The old Superior made up his mind that he would once more speak to him privately, before he took the irrevocable vow, and he decided to do so after the first office for the day before Christmas Eve had been said. When therefore, Mesonyktikon, or the midnight office, was over—that is, about two o’clock in the morning on Christmas Eve—Gurij summoned Ambrose to his cell. ‘To-day,’ he said, ‘you are to take the final vow and be one of us, and become a monk for the rest of your life.’ ‘Yes, Father.’ ‘You have no doubt as to your decision?’ ‘No.’ ‘There is nothing about which you wish to consult me?’ ‘No.’ ‘There is nothing you wish to confess to me or confide to me?—you know that I am not only your brother, but an old friend too.’ ‘I have no confession to make.’ ‘Have you never done wrong? Is there nothing in your earlier career for which you need to obtain forgiveness or the intercession of the Church?’ ‘Indeed, Father, I have done wrong; but others have done more wrong to me than I have done to them.’ ‘You have no longer any ill feeling; you have forgiven them?’ ‘No,’ said Ambrose, after a moment’s reflection. ‘But you must forgive; you will obtain no peace until you do, and you cannot take the vow while you bear malice in your heart. Before you bid the world farewell you must realize the calm peace of reconciliation.’ ‘I cannot.’ ‘Who is it that has wronged you so cruelly?’ ‘My father.’ ‘Your own father?’ ‘Yes, and my relations and friends.’ ‘There are also many things connected with the world with which your heart is still occupied, and on which your thoughts dwell, instead of being engaged in prayer and fasting.’ ‘No; there is nothing in the world in which I have lived that I look for. All is hidden, forgotten, buried and lost.’ ‘But it has left behind bitterness in your feelings. Have you never loved—loved some woman?’ ‘Certainly,’ exclaimed Ambrose, and he thereupon turned paler than ever. There suddenly arose from the innermost recess of his soul a form so lifelike, as it stood before him, that he covered his face with his hands and fell on his knees, and laid his head on the old man’s lap, while he slowly muttered the name ‘Annita, Annita.’ The old man allowed him to remain thus for a while, as he perceived that this strong man was weeping like a child. There must, then, as he had suspected, be events which had taken place in his earlier career which were now revived with painful vividness. ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘will you here, in the quiet of the night, open your heart to me, and tell me all about your previous career? I do not ask you from inquisitiveness, but tell me if you can; I will listen to you. You know that I am your friend. Moreover, I have loved you, and will understand you, and sympathize with you.’