vouchsafe unto these Thy servants. …’ ”
“Name—?” he interrupted himself in a stern whisper, without altering the expression of his countenance, addressing the lay reader. And, having caught the answer, “Denis, Avdotya,” he continued, with feeling:
“ ‘Vouchsafe unto these Thy servants, Denis and Evdokhia, a peaceful life, length of days, chastity … grant that they may behold their children’s children … and give them of the dew of heaven from on high. … Fill their houses with wheat and wine and oil … exhalt thou them like unto the cedars of Lebanon. …’ ”
But even if those who were present had listened to him and understood, they would have been thinking of the blizzard, the strange horses, the return home through the twilight to Durnovka, Syery’s house—and not of Abraham and Isaac. And they would have grinned at comparing Deniska to a cedar of Lebanon. And it was awkward for Deniska himself, his short legs encased in borrowed boots, his body clad in an old undercoat, to admit that the bride was taller than he; it was awkward and terrible to bear on his motionless head the imperial crown —a huge brass crown with a cross on top, resting far down on his very ears. And the hand of the Bride, who looked more beautiful and more lifeless than ever in her crown, trembled, and the wax of the melting candle dripped down on the flounce of her blue gown. …
The return home was more comfortable. The blizzard was even more terrible in the twilight, but they were cheered by the consciousness that a burden had been removed from their shoulders: whether for good or for evil, the deed had been done. So they whipped up their horses smartly, dashing ahead at random, trusting solely to the ill-defined forms of the small trees which marked out the road. And the loud-mouthed wife of Vanka Krasny stood upright in the leading sledge and danced, flourishing her handkerchief and screeching to the gale, through the dark, raging