And, the next moment, a bulk so large and shapeless that it might well have been the darkness of the night embodied, stumbled against the outer side of the door, grunted, hiccuped, and lurching head foremost into the hut, grew wellnigh to the ceiling. Then it waved a gigantic hand, crossed itself in the direction of the candle, and, bending forward until its forehead almost touched the feet of the corpse, queried under its breath:
"How now, Vasil?"
Thereafter, the figure vented a sob whilst a strong smell of vodka arose in the room, and from the doorway the old woman said in an appealing voice:
"Pray give HIM the book, Father Demid."
"No indeed! Why should I? I intend to do the reading myself."
And a heavy hand laid itself upon my shoulder, while a great hairy face bent over mine, and inquired:
"A young man, are you not? A member of the clergy, too, I suppose?"
So covered with tufts of auburn hair was the enormous head above me—tufts the sheen of which even the semi-obscurity of the pale candlelight failed to render inconspicuous—that the mass, as a whole, resembled a mop. And as its owner lurched to and fro, he made me lurch responsively by now drawing me towards himself, now thrusting me away. Meanwhile he continued to suffuse my face with the hot, thick odour of spirituous liquor.
"Father Demid!" again essayed the old woman with an imploring wail, but he cut her short with the menacing admonition:
"How often have I told you that you must not address a deacon as 'Father'? Go to bed! Yes, be off with you, and let me mind my affairs myself! GO, I say! But first light me another candle, for I cannot see a single thing in front of me."