now I toss about from side
to side, and I fall asleep only toward morning. And every now and then
I awaken. My heart beats unevenly, now, though tired out; often thus:
tuk-tuk-tuk. And sometimes it sinks of a sudden--and it seems as though
it would soon tear itself away and fall somewhere into the deep; into
the bosom. Oh Lord, have pity upon me through Thy great mercy." And
heaving a penitent sigh, he would lift heavenward his stern eyes, grown
dim now, devoid of their bright, sparkling glitter.

"Death keeps an eye on me somewhere close by," he said one day morosely,
but humbly. And indeed, it soon felled his big, sturdy body to the
ground.

This happened in August, early in the morning. Foma was sound asleep
when suddenly he felt somebody shaking him by the shoulder, and a hoarse
voice called at his ear:

"Get up."

He opened his eyes and saw that his father was seated in a chair near
his bed, monotonously repeating in a dull voice:

"Get up, get up."

The sun had just risen, and its light, falling on Ignat's white linen
shirt, had not yet lost its rosy tints.

"It's early," said Foma, stretching himself.

"Well, you'll sleep enough later."

Lazily muffling himself in the blanket, Foma asked:

"Why do you need me?"

"Get up, dear, will you, please?" exclaimed Ignat, adding, somewhat
offended: "It must be necessary, since I am waking you."

When Foma looked closely at his father's face, he noticed that it was
gray and weary.

"Are you ill?"

"Slightly."

"Shall we send for a doctor?"

"The devil take him!" Ignat waved his hand. "I am not a young man any
longer. I know it as well without him."

"What?"

"Oh, I know it!" said the old man, mysteriously, casting a strange
glance around the room. Foma was dressing himself, and his father, with
lowered head, spoke slowly:

"I am afraid to breathe. Something tells me that if I should now heave a
deep sigh, my heart would burst. Today is Sunday! After the morning mass
is over, send for the priest."

"What are you talking about, papa?" Foma smiled.

"Nothing. Wash yourself and go into the garden. I ordered the samovar
to be brought there. We'll drink our tea in the morning coolness. I feel
like drinking now hot, strong tea. Be quicker."

The old man rose with difficulty from the chair, and, bent and
barefooted, left the room in a staggering gait. Foma looked at his
father, and a shooting chill of fear made his heart shrink. He washed
himself in