"Ho!" laughed Glukhóvsky, derisively,
"Hope of salvation's not mine;
These are the things that I estimate—
Women, gold, honour, and wine.
"My life, old man, is the only one; 360
Many the serfs that I keep;
What though I waste, hang, and torture them—
You should but see how I sleep!"
Lo! to the hermit, by miracle,
Wrath a great strength did impart,
Straight on Glukhóvsky he flung himself,
Buried the knife in his heart.
Scarce had the Pan, in his agony,
Sunk to the blood-sodden ground,
Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate,
Trembled the earth at the sound. 371
Lo! and the sins of the anchorite
Passed from his soul like a breath.
"Let us pray God to incline to us,
Slaves in the shadow of Death…."
CHAPTER III
OLD AND NEW
Ióna has finished.
He crosses himself,
And the people are silent.
And then of a sudden
The trader cries loudly
In great irritation,
"What's wrong with the ferry?
A plague on the sluggards!
Ho, ferry ahoy!"
"You won't get the ferry 10
Till sunrise, for even
In daytime they're frightened
To cross: the boat's rotten!
About Kudeár, now—"