Krak darted out from behind the twisted root of an alder, black all over with the stinking mire of the marsh, and with the air of a conqueror sniffed at Laska.

Behind Krak there came into view in the shade of the alder tree the shapely figure of Stepan Arkadyevitch.

He came to meet him, red and perspiring, with unbuttoned neckband, still limping in the same way.