“What youth?”

“Him as they strangled in Odessa in the autumn.”

“Svetlogoúb, I suppose?”

“Yes, the same.⁠ ⁠… Thy friend?” At every question the old man gave Mezhenétsky’s face a searching glance with his kind eyes, and at once dropped them again.

“Yes, we were closely bound to each other.”

“And of the same faith?⁠ ⁠…”

“The same, I expect⁠ ⁠…” Mezhenétsky answered, with a smile.

“It’s about that I want a word with thee.”

“And what is it you want exactly?”

“To know your faith.”