“I do not know, Father, and it does not really matter. I will go straight before me——”
Father Sergius took him by the hand and Tichon heard a trembling tender whisper:—
“Return, return, my son!”
“Where to?” asked Tichon, and he felt afraid, not knowing why.
“To the Church, to the Church of God,” whispered Father Sergius, more and more tenderly and in a more and more trembling voice.
“Into what Church, Father?”
“Oh temptation, temptation!——” sighed Father Sergius, then continued with an effort, “into the one holy apostolic Church—” but his words sounded sad and forced; as if he had not spoken them of his own free will.
“And where is this Church to be found?” groaned Tichon in great anguish.
“Ah, my poor, poor son, how is it possible to live without a church?” Father Sergius murmured, and his voice expressed sympathy and great anguish. Tichon felt that the hermit had understood him.
In the flashes of the lightning he saw the face of the old man with its trembling lips and helpless smile, its wide open eyes filled with tears, and Tichon understood what it was that filled him with such fear: the fact that this face could be so pitiable.