'I am to blame,' he cried, striking his chest, 'are you still angry with me?'
'God give you all that you desire,' said Slimak, bowing low, 'you are coming to me in my time of trouble.'
This humility pleased the old peasant; he grasped Slimak's hand and said in a more natural voice: 'I tell you, I am to blame, for his Reverence told me to say that. Therefore I am the first to make it up with you, although I am the elder. But I must say, neighbour, you did annoy me very much. However, I will not reproach you.'
'Forgive me the wrong I have done,' said Slimak, bending towards his shoulder, 'but to tell you the truth, I cannot remember ever having wronged you personally.'
'I won't mince matters, Slimak. You dealt with those railway people without consulting me.'
'Look at what I have earned by my trading,' said Slimak, pointing to his burnt homestead.
'Well, God has punished you heavily, and that is why I say: I am to blame. But when you came to church and your wife—God rest her eternally—bought herself a silk kerchief, you ought to have treated me to at least a pint of vodka, instead of speaking impertinently to me.'
'It's true, I boasted too early.'
'And then you made friends with the Germans and prayed with them.'
'I only took off my cap. Their God is the same as ours.'