The other was dying of cholera.
A heavily built man reached down from the top of the brick stove a cheap tin paraffin lamp, which he handed to the starosta.

By the light of this Paul came again into the hut.

The floor was filthy, as may be imagined, for beasts and human beings lived here together.
The man--Vasilli Tula--threw himself down on his knees, clawing at Paul's coat with great unwashed hands, whining out a tale of sorrow and misfortune.

In a moment they were all on their knees, clinging to him, crying to him for help: Tula himself, a wild-looking Slav of fifty or thereabouts; his wife, haggard, emaciated, horrible to look upon, for she was toothless and almost blind; two women and a loutish boy of sixteen.
Paul pushed his way, not unkindly, toward the corner where the two motionless forms lay half concealed by a mass of ragged sheepskin.
"Here," he said, "this woman is dead.

Take her out.