childlike annoyance on his face, and almost with tears of mortification and anger in his voice. "Well, you call that an old horse?"
"I pray, 'r Grace, he is very old, some twenty years old—some horses—"
"Silence! You are a liar and a good-for-nothing, because an honest peasant would not lie,—he has no cause to lie!" said Nekhlyúdov, choking with tears of anger, which rose in his throat. He grew silent in order not to burst out into tears, and thus disgrace himself before the peasant. Yukhvánka, too, was silent, and, with the expression of a man who is ready to burst into tears, snuffled and slightly jerked his head.
"Well, with what animal will you plough your field when you have sold this horse?" continued Nekhlyúdov, having calmed down sufficiently to speak in his customary voice. "You are purposely sent to do work on foot, so as to give your horses a chance to improve for the ploughing, and you want to sell your last horse. But, the main thing is, why do you lie?"
The moment the master grew calm, Yukhvánka quieted down, too. He stood straight, and, still jerking his lips, let his eyes flit from one object to another.
"We will drive out to work, 'r Grace," he replied, "not worse than the rest."
"What will you drive with?"
"Do not worry, we will do the work of 'r Grace," he answered, shouting to the gelding, and driving him away. "I should not have thought of selling him if I did not need the money."
"What do you need the money for?"
"There is no bread, 'r Grace, and I have to pay my debts to the peasants, 'r Grace,"
"How so, no bread? How is it the others, who have families, have bread, and you, who have none, have not any? What has become of your grain?"
