antly followed the women with their eyes, listening
attentively to their conversation.

A tall, stooping man came out of the woods into the glade, and walked
slowly, firmly supporting himself on a cane. His heavy, raucous
breathing was audible.

"There is Savely!" exclaimed Yakob.

"Here I am," said the man hoarsely. He stopped, and began to cough.

A shabby coat hung over him down to his very heels. From under his
round, crumpled hat straggled thin, limp tufts of dry, straight,
yellowish hair. His light, sparse beard grew unevenly upon his yellow,
bony face; his mouth stood half-open; his eyes were sunk deep beneath
his forehead, and glittered feverishly in their dark hollows.

When Rybin introduced him to Sofya he said to her:

"I heard you brought books for the people."

"I did."

"Thank you in the name of the people. They themselves cannot yet
understand the book of truth. They cannot yet thank; so I, who have
learned to understand it, render you thanks in their behalf." He
breathed quickly, with short, eager breaths, strangely drawing in the
air through his dry lips. His voice broke. The bony fingers of his
feeble hands crept along his breast trying to button his coat.

"It's bad for you to be in the woods so late; it's damp and close
here," remarked Sofya.

"Nothing is good for me any more," he answered, out of breath. "Only
death!"

It was painful to listen to him. His entire figure inspired a futile
pity that recognized its own powerlessness, and gave way to a sullen
feeling of discomfort.

The wood pile blazed up; everything round about trembled and shook; the
scorched shadows flung themselves into the woods in fright. The round
face of Ignaty with its inflated cheeks shone over the fire. The flames
died down, and the air began to smell of smoke. Again the trees seemed
to draw close and unite with the mist on the glade, listening in
strained attention to the hoarse words of the sick man.

"But as a witness of the crime, I can still bring good to the people.
Look at me! I'm twenty-eight years old; but I'm dying. About ten
years ago I could lift five hundred pounds on my shoulders without an
effort. With such strength I thought I could go on for seventy years
without dropping into the grave, and I've lived for only ten years, and
can't go on any more. The masters have robbed me; they've torn forty
years of my life from me; they've stolen forty years from me."

"There, that's his s