'Going back to the cordon ?' asked the old man.
'I have brought the chikhir I promised you when we were at the cordon.' 'May Christ save you!' said the old man, and he took up the extremely wide trousers that were lying on the floor, and his beshmet, put them on, fastened a strap round his waist, poured some water from an earthenware pot over his hands, wiped them on the old trousers, smoothed his beard with a bit of comb, and stopped in front of Lukashka.

'Ready,' he said.
Lukashka fetched a cup, wiped it and filled it with wine, and then handed it to the old man.
'Your health! To the Father and the Son!' said the old man, accepting the wine with solemnity.

'May you have what you desire, may you always be a hero, and obtain a cross.' Lukashka also drank a little after repeating a prayer, and then put the wine on the table.

The old man rose and brought out some dried fish which he laid on the threshold, where he beat it with a stick to make it tender; then, having put it with his horny hands on a blue plate (his only one), he placed it on the table.
'I have all I want.

I have victuals, thank God!' he said proudly.
'Well, and what of Mosev ?' he added.
Lukashka, evidently wishing to know the old man's opinion, told him how the officer had taken the gun from him.
'Never mind the gun,' said the old man.