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Presently, the gloom caused one of the rocks in our vicinity to assume the guise of a monk who, kneeling in prayer, had his head adorned with a pointed skull-cap, and his face buried in his hands. Similarly, the stems of the trees stirred in the firelight until they developed the semblance of a file of friars entering, for early Mass, the porch of their chapel-of-ease.

To my mind there then recurred a certain occasion when, on just such a dark and sultry night as this, I had been seated tale- telling under the boundary-wall of a row of monastic cells in the Don country. Suddenly I had heard a window above my head open, and someone exclaim in a kindly, youthful voice:

“The Mother of God be blessed for all this goodly world of ours!”

And though the window had closed again before I had had time to discern the speaker, I had known that there was resident in the monastery a friar who had large eyes, and a limp, and just such a face as had Vasili here; wherefore, in all probability it had been he who had breathed the benediction upon mankind at large, for the reason that moments there are when all humanity seems to be one’s own body, and in oneself there seems to beat the heart of all humanity. . . .

Vasili consumed his food deliberately as, breaking off morsels from his slice, and neatly parting his moustache, he placed the morsels in his mouth with a curious stirring of two globules which underlay the skin near the ears.

The ex-soldier, however, merely nibbled at his food–he ate but little, and that lazily. Then he extracted a pipe from his breast pocket, filled it with tobacco, lit it with a faggot taken from the fire, and said as he set himself to listen to the singing of the Molokans:

“They are filled full, and have started bleating. Always folk like them seek to be on the right side of the Almighty.”

“Does that hurt you in any way?” Vasili asked with a smile.

“No, but I do not respect them–they are less saints than humbugs, than prevaricators whose first word is God, and second word rouble.”

“How do you know that?” cried Vasili amusedly. “And even if their first word IS God, and their second word rouble, we had best not be too hard upon them, since if they chose to be hard upon US, where should WE be? Yes, we have only to open our mouths to speak a word or two for ourselves, and we should find every fist at our teeth.”

” Quite so,” the ex-soldier agreed as, taking up a square of scantling, he examined it attentively.

“Whom DO you respect?” Vasili continued after a pause.

“I respect,” the ex-soldier said with some emphasis, “only the Russian people, the true Russian people, the folk who labour on land whereon labour is hard. Yet who are the folk whom you find HERE? In this part of the world the business of living is an easy one. Much of every sort of natural produce is to be had, and the soil is generous and light–you need but to scratch it for it to bear, and for yourself to reap. Yes, it is indulgent to a fault. Rather, it is like a maiden. Do but touch her, and a child will arrive.”

“Agreed,” was Vasili’s remark as he drank tea from a tin mug. “Yet to this very part of the world is it that I should like to transport every soul in Russia.”

“And why?”

“Because here they could earn a living.”

“Then is not that possible in Russia? “

“Well, why are you yourself here?”

“Because I am a man lacking ties.”

“And why are you lacking ties?”

“Because it has been so ordered–it is, so to speak, my lot.”

“Then had you not better consider WHY it is your lot?”

The ex-soldier took his pipe from his mouth, let fall the hand which held it, and smoothed his plain features in silent amazement. Then he exclaimed in uncouth, querulous tones: