exclaimed the pilgrim, softly, moving still closer
toward him. "Since the soul has awakened, since it yearns toward
freedom, do not lull it to sleep by force; hearken to its voice. The
world with its charms has no beauty and holiness whatever, wherefore,
then, obey its laws? In John Chrysostom it is said: 'The real shechinah
is man!' Shechinah is a Hebrew word and it means the holy of holies.
Consequently--"

A prolonged shrill sound of the whistle drowned his voice. He listened,
rose quickly from the lounge and said:

"We are nearing the harbour. That's what the whistle meant. I must be
off! Well, goodbye, brother! May God give you strength and firmness to
act according to the will of your soul! Goodbye, my dear boy!"

He made a low bow to Foma. There was something feminine, caressing and
soft in his farewell words and bow. Foma also bowed low to him, bowed
and remained as though petrified, standing with drooping head, his hand
leaning against the table.

"Come to see me when you are in town," he asked the pilgrim, who was
hastily turning the handle of the cabin door.

"I will! I will come! Goodbye! Christ save you!"

When the steamer's side touched the wharf Foma came out on the deck
and began to look downward into the fog. From the steamer people were
walking down the gang-planks, but Foma could not discern the pilgrim
among those dark figures enveloped in the dense gloom. All those
that left the steamer looked equally indistinct, and they all quickly
disappeared from sight, as though they had melted in the gray dampness.
One could see neither the shore nor anything else solid; the landing
bridge rocked from the commotion caused by the steamer; above it the
yellow spot of the lantern was swaying; the noise of the footsteps and
the bustle of the people were dull.

The steamer put off and slowly moved along into the clouds. The pilgrim,
the harbour, the turmoil of people's voices--all suddenly disappeared
like a dream, and again there remained only the dense gloom and the
steamer heavily turning about in it. Foma stared before him into the
dead sea of fog and thought of the blue, cloudless and caressingly warm
sky--where was it?

On the next day, about noon, he sat In Yozhov's small room and listened
to the local news from the mouth of his friend. Yozhov had climbed on
the table, which was piled with newspapers, and, swinging his feet,
narrated:

"The election campaign has begun. The merchants are putting y