Zbyshko shrugged his shoulders.
"I have no gladness in me, but I have nothing to hide."
And he said this so sincerely that Matsko dropped his suspicions that moment, and began at once to smooth his gray forelock with his broad palm, as was his custom when thinking severely, and at last he said,—
"Well, I will tell it, something is lacking thee. One work is finished, but the other is not begun yet; dost understand?"
"Perhaps I do, but not clearly," answered the young man. And he stretched himself like one who is sleepy.
But Matsko was convinced that he had divined the true reason. He was greatly delighted, and his alarm ceased altogether. He gained also more confidence in his own prudence, and said in spirit, "It is not to be wondered at that men ask advice of me!"
And when after that conversation Yagenka came on the evening of that same day, before she could dismount he told her that he knew what troubled Zbyshko.
The girl slipped down from the saddle in one moment, and then for the inquiry,—
"Well, what is it? tell!
"It is just thou who hast the medicine for him."
"I? what?"
And he put his arm around her waist and whispered something into her ear, but not long, for in a moment she sprang back from him as if burned, and hiding her blushing face between the saddle-cloth and the high saddle, she cried,—
"Go away! I cannot endure you!"
"As God is dear to me, I am telling truth," replied Matsko, laughing.
