"No."
"Really? I thought you were of a priestly family."
"Because I am dressed like this, eh?"
"It's like this. You've all the appearance of a runaway monk or of an unfrocked priest But then, your face does not correspond. By your face I should take you for a soldier. God only knows what manner of man you are"—and Efimushka cast an inquisitive look upon the pilgrim. The latter sighed, readjusted his hat, wiped his sweating forehead, and asked the Sotsky:
"Do you smoke?"
"Alas! crying your clemency! I do, indeed, smoke."
He drew from his bosom a greasy tobacco-pouch, and bowing his head, but without stopping, began stuffing the tobacco into the clay pipe.
"There you are, then, smoke away!" The prisoner stopped, and bending down to the match lighted by his escort, drew in his cheeks. A little blue cloud rose into the air.
"Well, what may your people have been? City people, eh?"
"Gentry!" said the prisoner curtly, spitting aside at an ear of corn already enveloped by the golden sunshine.