onfused and angered him.

"It seems to me that I've met you before somewhere, father," said he at
length.

The pilgrim replied, without looking at him:

"Perhaps."

"I would like to speak to you," announced Foma, timidly, in a low voice.

"Well, then, speak."

"Come with me."

"Whither?"

"To my cabin."

The pilgrim looked into Foma's face, and, after a moment's silence,
assented:

"Come."

On leaving, Foma felt the looks of the peasants on his back, and now he
was pleased to know that they were interested in him.

In the cabin he asked gently:

"Would you perhaps eat something? Tell me. I will order it."

"God forbid. What do you wish?"

This man, dirty and ragged, in a cassock turned red with age, and
covered with patches, surveyed the cabin with a squeamish look, and when
he seated himself on the plush-covered lounge, he turned the skirt of
the cassock as though afraid to soil it by the plush.

"What is your name, father?" asked Foma, noticing the expression of
squeamishness on the pilgrim's face.

"Miron."

"Not Mikhail?"

"Why Mikhail?" asked the pilgrim.

"There was in our town the son of a certain merchant Shchurov, he also
went off to the Irgiz. And his name was Mikhail."

Foma spoke and fixedly looked at Father Miron; but the latter was as
calm as a deaf-mute--

"I never met such a man. I don't remember, I never met him," said he,
thoughtfully. "So you wished to inquire about him?"

"Yes."

"No, I never met Mikhail Shchurov. Well, pardon me for Christ's sake!"
and rising from the lounge, the pilgrim bowed to Foma and went toward
the door.

"But wait awhile, sit down, let's talk a little!" exclaimed Foma,
rushing at him uneasily. The pilgrim looked at him searchingly and sank
down on the lounge. From the distance came a dull sound, like a deep
groan, and immediately after it the signal whistle of the steamer
drawled out as in a frightened manner over Foma's and his guest's heads.
From the distance came a more distant reply, and the whistle overhead
again gave out abrupt, timorous sounds. Foma opened the window. Through
the fog, not far from their steamer, something was moving along with
deep noise; specks of fantastic lights floated by, the fog was agitated
and again sank into dead immobility.

"How terrible!" exclaimed Foma, shutting the window.

"What is there to be afraid of?" asked the pilgrim. "You see! It is
neither day nor night, neither darkness nor light! We can se