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.
Pages:
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519