“We will burn, Sophia!” he murmured with terror. She drew him as the flame draws a moth.
The sound of footsteps was heard on the path which led along the precipice below.
“Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us sinners,” said a voice.
“Amen,” responded Tichon and Sophia.
The newcomers were pilgrims. They had lost their way in the wood, and narrowly escaped being engulfed in the bog; perceiving the light of the fire, they had after considerable difficulty found their way to it.
They sat down round the fire.
“Is it far to the monastery, friends?”
“’Tis just here at the foot of the hill,” answered Tichon, and looking steadfastly at the woman who put the question, he recognised Vitalia, the same who led the life of a migrant bird, roaming, flying everywhere, whom he had met two years ago in Petersburg on the oak-rafts of the Tsarevitch Alexis, on the night of the Venus festival. She too recognised Tichon and was delighted. With her was her inseparable companion Kilikeya the possessed; the runaway recruit Petka Gisla, whose hand, branded with the government stamp, the mark of the Beast, had withered; and the old boatman, Simple John, who, waiting for Christ’s coming, sang every night the song of the coffin-liers.
“Whence come ye, Orthodox folk?” asked Sophia.
“We are pilgrims,” answered Vitalia, “we wander everywhere, persecuted by the heretics; we have no abiding city, we are waiting for the New Jerusalem. We are now coming from Kerjensk. Cruel persecutions are going on there now. Peterin, the fierce wolf, the vampire of the church, has destroyed seventy-seven monasteries and cast out the holy monks.”