ll downwards, and, together with fragments
of the fog, penetrated into all the cracks of the deck, where the
third-class passengers were silently muffling themselves in their rags,
and forming groups, like sheep. From near the machinery were wafted
deep, strained groans, the jingling of bells, the dull sounds of orders
and the abrupt words of the machinist:

"Yes--slow! Yes--half speed!"

On the stern, in a corner, blocked up by barrels of salted fish, a group
of people was assembled, illuminated by a small electric lamp. Those
were sedate, neatly and warmly clad peasants. One of them lay on a
bench, face down; another sat at his feet, still another stood, leaning
his back against a barrel, while two others seated themselves flat
on the deck. Their faces, pensive and attentive, were turned toward a
round-shouldered man in a short cassock, turned yellow, and a torn fur
cap. That man sat on some boxes with his back bent, and staring at his
feet, spoke in a low, confident voice:

"There will come an end to the long forbearance of the Lord, and then
His wrath will burst forth upon men. We are like worms before Him, and
how are we then to ward off His wrath, with what wailing shall we appeal
to His mercy?"

Oppressed by his gloominess, Foma had come down on the deck from his
cabin, and, for some time, had been standing in the shadow of some wares
covered with tarpaulin, and listened to the admonitive and gentle voice
of the preacher. Pacing the deck he had chanced upon this group, and
attracted by the figure of the pilgrim, had paused near it. There was
something familiar to him in that large, strong body, in that stern,
dark face, in those large, calm eyes. The curly, grayish hair, falling
from under the skull-cap, the unkempt bushy beard, which fell apart in
thick locks, the long, hooked nose, the sharp-pointed ears, the thick
lips--Foma had seen all these before, but could not recall when and
where.

"Yes, we are very much in arrears before the Lord!" remarked one of the
peasants, heaving a deep sigh.

"We must pray," whispered the peasant who lay on the bench, in a
scarcely audible voice.

"Can you scrape your sinful wretchedness off your soul with words of
prayer?" exclaimed someone loudly, almost with despair in his voice.

No one of those that formed the group around the pilgrim turned at this
voice, only their heads sank lower on their breasts, and for a long time
these people sat motionless and speechless: