"Nothing came of it."
I wanted to embrace him. Pity arose in my heart for Kostia, for Christ, for all the people who remained in the village, for the whole human world. And what of me? Where was my place? Where was I going?
The darkness of the short night was lifting, and from above a quiet light came through the branches of the pine trees.
"You are not tired, Kostia?"
"I?" the small boy answered proudly. "No. I like to walk in the night. It seems to me then that I walk through wonderland. I love fairy tales."
At dawn we lay down to sleep. Kostia fell asleep quickly, as if he had dived into a river, but I circled around my thoughts like a Tartar beggar around a Christian church in winter. It is stormy and cold in the street, but it is forbidden by Mohammed to enter the temple.
I decided upon something towards morning, and when the boy awoke, I said to him:
"Forgive me that I made you walk with me for nothing. I am not going to the monastery. I don't want to hide."
He looked at me seriously and said:
"You have already hidden." Then, without looking at me, he began to wave a twig.