“Well, will you dig?”

“I will try my luck...”

“And, grandfather, what will you do with the treasure when you find it?”

“Do with it?” laughed the old man.  “H’m!...  If only I could find it then....  I would show them all....  H’m!...  I should know what to do....”

And the old man could not answer what he would do with the treasure if he found it.  That question had presented itself to him that morning probably for the first time in his life, and judging from the expression of his face, indifferent and uncritical, it did not seem to him important and deserving of consideration.  In Sanka’s brain another puzzled question was stirring:  why was it only old men searched for hidden treasure, and what was the use of earthly happiness to people who might die any day of old age?  But Sanka could not put this perplexity into words, and the old man could scarcely have found an answer to it.

An immense crimson sun came into view surrounded by a faint haze.  Broad streaks of light, still cold, bathing in the dewy grass, lengthening out with a joyous air as though to prove they were not weary of their task, began spreading over the earth.  The silvery wormwood, the blue flowers of the pig’s onion, the yellow mustard, the corn-flowers—­all burst into gay colours, taking the sunlight for their own smile.

The old shepherd and Sanka parted and stood at the further sides of the flock.  Both stood like posts, without moving, staring at the ground and thinking.  The former was haunted by thoughts of fortune, the latter was pondering on what had been said in the night; what interested him was not the fortune itself, which he did not want and could not imagine, but the fantastic, fairy-tale character of human happiness.

A hundred sheep started and, in some inexplicable panic as at a signal, dashed away from the flock; and as though the thoughts of the sheep—­tedious and oppressive—­had for a moment infected Sanka also, he, too, dashed aside in the same inexplicable animal panic, but at once he recovered himself and shouted: 

“You crazy creatures!  You’ve gone mad, plague take you!”

When the sun, promising long hours of overwhelming heat, began to bake the earth, all living things that in the night had moved and uttered sounds were sunk in drowsiness.  The old shepherd and Sanka stood with their crooks on opposite sides of the flock, stood without stirring, like fakirs at their prayers, absorbed in thought.  They did not heed each other; each of them was living in his own life.  The sheep were pondering, too.

A MALEFACTOR

An exceedingly lean little peasant, in a striped hempen shirt and patched drawers, stands facing the investigating magistrate.  His face overgrown with hair and pitted with smallpox, and his eyes scarcely visible under thick, overhanging eyebrows have an expression of sullen moroseness.  On his head there is a perfect mop of tangled, unkempt hair, which gives him an even more spider-like air of moroseness.  He is barefooted.