The priest answered:
"Thou knowest not what thou art committing."
"Ah, shut up! To hell with your citations, you old idiot!
"Take him down over there. Isn't there anyone to choke him?" continued Khokhriakov bending over the hand-rails. "This ass is propagating,—don't you see, comrades?"
No one, however, moved. This crowd around the Bishop all answered. Their answer,—a blunt roaring,—sounded like distant thunder and there was such a frightening unity in this dull noise,—that I had the shivers.
"You cowards!" bellowed the sailor, "I'll have to come back and finish with the pope myself! It will not be the first one, anyhow. It's too late now! Be damned you all! Go ahead!" The gangplanks dropped.
The steamer started to move.
The priest stood still blessing her passengers,—the Emperor, the Empress, the bolsheviki,—the crew,—all, all of them. And, wet under the rain, this figure vested in black, with a shiny cross lifted high in the air, will for a long time remain in my memory.
The Mansion was black; not a light in the windows. The four girls, left alone in this nest of rattlesnakes,—were probably sitting in some far distant corner,—crying, trembling, praying,—and waiting for the worst, which they feared was coming.
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