He jerked at his shoulder impatiently, and said: "Stop crying! Come, how weak you are, brother!" Clasping his head in his hand Yozhov straightened up his stooping frame, made an effort and started again mournfully and wildly: "How great their number is! Their sepulchre how narrow! I clothed them all in shrouds of rhyme And many sad and solemn songs O'er them I sang from time to time!" "Oh, Lord!" sighed Foma in despair.

"Stop that, for Christ's sake! By God, how sad!" In the distance the loud choral song was rolling through the darkness and the silence.

Some one was whistling, keeping time to the refrain, and this shrill sound, which pierced the ear, ran ahead of the billow of powerful voices.

Foma looked in that direction and saw the tall, black wall of forest, the bright fiery spot of the bonfire shining upon it, and the misty figures surrounding the fire.

The wall of forest was like a breast, and the fire like a bloody wound in it.