"I would have a word with you," the Greek said, in a low tone, as Sergius was proceeding to the door.
"But thy father is suffering, and I must make haste."
"I will accompany thee."
Sergius stopped while the young man went to the cot, removed his hat and knelt, saying, "Thy blessing, father."
The Hegumen laid a hand on the petitioner's head.
"My son, I have not seen thee for many days," he said; "yet in hope that thou hast heard me, and abandoned the associates who have been endangering thy soul and my good name, and because I love thee—God knows how well—and remember thy mother, who lived illustrating every beatitude, and died in grace, praying for thee, take thou my blessing."
With tears starting in his own eyes, Sergius doubted not the effect of the reproof upon the son; and he pitied him, and even regretted remaining to witness the outburst of penitence and grief he imagined forthcoming. The object of his sympathy took down the hand, kissed it in a matter-of-fact way, arose, and said, carelessly: "This lamentation should cease. Why can I not get you to understand, father, that there is a new Byzantium? That even in the Hippodrome nothing is as it used to be except the colors? How often have I explained to you the latest social discovery admitted now by everybody outside the religious orders, and by many within them—I mean the curative element in sin."
"Curative element in sin!" exclaimed the father.
"Ay—Pleasure."
"O God!" sighed the old man, turning his face hopelessly to the wall, "Whither are we drifting?"