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.
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