They timidly search for a free road toward the goal.
"Nine! eight!" The wailing cry is softly wafted over the vessel.

"And the holy prayer of the pilgrim is deafened by the tumult of life.

And there is no relief from sorrow, there is no joy for him who reflects on his fate." Foma felt like speaking to this pilgrim, in whose softly uttered words there rang sincere fear of God, and all manner of fear for men before His countenance.

The kind, admonitive voice of the pilgrim possessed a peculiar power, which compelled Foma to listen to its deep tones.
"I'd like to ask him where he lives," thought Foma, fixedly scrutinizing the huge stooping figure.

"And where have I seen him before?
Or does he resemble some acquaintance of mine ?" Suddenly it somehow struck Foma with particular vividness that the humble preacher before him was no other than the son of old Anany Shchurov.