ole.

"Yes, increase speed!" came the loud exclamation of the engineer.

Swaying because of the motion of the steamer, Foma stood leaning against
the tarpaulin, and attentively listened to each and every sound about
him. And everything was blended into one picture, which was familiar
to him. Through fog and uncertainty, surrounded on all sides by gloom
impenetrable to the eye, life of man is moving somewhere slowly and
heavily. And men are grieved over their sins, they sigh heavily, and
then fight for a warm place, and asking each other for the sake of
possessing the place, they also receive blows from those who strive for
order in life. They timidly search for a free road toward the goal.

"Nine! eight!"

The wailing cry is softly wafted over the vessel. "And the holy prayer
of the pilgrim is deafened by the tumult of life. And there is no relief
from sorrow, there is no joy for him who reflects on his fate."

Foma felt like speaking to this pilgrim, in whose softly uttered words
there rang sincere fear of God, and all manner of fear for men before
His countenance. The kind, admonitive voice of the pilgrim possessed a
peculiar power, which compelled Foma to listen to its deep tones.

"I'd like to ask him where he lives," thought Foma, fixedly scrutinizing
the huge stooping figure. "And where have I seen him before? Or does he
resemble some acquaintance of mine?"

Suddenly it somehow struck Foma with particular vividness that the
humble preacher before him was no other than the son of old Anany
Shchurov. Stunned by this conjecture, he walked up to the pilgrim and
seating himself by his side, inquired freely:

"Are you from Irgiz, father?"

The pilgrim raised his head, turned his face toward Foma slowly and
heavily, scrutinized him and said in a calm and gentle voice:

"I was on the Irgiz, too."

"Are you a native of that place?"

"Are you now coming from there?"

"No, I am coming from Saint Stephen."

The conversation broke off. Foma lacked the courage to ask the pilgrim
whether he was not Shchurov.

"We'll be late on account of the fog," said some one.

"How can we help being late!"

All were silent, looking at Foma. Young, handsome, neatly and richly
dressed, he aroused the curiosity of the bystanders by his sudden
appearance among them; he was conscious of this curiosity, he understood
that they were all waiting for his words, that they wanted to understand
why he had come to them, and all this c