“One thousand!” The company giggled, seeing that the priest was shrinking as though cold water was being poured on him. “Two!” roared Ignat, with flashing eyes. “What’s the matter with you? How is it?” muttered the priest, stretching out both hands to Ignat. “Three!” “Ignat Matveyich!” cried the priest, in a thin, ringing voice. “For God’s sake! For Christ’s sake! Enough! I’ll sell her! For her own sake I’ll sell her!” In his sickly, sharp voice was heard a threat to someone, and his eyes, unnoticed by anybody before, flashed like coals. But the intoxicated crowd only laughed at him foolishly. “Silence!” cried Ignat, sternly, straightening himself to his full length and flashing his eyes. “Don’t you understand, devils, what’s going on here? It’s enough to make one cry, while you giggle.” He walked up to the priest, went down on his knees before him, and said to him firmly: “Father now you see what a rascal I am. Well, spit into my face!” Something ugly and ridiculous took place. The priest too, knelt before Ignat, and like a huge turtle, crept around near his feet, kissed his knees and muttered something, sobbing. Ignat bent over him, lifted him from the floor and cried to him, commanding and begging: “Spit! Spit right into my shameless eyes!” The company, stupefied for a moment by Ignat’s stern voice, laughed again so that the panes rattled in the tavern windows. “I’ll give you a hundred roubles. Spit!” And the priest crept over the floor and sobbed for fear, or for happiness, to hear that this man was begging him to do something degrading to himself. Finally Ignat arose from the floor, kicked the priest, and, flinging at him a package of money, said morosely, with a smile: “Rabble! Can a man repent before such people? Some are afraid to hear of repentance, others laugh at a sinner. I was about to unburden myself completely; the heart trembled. Let me, I thought. No, I didn’t think at all. Just so! Get out of here! And see that you never show yourself to me again. Do you hear?” “Oh, a queer fellow!” said the crowd, somewhat moved. Legends were composed about his drinking bouts in town; everybody censured him strictly, but no one ever declined his invitation to those drinking bouts. Thus he lived for weeks. And unexpectedly he used to come home, not yet altogether freed from the odour of the kabaks, but already crestfallen and quiet. With humbly downcast eyes, in which shame was burning now, he silently listened to his wife’s reproaches, and, humble and meek as a lamb, went away to his room and locked himself in. For many hours in succession he knelt before the cross, lowering his head on his breast; his hands hung helplessly, his back was bent, and he was silent, as though he dared not pray. His wife used to come up to the door on tiptoe and listen. Deep sighs were heard from behind the door--like the breathing of a tired and sickly horse.