"Folk die," was his next utterance, "and the world remains as full of grief as ever. Yes, folk die even before they have seen a little good accrue to themselves."
"I see that your book is not a Psalter," here I interposed after an inspection of the volume.
"You are wrong."
"Then look for yourself."
He grabbed the book by its cover, and, by dint of holding the candle close to its pages, discovered, eventually, that matters were as I had stated.
This took him aback completely.
"What can the fact mean?" he exclaimed. "Oh, I know what has happened. The mistake has come of my being in such a hurry. The other book, the true Psalter, is a fat, heavy volume, whereas this one is—"
For a moment he seemed sobered by the shock. At all events, he rose and, approaching the corpse, said, as he bent over the bed with his beard held back:
"Pardon me, Vasil, but what is to be done?"
Then he straightened himself again, threw back his curls, and, drawing a bottle from his pocket, and thrusting the neck of the bottle into his mouth, took a long draught, with a whistling of his nostrils as he did so.