They'll bury her and this piebald horse, and very soon too," he thought, gazing at the heavily moving, panting horse that kept walking up the wheel that turned under him.

" And they will bury her and Fyodor the thrasher with his curly beard full of chaff and his shirt torn on his white shoulders--they will bury him.

He's untying the sheaves, and giving orders, and shouting to the women, and quickly setting straight the strap on the moving wheel.

And what's more, it's not them alone--me they'll bury too, and nothing will be left.

What for?" He thought this, and at the same time looked at his watch to reckon how much they thrashed in an hour.