“We must flee to the desert,” said the peasant who lay on the bench. “Not everybody can afford it.” The peasants spoke, and became silent again. A shrill whistle resounded, a little bell began to jingle at the machine. Someone’s loud exclamation rang out: “Eh, there! To the water-measuring poles.” “Oh Lord! Oh Queen of Heaven!”--a deep sigh was heard. And a dull, half-choked voice shouted: “Nine! nine!” Fragments of the fog burst forth upon the deck and floated over it like cold, gray smoke. “Here, kind people, give ear unto the words of King David,” said the pilgrim, and shaking his head, began to read distinctly: “‘Lead me, Oh Lord, in thy righteousness because of mine enemies; make thy way straight before my face. For there is no faithfulness in their mouths; their inward part is very wickedness; their throat is an open sepulchre; they flatter with their tongue. Destroy thou them, Oh God; let them fall by their own counsels.’” “Eight! seven!” Like moans these exclamations resounded in the distance. The steamer began to hiss angrily, and slackened its speed. The noise of the hissing of the steam deafened the pilgrim’s words, and Foma saw only the movement of his lips. “Get off!” a loud, angry shout was heard. “It’s my place!” “Yours?” “Here you have yours!” “I’ll rap you on the jaw; then you’ll find your place. What a lord!” “Get away!” An uproar ensued. The peasants who were listening to the pilgrim turned their heads toward the direction where the row was going on, and the pilgrim heaved a sigh and became silent. Near the machine a loud and lively dispute blazed up as though dry branches, thrown upon a dying bonfire, had caught the flame. “I’ll give it to you, devils! Get away, both of you.” “Take them away to the captain.” “Ha! ha! ha! That’s a fine settlement for you!” “That was a good rap he gave him on the neck!” “The sailors are a clever lot.” “Eight! nine!” shouted the man with the measuring pole. “Yes, increase speed!” came the loud exclamation of the engineer. Swaying because of the motion of the steamer, Foma stood leaning against the tarpaulin, and attentively listened to each and every sound about him. And everything was blended into one picture, which was familiar to him. Through fog and uncertainty, surrounded on all sides by gloom impenetrable to the eye, life of man is moving somewhere slowly and heavily. And men are grieved over their sins, they sigh heavily, and then fight for a warm place, and asking each other for the sake of possessing the place, they also receive blows from those who strive for order in life. They timidly search for a free road toward the goal. “Nine! eight!” The wailing cry is softly wafted over the vessel. “And the holy prayer of the pilgrim is deafened by the tumult of life. And there is no relief from sorrow, there is no joy for him who reflects on his fate.”