The women’s and children’s cries rose even above the men’s.
“Run, run into the flames; let us burn! Flee from the tormentors!”
“Now the monasteries are burning,” continued the monk, “but after awhile villages and towns will kindle in their turn. I would have loved to set Nijni on fire myself; I would rejoice to see it burn from end to end. One day the whole of Russia will burn with us!”
His eyes glowed with a strange light. They reflected that last fire which shall destroy the world.
When he had finished the crowd dispersed over the glade and in the outskirts of the wood.
Tichon for some time kept wandering about the groups, listening to what was said. He believed all were going mad.
One peasant said to another:—
“The kingdom of heaven itself is falling into your lap, and you hesitate. Your children are small, your wife young, you love them, you do not desire to perish, but how do you enjoy life with them? A sack, a pot, and bast shoes is your little all. Even your wife herself yearns for the martyr’s fire; and you, a man, are more foolish than a woman? Suppose you live to marry your children and to console your wife! What then? What else but the grave? Whether you burn or no, die you must one day.”
A monk was persuading another monk: “Expiation for our sins is slow and wearisome—ten years’ public penance, endless fasts and prayers! Enter now the flames; and there is an end to your penance! neither work, nor fasting one hour will bring you to heaven. The fire will purge away all sins. Once burnt you are free from all!”