Foma felt like speaking to this pilgrim, in whose softly uttered words there rang sincere fear of God, and all manner of fear for men before His countenance. The kind, admonitive voice of the pilgrim possessed a peculiar power, which compelled Foma to listen to its deep tones. “I’d like to ask him where he lives,” thought Foma, fixedly scrutinizing the huge stooping figure. “And where have I seen him before? Or does he resemble some acquaintance of mine?” Suddenly it somehow struck Foma with particular vividness that the humble preacher before him was no other than the son of old Anany Shchurov. Stunned by this conjecture, he walked up to the pilgrim and seating himself by his side, inquired freely: “Are you from Irgiz, father?” The pilgrim raised his head, turned his face toward Foma slowly and heavily, scrutinized him and said in a calm and gentle voice: “I was on the Irgiz, too.” “Are you a native of that place?” “Are you now coming from there?” “No, I am coming from Saint Stephen.” The conversation broke off. Foma lacked the courage to ask the pilgrim whether he was not Shchurov. “We’ll be late on account of the fog,” said some one. “How can we help being late!” All were silent, looking at Foma. Young, handsome, neatly and richly dressed, he aroused the curiosity of the bystanders by his sudden appearance among them; he was conscious of this curiosity, he understood that they were all waiting for his words, that they wanted to understand why he had come to them, and all this confused and angered him. “It seems to me that I’ve met you before somewhere, father,” said he at length. The pilgrim replied, without looking at him: “Perhaps.” “I would like to speak to you,” announced Foma, timidly, in a low voice. “Well, then, speak.” “Come with me.” “Whither?” “To my cabin.” The pilgrim looked into Foma’s face, and, after a moment’s silence, assented: “Come.” On leaving, Foma felt the looks of the peasants on his back, and now he was pleased to know that they were interested in him. In the cabin he asked gently: “Would you perhaps eat something? Tell me. I will order it.” “God forbid. What do you wish?” This man, dirty and ragged, in a cassock turned red with age, and covered with patches, surveyed the cabin with a squeamish look, and when he seated himself on the plush-covered lounge, he turned the skirt of the cassock as though afraid to soil it by the plush. “What is your name, father?” asked Foma, noticing the expression of squeamishness on the pilgrim’s face. “Miron.” “Not Mikhail?” “Why Mikhail?” asked the pilgrim. “There was in our town the son of a certain merchant Shchurov, he also went off to the Irgiz. And his name was Mikhail.” Foma spoke and fixedly looked at Father Miron; but the latter was as calm as a deaf-mute-- “I never met such a man. I don’t remember, I never met him,” said he, thoughtfully. “So you wished to inquire about him?” “Yes.”