“Do I know? It seems to me they take horses, but whose,—that’s not on my head.”
“What do they do with the horses?”
“Sometimes they take ten or twelve of them, as many as there are, and drive them away, but whither I know not.”
Thus conversing, they reached the shed, from which was heard the snorting of horses.
“Hold the light,” said Soroka.
The fellow raised the lantern, and threw light on the horses standing in a row at the wall. Soroka examined them one after another with the eye of a specialist, shook his head, smacked his lips, and said,—
“The late Pan Zend would have rejoiced. There are Polish and Muscovite horses here,—there is a Wallachian, a German,—a mare. Fine horses! What dost thou give them to eat?”
“Not to lie, my master, I sowed two fields with oats in springtime.”
“Then thy masters have been handling horses since spring?”
“No, but they sent a servant to me with a command.”