"Not so much noise, brothers," said Larionovich, and also laying aside his work, he went to Sitanov's table where I was reading. The poem stirred me painfully and sweetly; my voice was broken; I could hardly read the lines. Tears poured from my eyes. But what moved me still more was the dull, cautious movement of the workmen. In the workshop everything seemed to be diverted from its usual course--drawn to me as if I had been a magnet. When I had finished the first part, almost all of them were standing round the table, closely pressing against one another, embracing one another, frowning and laughing. "Go on reading," said Jikharev, bending my head over the book. When I had finished reading, he took the book, looked at the title, put it under his arm, and said: "We must read this again! We will read it to-morrow! I will hide the book away." He went away, locked "Lermontov" in his drawer, and returned to his work. It was quiet in the workshop; the men stole back to their tables. Sitanov went to the window, pressed his forehead against the glass, and stood there as if frozen. Jikharev, again laying down his brush, said in a stern voice: "Well, such is life; slaves of God--yes--ah!" He shrugged his shoulders, hid his face, and went on: "I can draw the devil himself; black and rough, with wings of red flame, with red lead, but the face, hands, and feet--these should be bluish-white, like snow on a moonlight night." Until close upon supper-time he revolved about on his stool, restless and unlike himself, drumming with his fingers and talking unintelligibly of the devil, of women and Eve, of paradise, and of the sins of holy men. "That is all true!" he declared. "If the saints sinned with sinful women, then of course the devil may sin with a pure soul." They listened to him in silence; probably, like me, they had no desire to speak. They worked unwillingly, looking all the time at their watches, and as soon as it struck ten, they put away their work altogether. Sitanov and Jikharev went out to the yard, and I went with them. There, gazing at the stars, Sitanov said: "Like a wandering caravan Thrown into space, it shone." "You did not make that up yourself!" "I can never remember words," said Jikharev, shivering in the bitter cold. "I can't remember anything; but he, I see--It is an amazing thing--a man who actually pities the devil! He has made you sorry for him, hasn't he?" "He has," agreed Sitanov. "There, that is a real man!" exclaimed Jikharev reminiscently. In the vestibule he warned me: "You, Maxim, don't speak to any one in the shop about that book, for of course it is a forbidden one." I rejoiced; this must be one of the books of which the priest had spoken to me in the confessional. We supped languidly, without the usual noise and talk, as if something important had occurred and we could not keep from thinking about it, and after supper, when we were going to bed, Jikharev said to me, as he drew forth the book: