Falling into a deep reflection, Barto counted over his hours of conspiracy: he counted the Chief's; comparing the two sets of figures he discovered, that as he had suspected, he was the elder in the patriotic work therefore, if he bowed his head to the Chief, it was a voluntary act, a form of respect, and not the surrendering of his judgement.

He was on the spot: the Chief was absent.

Barto reasoned that the Chief could have had no experience of women, seeing that he was ready to trust in them.

"Do I trust to my pigeon, my sling-stone ?" he said jovially to the thickbrowed, splendidly ruddy young woman, who was his wife; "do I trust her?
Not half a morsel of her!" This young woman, a peasant woman of remarkable personal attractions, served him with the fidelity of a fascinated animal, and the dumbness of a wooden vessel.

She could have hanged him, had it pleased her.