“Where are you going, you wretch? To drink vodka alone?”
“Be quiet. I’m going to buy one bottle. We’ll drink it together to-morrow.”
He gave her a sly wink and clapped her on the shoulder with such force that she staggered. A woman’s heart is like that; though she knew that Makar was deceiving her, she surrendered to the charms of that conjugal caress.
He went out of the house, caught his old piebald pony in the courtyard, led him by the mane to the sleigh, and put him in harness. The piebald soon carried Makar through the gates and then stopped and looked enquiringly at his Master, who was sitting plunged in thought. At this Makar pulled the left rein, and drove away to the outskirts of the village.
On the edge of the village stood a little hut out of which, as out of the other huts, the smoke of a little fire rose high, high into the air, veiling the bright moon and the white, glittering hosts of stars. The flames crackled merrily and sparkled through the dim icicles that hung about the doorway. All was quiet inside the courtyard gates.
Strangers from a foreign land lived here. How they had come, what tempest had cast them up in that lonely clearing, Makar knew not, neither cared to know, but he liked to trade with them, for they neither pressed him too hard nor insisted upon payment.
On entering the hut, Makar went straight to the fireplace and stretched out his frozen hands over the blaze, crying “Tcha” to explain how the frost had nipped him.
The foreigners were at home; a candle was burning on the table although no work was being done. One man was lying on the bed blowing rings of smoke, pensively following their winding curves with his eyes, and intertwining with them the long threads of his thoughts.
The other was sitting over the fire thoughtfully watching the sparks that crept across the burning wood.
“Hello!” said Makar, to break the oppressive silence.