With cherubim
And seraphim,
And the holy host of Heaven.
Suddenly a venerable old man started from his seat, his ascetic face resembled Holy Sergius, as he is painted on icons; he ran out into the middle of the room and began to whirl round.
Then a young girl, about fourteen, quite a child, yet already pregnant, slender as a reed, with a neck long as the stalk of a flower, also started up and went round with the grace of a swan.
“That is Marioushka the idiot,” said Yemelian, pointing to her, “she can hardly speak, mostly lows, but when filled with the spirit she sings like a nightingale.”
The girl sang in a child-like silvery voice:—
’Tis enough for you to sit,
Time has come for the birds to flit,
From prison and cells,