lighted up and glimmering in the stream, and the rushing turbid
water broke its reflection into little bits.

The deacon went for the fish which Kerbalay was cleaning and washing
on the bank, but he stood still half-way and looked about him.

"My God, how nice it is!" he thought. "People, rocks, the fire, the
twilight, a monstrous tree--nothing more, and yet how fine it
is!"

On the further bank some unknown persons made their appearance near
the drying-shed. The flickering light and the smoke from the camp-fire
puffing in that direction made it impossible to get a full view of
them all at once, but glimpses were caught now of a shaggy hat and
a grey beard, now of a blue shirt, now of a figure, ragged from
shoulder to knee, with a dagger across the body; then a swarthy
young face with black eyebrows, as thick and bold as though they
had been drawn in charcoal. Five of them sat in a circle on the
ground, and the other five went into the drying-shed. One was
standing at the door with his back to the fire, and with his hands
behind his back was telling something, which must have been very
interesting, for when Samoylenko threw on twigs and the fire flared
up, and scattered sparks and threw a glaring light on the shed, two
calm countenances with an expression on them of deep attention could
be seen, looking out of the door, while those who were sitting in
a circle turned round and began listening to the speaker. Soon
after, those sitting in a circle began softly singing something
slow and melodious, that sounded like Lenten Church music. . . .
Listening to them, the deacon imagined how it would be with him in
ten years' time, when he would come back from the expedition: he