‘My name’s Alyona.... Hereabouts they call me Olyessia.’
I shouldered my gun and went the way I had been shown. I climbed a small mound from whence a narrow, hardly visible, forest path began, and looked back. Olyessia’s red skirt, fluttering in the wind, could still be seen on the steps of the hut, a spot of bright colour on the smooth and blinding background of the snow.
An hour later Yarmola returned. As usual he avoided idle conversation, and asked me not a word of how and where I lost my way. He just said, casually:
‘There.... I’ve left a hare in the kitchen.... Shall we roast it, or do you want to send it to any one?’
‘But you don’t know where I’ve been to-day, Yarmola?’ I said, anticipating his surprise.
‘How do you mean, I don’t know?’ he muttered gruffly. ‘You went to the witch’s for sure....’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘How could I help it? I heard no answer from you, so I went back on your tracks.... Sir!’ he added in reproachful vexation, ‘you shouldn’t do such things.... It’s a sin!...’