.  A very dear thing.  If it were to be sold for its real value, it would bring a thousand rubles.  But I don’t raise the price . . . clever that, eh?”

“Is it possible?” asked Gavrilo.  “If I only had as much!”

He sighed at the thought of the country, of his miserable life, his toil, his mother and all those far-distant and dear things for which he had gone away to work, and for which he had suffered so much that night.  A wave of memory swept over him:  he saw his village on a hill-side with the river at the bottom, hidden by birches, willows, mountain-ash and wild cherry trees.  The picture breathed some life in him and gave him a little strength.