"Pashka," he cried in a tenor voice to my comrade, the apprentice, "come along now, start off: 'Praise--'Now people, listen!" Wiping his hands on his apron, Pashka led off: "Pr--a--a--ise--" "The Name of the Lord," several voices caught it up, but Jikharev cried fussily: "Lower, Evgen! Let your voice come from the very depths of the soul." Sitanov, in a voice so deep that it sounded like the rattle of a drum, gave forth: "R--rabi Gospoda (slaves of the Lord)--" "Not like that! That part should be taken in such a way that the earth should tremble and the doors and windows should open of themselves!" Jikharev was in a state of incomprehensible excitement. His extraordinary brows went up and down on his forehead, his voice broke, his fingers played on an invisible dulcimer. "Slaves of the Lord--do you understand?" he said importantly. "You have got to feel that right to the kernel of your being, right through the shell. Slaves, praise the Lord! How is it that you--living people--do not understand that?" "We never seem to get it as you say it ought to be," said Sitanov quietly. "Well, let it alone then!" Jikharev, offended, went on with his work. He was the best workman we had, for he could paint faces in the Byzantine manner, and artistically, in the new Italian style. When he took orders for iconostasis, Larionovich took counsel with him. He had a fine knowledge of all original image-paintings; all the costly copies of miraculous icons, Theodorovski, Kazanski, and others, passed through his hands. But when he lighted upon the originals, he growled loudly: "These originals tie us down; there is no getting away from that fact." In spite of his superior position in the workshop, he was less conceited than the others, and was kind to the apprentices--Pavl and me. He wanted to teach us the work, since no one else ever bothered about us. He was difficult to understand; he was not usually cheerful, and sometimes he would work for a whole week in silence, like a dumb man. He looked on every one as at strangers who amazed him, as if it were the first time he had come across such people. And although he was very fond of singing, at such times he did not sing, nor did he even listen to the songs. All the others watched him, winking at one another. He would bend over the icon which stood sideways, his tablet on his knees, the middle resting on the edge of the table, while his fine brush diligently painted the dark, foreign face. He was dark and foreign-looking himself. Suddenly he would say in a clear, offended tone: "Forerunner--what does that mean? _Tech_ means in ancient language 'to go.' A forerunner is one who goes before,--and that is all." The workshop was very quiet; every one was glancing askance at Jikharev, laughing, and in the stillness rang out these strange words: "He ought to be painted with a sheepskin and wings." "Whom are you talking to?" I asked.