The Metropolitan Stephen was the first to approach the coffin. The old man could scarcely walk. Two deacons supported him. He kissed the Tsarevitch on his head and hands, then bending over the coffin he gazed for a long time at his face. The Metropolitan Stephen was burying with Alexis all he loved; ancient Muscovy, the Patriarchate, the freedom and grandeur of the ancient church; his last hope, the hope of old Russia.
After the clergy, the Tsar ascended the steps of the catafalque. His face was as white and impassive as it had been all these latter days. He looked at his son. The countenance of the Tsarevitch was bright and young. It seemed to have grown even brighter and younger since his death. His smile was saying, “All is well! God’s will be done!”
Something twitched and trembled in Peter’s immovable face; something seemed to be struggling forth with great effort. At last it succeeded. The face became reanimated, radiant, as though illumined by the light coming from the dead man’s countenance.
Peter bent down to his son and pressed his lips on the cold lips. Then he lifted his eyes towards heaven—all saw he was weeping—made the sign of the cross and said:—
“God’s will be done!”
He knew now that his son would justify him before God’s throne, and would explain to him there what he could not fathom here: the meaning of “Father” and “Son.”