AS they drove across the steppe, in the two-wheeled cart without springs, at the slow, monotonous trot of the old mare, Father Cyril had a better opportunity than he had ever had before of a prolonged discussion with Alexis Ivanoff on the tenets and history of their young sect. He was filled with surprise and admiration. The absolute simplicity and truthfulness of the farmer, united as it was with mental strength and a close grasp of his subject, astonished the Batoushka. Alexis was not logical; he had had no training in a theological seminary, like Father Cyril. He argued as the fishermen of Galilee would have argued. But his convictions were as strong as theirs, who had seen the Lord with their eyes, and heard Him with their ears. Father Cyril could not help admitting that the worship of the Stundists was far more in accordance with that of the apostolic age than the ornate, multitudinous, and magnificent ceremonies of the Orthodox Church. He owned that the peasants, in their ignorance, did worship the icons with idolatry. Yet in fundamental Christian doctrines, he and Alexis were one. They prayed to the same Father in heaven; they believed in the same Lord; they studied the same Holy Scriptures. There was real spiritual communion between them, as they slowly crossed the brown autumnal steppe, now lying under a thin veil of mist, which hid the horizon, and enclosed them in a soft circle of mellowed light. They reached Kovylsk too late to go to the consistory that night. But quite early in the morning Father Cyril presented himself at the gate, and inquired for Father Paissy, who was known throughout the diocese as the archbishop's right hand. They had been at the theological seminary together, where they had been on friendly terms, but they had seen nothing of one another since Father Paissy had elected to enter the order of the monastical clergy, who take vows of celibacy, and who alone can be raised to the higher ranks of the Russian priesthood. He was already a powerful personage. He was a small, sharp-featured man, with a soft voice, and a perpetual smile on his thin lips. "Father Cyril, parish priest of Knishi?" he said interrogatively, without condescending to recognise him as his former comrade. "Ah! You have a troublesome flock. Heresy runs like an infectious disease among them. We must stamp it out—stamp it out effectually." "I come in the hope of seeing the archbishop," said Father Cyril. "He is in Moscow," interrupted Father Paissy, "but I can act in his stead." It was a great blow to Father Cyril; for the archbishop never refused him an interview, and he had placed great hopes on his indulgence. It is easier to prevent a thing being done than to get it undone. There was no sign of indulgence in the hard face opposite him.