"Yes, I go on foot. And you?"
"Likewise."
He moved slightly, and there was a sort of metallic clank—evidently a kettle or tea-pot, that indispensable accessory of the pilgrim to holy places; but in his tone there was not a trace of that foxy unction which always betrays the pilgrim; in his tone there was nothing of the pilgrim's obligatory thievish oiliness, and, so far, his words were unaccompanied by any pious groans or quotations from "the Scriptures." In general he did not at all resemble the professional loafers at the holy places—that shoddy and endless variety of "Russian Vagabondage," whose lies and superstitions have such an effect upon the spiritually-hungry and starving rural population. Besides, he was going to Nikolaiev, where there were neither shrines nor relics....
"And where are you coming from?" I inquired.
"From Astrakhan."
Now in Astrakhan also there are no relics. Then I asked him:
"Doesn't that mean you are going from sea to sea and not to the holy places at all?"
"Nay, but I go to the holy places too. Why should I not go to the holy places? I go with pleasure ... they always feed you well there ... especially if you get intimate with the monks. Our brother Isaac[1] is much respected by them, because he makes life a little less monotonous for them. What are your views on the subject?"
I explained.
"They are feeding-places," he admitted "And whither then do you go? Aha! you find the way is long, eh? Strike a match and we'll smoke a little more. When one smokes one grows a little warmer."