he was, but his body was numbed with such pleasant indolence that he felt he would sooner freeze than move. And he fell restfully asleep.
He awoke in a big room with red walls. Through the window came bright sun-rays. The turner saw men before him, and he obeyed his first instinct to show himself off as a serious man, a man with ideas.
“Have a mass served, brothers!” he began. “Tell the priest . . .”
“That is all right!” came back voices. “Lie down!”
“Batiushka! Pavl Ivanuitch!” said the turner in amazement. He saw the doctor before him. “Your honour! Benefactor!”
He wished to jump up and throw himself at the doctor's feet. But his hands and feet no longer obeyed him.
“Your honour, where are my legs? Where are my hands?”
“Good-bye to your legs and hands ! They're frozen off, that's all. Well, well . . . there's no use crying. You are old . . , glory be to God . . . sixty years' life is enough!”
“Forgive me, your honour! If you could give me five or six years!”
“Why do you want them?”
“The horse isn't mine. I must return it! . . . The old woman must be buried. . . . Akh, how
