"Whom do you mean by 'ourselves'?"
"Us here—you and myself—all Russian folk who may happen to be in these parts. From the way in which those fellows keep singing about palms, I should judge them to be sectarians of the sort called Mennonites."
"Or Molokans, rather?" the other man suggested as he seated himself in front of the fire.
"Yes, or Molokans. Molokans or Mennonites—they're all one. It is a German faith and though such fellows love a Teuton, they do not exactly welcome US."
Upon this the man with the Cossack forelock took a slice of bread which the ex-soldier cut from a loaf, with an onion and a pinch of salt. Then, as he regarded us with a pair of good-humoured eyes, he said, balancing his food on the palms of his hands:
"There is a spot on the Sunzha, near here, where those fellows have a colony of their own. Yes, I myself have visited it. True, those fellows are hard enough, but at the same time to speak plainly, NO ONE in these parts has any regard for us since only too many of the sort of Russian folk who come here in search of work are not overly-desirable."
"Where do you yourself come from?" The ex-soldier's tone was severe.
"From Kursk, we might say."
"From Russia, then?"
"Yes, I suppose so. But I have no great opinion even of myself."