"Well?" I said.
"Well, I intend to go to bed—my idea is to drink and enjoy myself awhile."
"Go, then."
"And what of the reading?"
"Who would wish you to mumble words which you would not be comprehending as you uttered them?"
The deacon reseated himself upon the bench, leaned forward, buried his face in his hands and remained silent.
Fast the July night was waning. Fast its shadows were dissolving into corners, and allowing a whiff of fresh dewy morningtide to enter at the window. Already was the combined light of the two candles growing paler, with their flames looking like the eyes of a frightened child.
"You have lived your life, Vasi," at length the deacon muttered, "and though once I had a place to which to resort, now I shall have none. Yes, my last friend is dead. Oh Lord—where is Thy justice?"
For myself, I went and took a seat by the window, and, thrusting my head into the open air, lit a pipe, and continued to listen with a shiver to the deacon's wailings.
"Folk used to gird at my wife," he went on, "and now they are gnawing at me as pigs might gnaw at a cabbage. That is so, Vasil. Yes that is so."