whom?"

"To Tikhon, who used to be a bishop. He lives retired now, on account of
illness, here in the town, in the Bogorodsky monastery."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. People go and see him. You go. What is it to you? What is it
to you?"

"It's the first time I've heard of him, and... I've never seen anything
of that sort of people. Thank you, I'll go."

"This way."

Shatov lighted him down the stairs. "Go along." He flung open the gate
into the street.

"I shan't come to you any more, Shatov," said Stavrogin quietly as he
stepped through the gateway.

The darkness and the rain continued as before.

CHAPTER II. NIGHT (continued)

HE WALKED THE LENGTH of Bogoyavlensky Street. At last the road began
to go downhill; his feet slipped in the mud and suddenly there lay
open before him a wide, misty, as it were empty expanse--the river. The
houses were replaced by hovels; the street was lost in a multitude of
irregular little alleys.

Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch was a long while making his way between
the fences, keeping close to the river bank, but finding his way
confidently, and scarcely giving it a thought indeed. He was absorbed in
something quite different, and looked round with surprise when suddenly,
waking up from a profound reverie, he found himself almost in the middle
of one long, wet, floating bridge.

There was not a soul to be seen, so that it seemed strange to him when
suddenly, almost at his elbow, he heard a deferentially familiar, but
rather pleasant, voice, with a suave intonation, such as is affected by
our over-refined tradespeople or befrizzled young shop assistants.

"Will you kindly allow me, sir, to share your umbrella?"

There actually was a figure that crept under his umbrella, or tried to
appear to do so. The tramp was walking beside him, almost "feeling
his elbow," as the soldiers say. Slackening his pace, Nikolay
Vsyevolodovitch bent down to look more closely, as far as he could, in
the darkness. It was a short man, and seemed like an artisan who had
been drinking; he was shabbily and scantily dressed; a cloth cap, soaked
by the rain and with the brim half torn off, perched on his shaggy,
curly head. He looked a thin, vigorous, swarthy man with dark hair;
his eyes were large and must have been black, with a hard glitter and a
yellow tinge in them, like a gipsy's; that could be divined even in the
darkness. He was about forty, and was not drunk.

"Do you know me?" asked Nik