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“Well, be they human beings or machinery or lightning or anything else, they are all one. One of my mates was caught in some machinery at Bakhmakh. Another one had his throat cut in a brawl. Another one was crushed against the bucket in a coal mine. Another one was–“

Carefully though the man counted, he ended by erring in his reckoning to the extent of making his total “five.” Accordingly he re-computed the list–and this time succeeded in making the total amount to “seven.”

“Never mind,” he remarked with a sigh as he blew his cigarette into a red glow which illuminated the whole of his face. “The truth is that I cannot always repeat the list correctly, just as I should like. Were I older than I am, I too should contrive to get finished off; for old-age is a far from desirable thing. Yes, indeed! But, as things are, I am still alive, nor, thank the Lord, does anything matter very much.”

Presently, with a nod towards Silantiev, he continued:

“Even now HIS kinsfolk or his wife may be looking for news of him, or a letter from him. Well, never again will he write, and as likely as not his kinsfolk will end by saying to themselves: ‘He has taken to bad ways, and forgotten his family.’ Yes, good sir.”

By this time the clamour around the barraque had ceased, and the two fires had burnt themselves out, and most of the men dispersed. From the smooth yellow walls of the barraque dark, round, knot-holes were gazing at the rivulet like eyes. Only in a single window without a frame was there visible a faint light, while at intervals there issued thence fragmentary, angry exclamations such as:

“Look sharp there, and deal! Clubs will be the winners.”

“Ah! Here is a trump!”

“Indeed? What luck, damn it!”

The fair-headed muzhik blew the ashes from his cigarette, and observed:

“No such thing is there at cards as luck–only skill.”

At this juncture we saw approaching us softly from across the rivulet a young carpenter who wore a moustache. He halted beside us, and drew a deep breath.

“Well, mate?” the fair-headed muzhik inquired.

“Would you mind giving me something to smoke?” the carpenter asked. The obscurity caused him to look large and shapeless, though his manner of speaking was bashful and subdued.

“Certainly. Here is a cigarette.”

“Christ reward you! Today my wife forgot to bring my tobacco, and my grandfather has strict ideas on the subject of smoking.”

“Was it he who departed just now? It was.”

As the carpenter inhaled a whiff he continued:

“I suppose that man was beaten to death?”

“He was–to death.”

For a while the pair smoked in silence. The hour was past midnight.

Over the defile the jagged strip of sky which roofed it looked like a river of blue flowing at an immense height above the night-enveloped earth, and bearing the brilliant stars on its smooth current.

Quieter and quieter was everything growing; more and more was everything becoming part of the night….

One might have thought that nothing particular had happened.