"Nor a man either," said Alexis, with a smile and a sigh. "It is a hard saying, but He who said it will give us grace to obey it. Only love Him, Michael, and, presently we shall learn to love all for whom He died." In the dusk Alexis went to the church-house. It was somewhat larger than his own, and possessed a slate roof, and glass in every casement. It stood near the church, and not far from the cemetery, where, until the last few years, all the village comrades in life had found their last resting-place for their toil-worn and wearied bodies. But now the Stundists were forbidden to bury their dead beside their forefathers. Any unconsecrated hole was good enough for their unhallowed corpses. Father Cyril was sitting alone, but the voices of the Matoushka and the children could be heard in the kitchen, where supper was being prepared. Alexis heard Velia's beloved voice singing an evening hymn with the other little ones. Father Cyril was reading by the light of a lamp with three wicks. Through the uncurtained window could be seen the dim, great plain, which lay like a sea round the little island of Knishi. The first slight veil of snow was lying softly upon it, for the autumn was already over. Father Cyril invited Alexis to sit down. The former Batoushka had zealously testified to his religion by not permitting a heretic to take a seat in his house. Alexis sat down by the window, gazing out at the white wilderness on which the moon was shining softly. He told his story simply, without looking at the Batoushka. "Would to God I had been there instead of Michael!" exclaimed Father Cyril. "I always suspected that young rascal was the ringleader in this persecution of children by children. If I could but have laid my hand upon him! Then I would have sent a report to the archbishop. Surely no servant of God could wink at such an evil. It frustrates all my efforts to teach them mercy and loving-kindness. It is making them more savage and cruel than their parents were before them." Father Cyril's voice faltered, and Alexis turned to see why he ceased speaking. He had buried his face in his hands, and the lamplight shone upon tears trickling through his interlaced fingers. "Father, forgive them! They know not what they do," murmured Alexis. "Amen!" said the Batoushka. Before them both, the Orthodox priest and the heretical Stundist, there rose a vision of their crucified Lord, in the hour of His bodily anguish, when rude, rough hands were nailing Him to His cross on Calvary. Both thought of that hour with profound pity and love, but the remembrance brought more strength and comfort to Alexis than to Father Cyril. "Amen!" he repeated. "Our Lord said it. And He also said, 'Blessed are you when men shall revile you, and persecute you, for My sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad.' Father Cyril, we are ready to follow where the Lord leads."