The candles were put out, the priest retired, and then the sobbing broke forth once more, the people crowded round the coffin and one by one kissed the little dead one, kissed her again and again.  Most of all the little children kissed her, and the father in distraction stood by, calling out in broken treble, “Say good-bye to her, children, say good-bye!”

Last of all, the wild mother said good-bye, and was only taken away by sheer force.  Then the lid was put on the coffin, and the four girls—­they were each about twelve years old—­lifted it on the embroidered towels and carried it out of the church.

The mother fainted and was taken into the open air, where one woman helped to revive her by pouring water on her head out of an old kettle, and another by drinking water and spurting it out again in her face.  Meanwhile the father took eight nails—­he had them in his pocket—­and with all the crowd looking on, he nailed down the lid of the coffin.  The girls once more lifted their burden upon the beautiful towels, and they bore it away to the grave.  The crowd followed them with hymns—­

  All we like dust go down into the grave,

the sound of their singing almost drowned by the beating of their uneven steps.  The music modulated and died away to the silence of the evening.  The little church remained grey and ancient, and the six cypresses stood unmoved, unmoving, like guards before some sacred portal....

And the pilgrim goes on his way.

IV

HOW THE OLD PILGRIM REACHED BETHLEHEM

At New Athos monastery in one of the common hostels there were some hundred peasant men and women, mostly pilgrims.  It was after supper; some of the company were melting away to the dormitories, others remained talking.

There was one topic of conversation common to all.  An old greybeard palmer had broken down that afternoon and died.  He had been almost his whole life on the road to Jerusalem, and we all felt sad to think that he had been cut off when he was truly nearing the Holy Land.

“He wished to go since he was a little boy,” said old Jeremy, an aged pilgrim in a faded crimson shirt.  Every one paid respect to Jeremy and listened to him.  He was a placid greybeard who had spent all his life upon the road, full of wisdom, gentle as a little child, and very frail.

“He wished to go when he was a little boy—­that means he began to go when he was a little boy, for whenever you begin to wish you begin the pilgrimage.  After that, no matter where you are, you are sure to be on the way.  Up in the north the rivers flow under the earth, and no one sees them.  But suddenly the river appears above the land, and the people cry out, ‘See, the river is flowing to the sea.’  But it began to go to the sea long ago.  So it was with Mikhail.  All his life he was a pilgrim.  He lived in a distant land.  He was born of poor parents, not here, but far away in the Petchora province—­oh, far, far away.”