The thought that he might, and very probably would, die that night
occurred to him, but did not seem particularly unpleasant or dreadful.
It did not seem particularly unpleasant, because his whole life had been
not a continual holiday, but on the contrary an unceasing round of
toil of which he was beginning to feel weary. And it did not seem
particularly dreadful, because besides the masters he had served here,
like Vasili Andreevich, he always felt himself dependent on the Chief
Master, who had sent him into this life, and he knew that when dying he
would still be in that Master's power and would not be ill-used by Him.
'It seems a pity to give up what one is used to and accustomed to. But
there's nothing to be done, I shall get used to the new things.'

'Sins?' he thought, and remembered his drunkenness, the money that had
gone on drink, how he had offended his wife, his cursing, his neglect of
church and of the fasts, and all the things the priest blamed him for
at confession. 'Of course they are sins. But then, did I take them on of
myself? That's evidently how God made me. Well, and the sins? Where am I
to escape to?'

So at first he thought of what might happen to him that night, and
then did not return to such thoughts but gave himself up to whatever
recollections came into his head of themselves. Now he thought of
Martha's arrival, of the drunkenness among the workers and his own
renunciation of drink, then of their present journey and of Taras's
house and the talk about the breaking-up of the family, then of his own
lad, and of Mukhorty now sheltered under the drugget, and then of his
master who made the sledge creak as he tossed about in it. 'I expect
you're sorry yourself that you started out, dear man,' he thought. 'It
would seem hard to leave a life such as his! It's not like the likes of
us.'