The sectarian got down from the window and sat on his bunk, meditating. “That one knows the truth,” he thought. “Antichrist’s servants will strangle him with a rope for it, that he should not reveal it to anyone.”
It was a dull autumn morning. The sun was invisible, and a warm, moist breeze came from the sea.
The fresh air, the sight of houses, the town, the horses, the people who looked at him, all distracted Svetlogoúb. Sitting on the bench of the car, with his back to the driver, he involuntarily examined the faces of the convoy soldiers and of the people in the streets.