God Himself has brewed the drink,
The Holy Ghost has mingled it,
The Holy Virgin tapped it,
Together with God they worked;
Holy angels, Cherubim,
Took it round and carried it.
Tichon thought he could hear the stamping of many feet, the echo of a whirling frantic dance; there was something wild, and mænad-like in this song, which robbed one’s breath and at the same time roused the longing to be ever listening to it.
All at once, as suddenly as they began, the three men stopped.
Yemelian started to look over the account books, Mitka lifted up the bag and went his way. Parfen Paramonitch passed his hand over his face, as if wiping something from it. He rose, yawned, stretched himself lazily, and crossing his mouth, said in his usual voice, as he was wont to say every night:—
“Go and have your supper, lads! the soup and kasha will be getting cold.”