"What is it?" asked Abyedok, turning his sharp nose to the old man. The snoring of those who were asleep, and the tinkling sound of pouring vodki was heard . . . The Deacon was murmuring something. The clouds swam low, so low that it seemed as if they would touch the roof of the house and would knock it over on the group of men. "Ah! One feels sad when someone near at hand is dying," faltered the Captain, with his head down. No one answered him. "He was the best among you . . . the cleverest, the most respectable. I mourn for him." "R-e-s-t with the Saints . . . Sing, you crooked hunchback!" roared the Deacon, digging his friend in the ribs. "Be quiet!" shouted Abyedok, jumping vengefully to his feet. "I will give him one on the head," proposed Martyanoff, raising his head from the ground. "You are not asleep?" Aristid Fomich asked him very softly. "Have you heard about our teacher?" Martyanoff lazily got up from the ground, looked at the line of light coming out of the dosshouse, shook his head and silently sat down beside the Captain. "Nothing particular . . . The man is dying remarked the Captain, shortly. "Have they been beating him?" asked Abyedok, with great interest. The Captain gave no answer. He was drinking vodki at the moment. "They must have known we had something in which to commemorate him after his death!" continued Abyedok, lighting a cigarette. Someone laughed, someone sighed. Generally speaking, the conversation of Abyedok and the Captain did not interest them, and they hated having to think at all. They had always felt the teacher to be an uncommon man, but now many of them were drunk and the others sad and silent. Only the Deacon suddenly drew himself up straight and howled wildly: "And may the righteous r-e-s-t!" "You idiot!" hissed Abyedok. "What are you howling for?" "Fool!" said Tyapa's hoarse voice. "When a man is dying one must be quiet . . . so that he may have peace." Silence reigned once more. The cloudy sky threatened thunder, and the earth was covered with the thick darkness of an autumn night. "Let us go on drinking!" proposed Kuvalda, filling up the glasses. "I will go and see if he wants anything," said Tyapa. "He wants a coffin!" jeered the Captain. "Don't speak about that," begged Abyedok in a low voice. Meteor rose and followed Tyapa. The Deacon tried to get up, but fell and swore loudly. When Tyapa had gone the Captain touched Martyanoff's shoulder and said in low tones: "Well, Martyanoff . . . You must feel it more then the others. You were . . . But let that go to the Devil . . . Don't you pity Philip?" "No," said the ex-jailer, quietly, "I do not feel things of this sort, brother . . . I have learned better this life is disgusting after all. I speak seriously when I say that I should like to kill someone." "Do you?" said the Captain, indistinctly. "Well let's have another drink . . . It's not a long job ours, a little drink and then . . ."