Both the mother and Rybin spoke slowly, as if testing every word before uttering it.
"There's little joy for me in this, mother," said Rybin. "I have lived here of late, and gobbled up a deal of stuff. Yes; I understand some, too! And now I feel as if I were burying a child."
"You'll perish, Mikhaïl Ivanych!" said the mother, shaking her head sadly.
His dark, deep eyes looked at her with a questioning, expectant look. His powerful body bent forward, propped by his hands resting on the seat of the chair, and his swarthy face seemed pale in the black frame of his beard.
"Did you hear what Christ said about the seed? 'Thou shalt not die, but rise to life again in the new ear.' I don't regard myself as near death at all. I am shrewd. I follow a straighter course than the others. You can get further that way. Only, you see, I feel sorry—I don't know why." He fidgeted on his chair, then slowly rose. "I'll go to the tavern and be with the people a while. The Little Russian is not coming. Has he gotten busy already?"
"Yes!" The mother smiled. "No sooner out of prison than they rush to their work."
"That's the way it should be. Tell him about me."
They walked together slowly into the kitchen, and without looking at each other exchanged brief remarks:
"I'll tell him," she promised.
"Well, good-by!"