'I've brought him!' cried Yermolaï, rushing into the hut a quarter of an hour later. He was followed by a tall peasant in a white shirt, blue breeches, and bast shoes, with white eyebrows and short-sighted eyes, a wedge-shaped red beard, a long swollen nose, and a gaping mouth. He certainly did look 'simple.'
'Here, your honour,' observed Yermolaï, 'he has horses--and he's willing.'
'So be, surely, I'... the peasant began hesitatingly in a rather hoarse voice, shaking his thin wisps of hair, and drumming with his fingers on the band of the cap he held in his hands.... 'Surely, I....'
'What's your name?' I inquired.
The peasant looked down and seemed to think deeply. 'My name?'
'Yes; what are you called?'
'Why my name 'ull be--Filofey.'
'Well, then, friend Filofey; I hear you have horses. Bring a team of three here--we'll put them in my coach--it's a light one--and you drive me in to Tula. There's a moon now at night; it's light, and it's cool for driving. What sort of a road have you here?'
'The road? There's naught amiss with the road. To the main road it will be sixteen miles--not more.... There's one little place... a bit awkward; but naught amiss else.'
'What sort of little place is it that's awkward?'