“God will forgive you. You have done me no harm.”
He was silent awhile.
“One thing more. Go to your mother, my dear. Tell her, ‘The pilgrim’ … say, ‘yesterday’s pilgrim’ … say …”
He broke into sobs.
“Then have you been to my home?”
“Yes. Say, ‘Yesterday’s pilgrim … the pilgrim’ … say …”
Again he broke off, sobbing; but at last, gathering strength, he finished:
“Say I wished to make peace,” he said, and began feeling on his chest for something.
“I’ll tell her … I’ll go and tell her! But what are you searching for?” said Agatha.
Without answering, the old man, frowning with the effort, drew a paper from his breast with his thin, hairy hand, and gave it to her.
“Give this to him who asks for it. It’s my soldier’s passport. … God be thanked, my sins are over now!” And his face took on a triumphant expression. His brows rose, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and he was quiet.
“A candle …” he uttered, without moving his lips. Agatha understood, took a half-burnt wax taper from before the icon, lit it, and put it in his hand. He held it up with his thumb.
Agatha went to put the passport in her box, and when she returned to him the candle was falling from his hand, his fixed eyes no longer saw anything, and his chest was motionless.