KASSYAN OF FAIR SPRINGS
into the street. We found my coachman in an irritable frame of mind; he had tried to water his horses, but the water in the well, it appeared, was scanty in quantity and bad in taste, and water is the first consideration with coachmen. . . . However, he grinned at the sight of the old man, nodded his head and cried: 'Hallo! Kassyanushka! good health to you!'
'Good health to you, Erofay, upright man!' replied Kassyan in a dejected voice.
I at once made known his suggestion to the coachman; Erofay expressed his approval of it and drove into the yard. While he was busy deliberately unharnessing the horses, the old man stood leaning with his shoulders against the gate, and looking disconsolately first at him and then at me. He seemed in some uncertainty of mind; he was not very pleased, as it seemed to me, at our sudden visit.
'So they have transported you too?' Erofay asked him suddenly, lifting the wooden arch of the harness.
'Yes.'
'Ugh!' said my coachman between his teeth. 'You know Martin the carpenter. . . . Of course, you know Martin of Ryaby?'
'Yes.'
'Well, he is dead. We have just met his coffin.'
Kassyan shuddered.
'Dead?' he said, and his head sank dejectedly.
'Yes, he is dead. Why didn't you cure him,
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