“Hush, deacon!  Fine conquerors we are!  Conquerors ought to look like eagles, while he’s a pitiful figure, timid, crushed; he bows like a Chinese idol, and I, I am sad. . . .”

They heard steps behind them.  It was Laevsky, hurrying after them to see him off.  The orderly was standing on the quay with the two portmanteaus, and at a little distance stood four boatmen.

“There is a wind, though. . . .  Brrr!” said Samoylenko.  “There must be a pretty stiff storm on the sea now!  You are not going off at a nice time, Koyla.”

“I’m not afraid of sea-sickness.”

“That’s not the point. . . .  I only hope these rascals won’t upset you.  You ought to have crossed in the agent’s sloop.  Where’s the agent’s sloop?” he shouted to the boatmen.

“It has gone, Your Excellency.”

“And the Customs-house boat?”

“That’s gone, too.”

“Why didn’t you let us know,” said Samoylenko angrily.  “You dolts!”

“It’s all the same, don’t worry yourself . . .” said Von Koren.  “Well, good-bye.  God keep you.”

Samoylenko embraced Von Koren and made the sign of the cross over him three times.

“Don’t forget us, Kolya. . . .  Write. . . .  We shall look out for you next spring.”

“Good-bye, deacon,” said Von Koren, shaking hands with the deacon.  “Thank you for your company and for your pleasant conversation.  Think about the expedition.”

“Oh Lord, yes! to the ends of the earth,” laughed the deacon.  “I’ve nothing against it.”

Von Koren recognised Laevsky in the darkness, and held out his hand without speaking.  The boatmen were by now below, holding the boat, which was beating against the piles, though the breakwater screened it from the breakers.  Von Koren went down the ladder, jumped into the boat, and sat at the helm.

“Write!” Samoylenko shouted to him.  “Take care of yourself.”

“No one knows the real truth,” thought Laevsky, turning up the collar of his coat and thrusting his hands into his sleeves.

The boat turned briskly out of the harbour into the open sea.  It vanished in the waves, but at once from a deep hollow glided up onto a high breaker, so that they could distinguish the men and even the oars.  The boat moved three yards forward and was sucked two yards back.

“Write!” shouted Samoylenko; “it’s devilish weather for you to go in.”

“Yes, no one knows the real truth . . .” thought Laevsky, looking wearily at the dark, restless sea.

“It flings the boat back,” he thought; “she makes two steps forward and one step back; but the boatmen are stubborn, they work the oars unceasingly, and are not afraid of the high waves.  The boat goes on and on.  Now she is out of sight, but in half an hour the boatmen will see the steamer lights distinctly, and within an hour they will be by the steamer ladder.  So it is in life. . . .  In the search for truth man makes two steps forward and one step back.  Suffering, mistakes, and weariness of life thrust them back, but the thirst for truth and stubborn will drive them on and on.  And who knows?  Perhaps they will reach the real truth at last.”