"We value you, you fool," he said. "We think of you. We have noticed your zeal in work and wish to reward your intelligence. I even place before you a choice of two duties. Do you want to work in the office, or do you want to be a lay brother to Father Anthony?" I felt as if I had been revived with warm water. I was stifled with joy and could hardly speak: "Permit me to be a lay brother." He frowned, became thoughtful, and looked at me curiously. "If you go to the office," he said, "I will take away the stump digging; but if you go as a lay brother, I will increase the work in the woods." "Permit me to be a lay brother." He asked me sternly: "Why, you fool! The work is easier in the office, and more respectable." I insisted. He bowed his head and thought a while. "I permit it. You are a strange fellow, and one should not lose sight of you. Who knows what fires you will light--who knows? Go in peace." I went to the wood. It was spring then, cold April. The work was hard, the wood an ancient one. The main roots went deep into the earth; the side ones were big. I dug and dug, and chopped and chopped; tied the trunk and made the horse pull out the stump. He tried with all his strength, but only broke the harness. Already by noon my bones felt broken and my horse trembled and was covered with foam. He looked at me out of his round eyes, as if he wished to say: "I cannot, brother; it is hard." I petted him and slapped his neck. "I see," I said. And again I dug and chopped and the horse looked at me, his hide trembling and his head nodding. Horses are intelligent, and I am sure that they perceive all the senseless actions of man. At this time I had an encounter with Misha, which came near ending badly for both of us. Once I went to my work after the noon-day meal, and had already reached the wood when suddenly he overtook me, club in hand, his face wild, his teeth showing, and panting like a bear. What did it mean? I stopped and waited for him. He did not say a word, but brandished his club at me. I bent in time, and struck him below the belt with my head. I threw him down, sat on his chest, and took away his club. "What is the matter with you?" I asked him. "What's this for?" He struggled underneath me and said hoarsely: "Get out of the monastery!" "Why?" "I can't look at you. I'll kill you! Get out of here!" His eyes were red. The tears that came out seemed red, and his lips were covered with foam. He tore at my clothes; he scratched and pinched me, anxious to reach my face. I shook him lightly and arose from his chest. "You wear the garb of a monk," I said, "and yet you are capable of such vileness, you brute! Why?" He sat in the mud and demanded, obstinately: "Get out of here! Don't make me lose my soul!" I did not understand him. Finally I made a guess, and asked him low: "Perhaps, Misha, you think I told some one about your wretched sin? It is not so. I told no one about it."