On reaching a broad level field Riasantzeff pulled up the sweating horse and, placing his hand to his mouth, shouted, in a clear, ringing voice, “Kousma—a … Kousma—a—a!”
At the extreme end of the field, like silhouettes, a row of little men could be descried who, at the sound of Riasantzeff’s voice, looked eagerly in his direction.
One of the men then came across the field, walking carefully between the furrows. As he approached, Yourii saw that he was a burly, grey- haired peasant with a long beard and sinewy arms.
He came up to them slowly, and said, with a smile, “You know how to shout, Anatole Pavlovitch!”
“Good day, Kousma; how are you? Can I leave the horse with you?”
“Yes, certainly you can,” said the peasant in a calm, friendly voice, as he caught hold of the horse’s bridle. “Come for a little shooting, eh? And who is that?” he asked, with a kindly glance at Yourii.
“It is Nicolai Yegorovitch’s son,” replied Riasantzeff.
“Ah, yes! I see that he is just like Ludmilla Nicolaijevna! Yes, yes!”
Yourii was pleased to find that this genial old peasant knew his sister and spoke of her in such a simple, friendly way.
“Now, then, let us go!” said Riasantzeff, in his cheery voice, as he walked first, after getting his gun and game-bag.