"Nor do I know of what good Christ's martyrdom was. He wanted to conquer suffering, and what came of it?" He grew thoughtful and then added: "Nothing came of it." I wanted to embrace him. Pity arose in my heart for Kostia, for Christ, for all the people who remained in the village, for the whole human world. And what of me? Where was my place? Where was I going? The darkness of the short night was lifting, and from above a quiet light came through the branches of the pine trees. "You are not tired, Kostia?" "I?" the small boy answered proudly. "No. I like to walk in the night. It seems to me then that I walk through wonderland. I love fairy tales." At dawn we lay down to sleep. Kostia fell asleep quickly, as if he had dived into a river, but I circled around my thoughts like a Tartar beggar around a Christian church in winter. It is stormy and cold in the street, but it is forbidden by Mohammed to enter the temple. I decided upon something towards morning, and when the boy awoke, I said to him: "Forgive me that I made you walk with me for nothing. I am not going to the monastery. I don't want to hide." He looked at me seriously and said: "You have already hidden." Then, without looking at me, he began to wave a twig. "Well, good-by, dear." He bowed his head: "Good-by," he answered. I went away, then looked back. He stood there among the trees following me with his eyes. "Eh," he cried, "good-by!" It pleased me that he said it with more tenderness this time. CHAPTER XXV Like one sick, I wandered for many days, full of heavy heartache. A fire raged in my soul, that quiet piece of land of mine, and lit it up like a meadow in the wood, and my thoughts now crawled ahead of me, together with my shadow; now dragged behind, like biting smoke. Was I ashamed or not? I do not remember and I cannot say. A black thought was born in my mind and fluttered about me like a bat. "They are Godless ones, not God-creators." But heavier and broader than all my thoughts, was a hollow stillness in me, lazy and deep; a certain peace like a turbid pool, in the depths of whose heart dumb thoughts swam about with difficulty, like frightened fish who struggle but cannot rise to the light from out of the oppressive depths. Little reached me from the outside, and I remember my meetings with men as through a dream. Somewhere near Omsk, at a village market, I woke up. A blind man sat on the road in the dust and sang a song. His guide knelt near him and accompanied him on his accordion. The old man looked up at heaven with his empty eyes and sang the words with a faraway, rusty voice, describing the past, under the reign of Ivan Vasilef, and the accordion gave out its hollow accompaniment, "U-u-u." I sat down on the ground next to the blind man. He took hold of my hand, held it, let it go again, but did not stop singing: "Once there lived Ermak, a son of Timotheof." "A-a-a," the accordion repeated.