A loud sigh was heard from under the chaise.  It was Kuzmitchov waking up.  He quickly raised his head, looked uneasily into the distance, and from that look, which passed by Yegorushka and Deniska without sympathy or interest, it could be seen that his thought on awaking was of the wool and of Varlamov.

“Father Christopher, get up; it is time to start,” he said anxiously.  “Wake up; we’ve slept too long as it is!  Deniska, put the horses in.”

Father Christopher woke up with the same smile with which he had fallen asleep; his face looked creased and wrinkled from sleep, and seemed only half the size.  After washing and dressing, he proceeded without haste to take out of his pocket a little greasy psalter; and standing with his face towards the east, began in a whisper repeating the psalms of the day and crossing himself.

“Father Christopher,” said Kuzmitchov reproachfully, “it’s time to start; the horses are ready, and here are you, . . . upon my word.”

“In a minute, in a minute,” muttered Father Christopher.  “I must read the psalms. . . .  I haven’t read them to-day.”

“The psalms can wait.”

“Ivan Ivanitch, that is my rule every day. . . .  I can’t . . .”

“God will overlook it.”

For a full quarter of an hour Father Christopher stood facing the east and moving his lips, while Kuzmitchov looked at him almost with hatred and impatiently shrugged his shoulders.  He was particularly irritated when, after every “Hallelujah,” Father Christopher drew a long breath, rapidly crossed himself and repeated three times, intentionally raising his voice so that the others might cross themselves, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah!  Glory be to Thee, O Lord!” At last he smiled, looked upwards at the sky, and, putting the psalter in his pocket, said: 

“Finis!”

A minute later the chaise had started on the road.  As though it were going backwards and not forwards, the travellers saw the same scene as they had before midday.

The low hills were still plunged in the lilac distance, and no end could be seen to them.  There were glimpses of high grass and heaps of stones; strips of stubble land passed by them and still the same rooks, the same hawk, moving its wings with slow dignity, moved over the steppe.  The air was more sultry than ever; from the sultry heat and the stillness submissive nature was spellbound into silence . . . .  No wind, no fresh cheering sound, no cloud.

But at last, when the sun was beginning to sink into the west, the steppe, the hills and the air could bear the oppression no longer, and, driven out of all patience, exhausted, tried to fling off the yoke.  A fleecy ashen-grey cloud unexpectedly appeared behind the hills.  It exchanged glances with the steppe, as though to say, “Here I am,” and frowned.  Suddenly something burst in the stagnant air; there was a violent squall of wind which whirled round and