I asked him on the way: "Who are you?"
"One of yours," he answered.
The boy without the cap followed us silently. We crossed gardens, came to a ravine at the bottom of which a stream ran along, and found a footpath in the brush. The dark man led me by the hand, looked into my eyes and said, smiling:
"Well, good luck to you. Here, Fediok will conduct you to a good road. Go."
"You had better hurry. They might get you." The dark man bent down, began crawling up the mountain, and Fediok and I went along by the stream.
"Who is that man?" I asked him.
"A blacksmith. An exile—for political reasons."
"I know such people," I answered.
I felt happy, but he was silent. I looked at the young man. His face was round, his nose short. His head seemed cut out from stone, and his gray eyes bulged far apart. He spoke low, walked noiselessly and held his head forward, as if he was listening or was pulled from above by some great force. He kept his hands behind his back, as my father-in-law used to.
"Are you a native here?"