"We have no water; it is dried up. But where do you ride from?"
"From Krivaya Rudá."
"Where are you going?"
"To Chigirin."
The herdsmen looked at one another. One of them, black as a bug and crooked-eyed, began to gaze intently at Zagloba. At last he asked: "Why did you leave the highway?"
"It was hot there."
The crooked-eyed man put his hand on the reins of Zagloba's horse: "Come down from the horse, come down! You have nothing to go to Chigirin for."
"How so?" asked Zagloba, quietly.
"Do you see that young fellow there?" asked crooked-eye, pointing to one of the herdsmen.
"I do."