He sank in exhaustion on the roots of a dry old pine, which rose solitary above the undergrowth. It was all the same, there was nowhere else he could go. Could he but lie thus with closed eyes, motionless, on, on until his death!
He remembered what he had been told by a teacher of a new religion. Those teachers were called “Deniers,” because they answered every affirmation of the Church with a negative. “There is no church, no clergy, no grace, no mystery. Everything has been taken up into heaven.” “There is nothing, there was nothing, there will be nothing,” thought Tichon. “Neither God nor the universe exist. Everything had perished, everything had come to an end. And even whether there is an end is doubtful. Nothing is sure but the eternity of nothingness.”
He remained for a long time unconscious. Suddenly he recovered, opened his eyes and saw on the west a huge black cloud spotted, as it were, with purulent white spots. Slowly like a gigantic scorpion, with fat protruding belly and hairy legs, it was creeping up almost stealthily towards the sun. It stretched out a leg, and the sun trembled and went out. Rapid grey shadows flitted across the ground and the air became dim and sticky, as with cobwebs. Warm currents of air passed as though exhaled from the mouth of an animal. Tichon was suffocating. His head throbbed, it grew dim before his eyes. Cold sweat, produced by excessive fatigue, bathed his body. He wanted to rise and creep to the cell of Father Sergius, and die in his presence, but strength failed him. He tried to cry out and could not.
Suddenly, far in the distance, quite at the end of the clearing, in the dark cloud something white appeared, and trembled like a white dove bathed in sunshine. As it drew nearer Tichon looked attentively and saw that it was a small, old man, quite white, who was coming towards him with quick movements as though floating in the air.
He came quite near and sat down next to him on the root of the pine. Tichon felt he had seen him before, only he could not remember where and when. The old man had quite an ordinary appearance. He seemed to be one of those pilgrims who wander icon in hand from village to village, town to town, collecting money for the building of a new church.
“Rejoice Tichon, rejoice!” he said with a tender smile; his voice was as gentle as the hum of bees, or the distant sound of a bell.
“Who are you?” asked Tichon.
“I am Ivanoushka. Don’t you recognise me? The Lord has sent me to you. He will soon follow me.”