would be a young priest and monk, an author with a name and a
splendid past; he would be consecrated an archimandrite, then a
bishop; and he would serve mass in the cathedral; in a golden mitre
he would come out into the body of the church with the ikon on his
breast, and blessing the mass of the people with the triple and the
double candelabra, would proclaim: "Look down from Heaven, O God,
behold and visit this vineyard which Thy Hand has planted," and the
children with their angel voices would sing in response: "Holy
God. . ."

"Deacon, where is that fish?" he heard Samoylenko's voice.

As he went back to the fire, the deacon imagined the Church procession
going along a dusty road on a hot July day; in front the peasants
carrying the banners and the women and children the ikons, then the
boy choristers and the sacristan with his face tied up and a straw
in his hair, then in due order himself, the deacon, and behind him
the priest wearing his _calotte_ and carrying a cross, and behind
them, tramping in the dust, a crowd of peasants--men, women, and
children; in the crowd his wife and the priest's wife with kerchiefs
on their heads. The choristers sing, the babies cry, the corncrakes
call, the lark carols. . . . Then they make a stand and sprinkle
the herd with holy water. . . . They go on again, and then kneeling
pray for rain. Then lunch and talk. . . .

"And that's nice too . . ." thought the deacon.

VII

Kirilin and Atchmianov climbed up the mountain by the path. Atchmianov