"In the depths of the sacred monasteries there's an unbroken stillness; the darkness is over everything; but through it the lamps before the shrines shine like the eyes of children, and there's a perfume of holy oil of unction." The rain increased; a sound as of weeping and sighing came from outside the window; the galvanised iron on the roof rattled and groaned, the water pouring off it splashed, sobbing, and a network of strong steel threads seemed to quiver in the air. "This oil of unction, the Chrism, comes from the heads of the Saints." "O--oh!" said Ilya, slowly. "Well, did you find peace for your soul?" Terenti was silent for a moment, then straightened himself in his chair, bent forward to Ilya and said, lowering his voice: "See, it's like this, my unwilling sin crushed my heart like a wooden boot. I say unwilling because if I had not obeyed Petrusha--bang! he would have kicked me out! He would have thrown me on the streets, wouldn't he?" "Yes," Ilya agreed. "Well, then, as soon as I began my pilgrimage, my heart was lighter at once, and as I went I prayed. 'Oh, Lord, see, I am going to Thy holy Saints. I know I am a sinner.'" "That's to say, you bargained with Him?" asked Ilya, with a smile. "His will be done! How He received my prayer I do not know," said the hunchback, looking upwards. "But your conscience?" "How do you mean?" "Is it at peace?" Terenti considered for a moment, as if he were listening, then said: "It is silent." Lunev smiled. "Prayer, if it comes from a clean heart, always brings relief," said the hunchback, softly but emphatically. Ilya got up and went to the window. Wide streams of dirty water flowed down the gutters; little pools were formed between the stones of the pavement; they trembled under the descending shower, so that it looked as though all the pavement quivered. The house over the way was quite wet and gloomy, its window-panes were dim and the flowers behind them invisible. The streets were deserted and quiet; only the rain hissed and all the little gutters splashed along. A solitary pigeon was sheltering under the eaves by the gable-window, and a damp, heavy dreariness invaded the town from all sides. "Autumn is here!" The thought shot through Lunev's brain. "How else can a man set himself right with God except through prayer?" asked Terenti, as he began to open one of his bags. "It's very simple," remarked Ilya gloomily, without turning round. "You sin as you please; then you pray hard, and it's all right! All settled, begin again, sin some more!" "But why? On the contrary, live honestly!" "Why?" "How d'you mean?" "What I say. Why should you?" "To have a clear conscience." "What's the good of that?" "Oh--oh!" said Terenti, slowly and reproachfully, "How can you say that?" "I do say it, though," said Ilya obstinately and firmly, turning his back. "That is wicked!" "Tcha! Wicked!" "Punishment will follow." "No!"