Hopeful lay on his back, coughing a hollow cough, and spitting out whole gobs of blood.

“Is it still coming?” asked Jig-Leg, standing over him, but looking aside.

“It’s flowing fast,” said Hopeful, almost inaudibly, and was seized with another fit of coughing.

Jig-Leg swore loudly and cynically.

“If only we could call someone!”

“Whom?” asked Hopeful, his voice like a dismal echo.

“Maybe you could get up…and walk… slowly?…”

“No chance.…”

Jig-Leg sat beside his comrade’s head, and clasping his own knees with his hands began to look into his face. Hopeful’s chest rose convulsively with a hollow rattle, his eyes sank into his head, his lips gaped strangely and seemed to cling to his teeth. From the left corner of his mouth a dark living stream was trickling down his cheek.

“Still flowing?” asked Jig-Leg quietly, and in the tone of his question there was something akin to respect.

Hopeful’s face quivered.

“Flowing,” came a weak rattle.

Jig-Leg leaned his head on his knees and was silent.

Above them was the wall of the ravine, deeply furrowed by the spring freshets. From the top of it a shaggy row of moonlit trees looked down into the ravine. The other side of the ravine, which sloped more gently, was overgrown with shrubs; here and there above their dark mass rose the gray stems of aspens, and on their naked branches rooks’ nests were clearly visible.…The ravine, flooded by moonlight, was like a tedious dream, lacking the colors of life; and the gentle murmur of the stream emphasized its lifelessness and brought out the melancholy silence.

“I am dying,” said Hopeful, in a hardly audible whisper, and then immediately afterwards repeated in a loud, clear voice: “I am dying, Stepan!”

Jig-Leg shuddered, squirmed, snorted, and raising his head from his knees spoke in an awkward, gentle voice, as if he were afraid of creating a disturbance:

“Oh, it’s not that bad…don’t be afraid.…It’s nothing.…Maybe it’s just…It’s nothing, brother!”

“Lord Jesus Christ!” Hopeful sighed heavily.

“It’s nothing,” whispered Jig-Leg, bending over his face. “Just stick it for a little while…maybe it will pass over!”

Hopeful began to cough again; there was a new sound in his chest: it was as though a wet rag were slapping against his ribs. Jig-Leg was looking at him and was silently bristling his mustaches. When the coughing-fit was over, Hopeful began to pant loudly and jerkily, as though he were running with all his might. He went on breathing that way for a long time. Then he said:

“Forgive me, Stepan…if anything I…about that horse, you know.…Forgive me, brother!”

“You forgive me!” interrupted Jig-Leg, and after a pause, added: