“Yes, sparks are to be seen,” said a soldier.
And really in the distance appeared a line of reddish smoke, filled with flame, around which were dancing the sparks of a fire burning under the ground.
When they had approached, the soldiers saw a cabin, a well, and a strong shed built of pine logs. The horses, wearied from the road, began to neigh; frequent neighing answered them from under the shed, and at the same time there stood before the riders some kind of a figure, dressed in sheepskin, wool outward.
“Are there many horses?” asked the man in the sheepskin.
“Is this a pitch-factory?” inquired Soroka.
“What kind of people are ye? Where do ye come from?” asked the pitch-maker, in a voice in which astonishment and alarm were evident.
“Never fear!” answered Soroka; “we are not robbers.”
“Go your own way; there is nothing for you here.”
“Shut thy mouth, and guide us to the house since we ask. Seest not, scoundrel, that we are taking a wounded man?”
“What kind of people are ye?”