And now, awaiting death, which was already somewhere beside him, he counts his sins, judges others, and perhaps judges himself, and says: "Who, but the Lord, is my judge ?" "Is he afraid or not ?" Foma asked himself and became pensive, stealthily scrutinising the old man.
"Yes, my lad! Think," spoke Shchurov, shaking his head, "think, how you are to live.

The capital in your heart is small, and your habits are great, see that you are not reduced to bankruptcy before your own self! Ho-ho-ho!" "How can you tell what and how much I have within my heart ?" said Foma, gloomily, offended by his laughter.
"I can see it! I know everything, because I have lived long! Oh-ho-ho! How long I have lived! Trees have grown up and been cut down, and houses built out of them, and even the houses have grown old.

While I have seen all this and am still alive, and when, at times, I recall my life, I think, 'Is it possible that one man could accomplish so much?
Is it possible that I have witnessed all this ?'" The old man glanced at Foma sternly, shook his head and became silent.
It became quiet.

Outside the window something was softly rustling on the roof of the house; the rattle of wheels and the muffled sounds of conversation were heard from below, from the street.

The samovar on the table sang a sad tune.