He went on coughing and clearing his throat, till one of the raiders said mysteriously:
"We'll soon see what sort of an artiste you are. Till then you'd better not be too happy."
Small carts with iron-rimmed wheels drove up.
The Makhno men flung suitcases, baskets and bundles on to them, and clambered up on top of everything, the drivers gave their wild cries, the well-nourished horses—three to a cart—broke into a gallop, and the carts disappeared in the steppe to the accompaniment of whistling and stamping.
The cavalry detachment galloped off too.
A few Makhno men were still going to and fro in the neighbourhood of the carriage.
The passengers chose a delegation by a show of hands, to ask the bandits' permission to proceed on their journey.
The fair-haired lad, strung round with hand grenades, came up to them.
The tuft of hair showing beneath the peak of his cap completely obscured one of his eyes.
The other, blue and insolent, roved freely.
"What's this?" he said, eyeing each member of the delegation from head to foot.
"Go? Where?
How?
You poor fools! Don't you know the engine driver has jumped off the engine and is now ten miles away in the steppe.
I can't leave you here in the night, who knows what disorganized elements may be wandering about the steppe.... Citizens, attention, please!" (He came down the side of the embankment, adjusting this heavy belt.
The rest of the Makhno men followed him, shouldering their rifles.) "Citizens, form fours.... Take your things and march into the steppe...."
As he passed Katya he bent lover and touched her on the shoulder.
"Don't grieve, my lass," he said. "We won't hurt you.... Pick up your bundle and fall out and walk beside me...."
Her bundle in her hand, her shawl pulled down to her eyebrows, Katya began walking over the flat steppe.
The youth with the tuft of hair strode on her left, glancing every now and then over his shoulder at the silent group of drearily marching captives.
He whistled softly through his teeth.
"Who are you, where d'you come from?" he asked Katya.
She turned away her head without answering.
She felt neither fear nor anxiety, now, nothing but indifference— everything seemed to be happening in a kind of dream.
The youth repeated his question.
"So you don't want to lower yourself, you don't want to talk to a bandit," he said.
"Too bad, little lady!
You'll have to get rid of your aristocratic airs and graces. Times have changed...."
Turning, he suddenly tore the rifle from his shoulder, and shouted angrily at a dim figure detaching itself from the prisoners.
"Lagging behind, you swine! I'll shoot you down."
The figure plunged hastily back into the crowd.
The youth gave a satisfied chuckle.
"As if he could run away, the fool?
I suppose he only wanted to relieve nature.
It's like this, little lady — you don't want to speak, but holding your tongue may be still worse, you know.... Don't be afraid, I'm not drunk.
I don't talk when I'm drunk.... I'm not nice then.... Let's get acquainted!" He raised two fingers to the peak of his cap. "Mishka Solomin!
Deserter from the Red Army! A bandit by nature, most likely.
A bad lot.
You weren't mistaken there...."
"Where are we going?" asked Katya.
"To the village, to regimental headquarters.
They'll investigate you, interrogate you — some they'll shoot, others they'll let go.
As a young woman, you have nothing to fear.... Besides, I'm with you."
"I see you're the one I ought to fear most of all," said Katya, glancing obliquely at her companion. She had not expected her words to sting him so.
He drew himself up, breathing through his nostrils in spasmodic gusts, and his long countenance, pale beneath the starlight, broke into wrinkles.
"Bitch!" he hissed.
They went on in silence.
As he walked, Mishka twisted himself a cigarette and lit up.
"You can swear yourself black in the face, but I know who you are.
You belong to the officer class."