"What rumour? What lies? What do you mean?" And there poured from his lips the melody of a most audacious falsehood--sweet music for all who were listening to him except myself. He liked the fun of spinning yarns. The _khokhli,_ whom he wanted to persuade, were ready to jump into his mouth. But it was abominable to me to listen to his inspired falsehoods, which might very well result in bringing down a great misfortune upon the heads of these simple-minded folks. I left the hut and lay down in the courtyard thinking how best I could spoil the villainous game of my travelling-companion. His voice sounded for a long time in my ears, and then I fell asleep. I was awakened by Promtov at sunrise. "Get up! Let's be off!" he said. Beside him stood the sleepy master of the hut, and the knapsack of Promtov was bulging out on all sides. We took our leave and departed. Promtov was merry. He sang, he whistled, and cast ironical sidelong glances at me. I was thinking what I should say to him and walked by his side in silence. "Well! why don't you crucify me?" he suddenly asked. "And are you aware of what will follow from all this?" I drily inquired. "Why, of course! I understand you, and I know that you ought to turn the jest against me. I'll even tell you how you'll do it. Would you like to hear? But better far--chuck it! What harm is there in putting ideas into the heads of these muzhiks? They will be none the wiser for it. And, besides, I've played my game well Look how they've stuffed my knapsack for me!" "But you may bring them under the stick!" "Scarcely.... And what if I did? What have I to do with other folks' backs. God grant we may keep our own backs whole, that's all! That's not moral I know, but what do I care whether a thing is moral or not moral. You'll agree that that's nobody's business." "Come," thought I, "the wolf's about right." "Assume that they do suffer through my fault--I suppose the sky will still be blue and the sea salt." "But are you not sorry?" "Not a bit ... I am a rolling stone, and everything which the wind casts beneath my feet wounds me in the side." He was serious and intensely wrathful, and his eyes gleamed vindictively. "I always do like that and sometimes worse. Once I recommended a muzhik to drink constantly olive oil mixed with blackbeetles for a pain in the stomach, because he was a skin-flint. Not a little evil of a humorous sort have I wrought during my earthly pilgrimage. How many stupid superstitions and mystifications have I not introduced into the spiritual parts of the muzhik?... And in general I am never very particular. Why should I be? For the sake of a few statutes, eh? Are there not other laws within myself? This, my confession of faith, has also the sanction of John Chrysostom, who says: 'the true Shekina--is man.'" "But why boast of it?"