"I am a pilgrim, friend, a wandering man."

"The devils, the nightbirds. . . . Nice sort of pilgrims! They are
drunkards . . ." mutters the watchman, reassured by the tone and
sighs of the stranger. "One's tempted to sin by you. They drink the
day away and prowl about at night. But I fancy I heard you were not
alone; it sounded like two or three of you."

"I am alone, friend, alone. Quite alone. O-o-oh our sins. . . ."

The watchman stumbles up against the man and stops.

"How did you get here?" he asks.

"I have lost my way, good man. I was walking to the Mitrievsky Mill
and I lost my way."

"Whew! Is this the road to Mitrievsky Mill? You sheepshead! For the
Mitrievsky Mill you must keep much more to the left, straight out
of the town along the high road. You have been drinking and have
gone a couple of miles out of your way. You must have had a drop
in the town."

"I did, friend . . . Truly I did; I won't hide my sins. But how am
I to go now?"

"Go straight on and on along this avenue till you can go no farther,
and then turn at once to the left and go till you have crossed the
whole graveyard right to the gate. There will be a gate there. . . .
Open it and go with God's blessing. Mind you don't fall into the