"The joy of all the afflicted!" Something stirred.

It was as though some one's calm and mournful image had flashed up in the distance and died out quietly, without illuminating the deathly gloom.

The wound-up clock in the steeple struck.

The soldier in the corridor made a noise with his gun or with his saber and he yawned, slowly, at intervals.
"Joy of all the afflicted! You are silent! Will you not say anything to Vaska Kashirin ?" He smiled patiently and waited.

All was empty within his soul and about him.