It was very hot.
On the road, a number of hens were strutting about, pecking at the freshly dropped dung.
Sunflowers drooped their golden heads behind palings, and the cherry trees were hung with fruit.
Hawks hovered over the village.
The master of the house cleared his throat and sighed.
"You should hike your skirt still higher over your head, shameless wench!" he said to the tear-sodden girl.
"What if they did paw you?
You're not the first."
The girl drew a sobbing breath, flung down her besom, and let her skirt down over her plump white legs.
The man allowed his gaze to rest on the besom for a few minutes.
"Which of them was it?
Tell me, Alexandra, don't be afraid!"
"I don't know his name, the beast! It wasn't one of ours.... He wore glasses."
"There you are!" he said, as if pleased.
"Glasses.... It's- one of that lot—an anarchist."
He turned to Katya.
"My niece Alexandra.... I sent her to the barn for straw.... Know where the barn is?
She came back in the morning all in rags....
Faugh!"
"He was drunk.
He threatened me with his revolver.
What was I to do?"
Alexandra moaned softly.
Her uncle stamped his bare foot at her.
"Get out!
I wonder I'm alive myself!"
The girl turned and fled.
He began hawking and coughing again, his eyes on the distant hills.
"What's to be done?
We don't enjoy feeding these bandits, do we?
We have to give them horses for their carts....
And they gallop for eighty miles, the devils.... A horse isn't a machine, it needs loving care.... All our beasts are crippled now. Ah me, war...."
The chimney of the lamp hanging over the table rattled in its socket, the windowpanes rang softly.
The hot air seemed to heave a sigh.
Far-off thunder rolled over the earth.
The owner of the house hastily thrust the upper part of his body out of the window and once again looked long at the hilltops where, beside the windmills, the figure of a lone horseman was silhouetted against the sky.
Then, neatly bunching the tips of his fingers, he crossed himself before the picture in the corner.
"It's the German artillery firing on our lads," he said, scratching himself beneath his faded shirt.
"What times, what times!"
He picked up the besom and threw it into the corner before going out of the house, his bare toes curling inwards.
Once again there came a distant rumble over the village, and Katya, unable to sit any longer in the hut, went out into the midday heat. The sultry air was saturated with the smell of dung.
At that moment a nervous group of yesterday's passengers appeared in the street.
In front, looking over the top of his pince-nez, strode Obruchev, the teacher of physics. He wore a rubber mackintosh and galoshes, and seemed to have constituted himself the leader, one who was trusted by the rest.
"Come and join us!" he cried to Katya.
She went up to them.
The passengers were dishevelled and haggard. The two elderly ladies were puffy with weeping.
The disguised speculator was not to be seen.
"One of our party has disappeared, leaving no trace, he must have been shot," said Obruchev cheerfully.
"His fate awaits us all, friends, unless we can gather up sufficient energy. We must decide without delay the question: whether to await the issue of the battle, or to profit by the fact that we are apparently left unguarded, and try to reach the railway on foot. Each speaker is allowed one minute."
They all began speaking at once.