“I think of going to the cathedral to-morrow,” said Father Christopher.  “I know the sacristan there.  I ought to go and see the bishop after mass, but they say he is ill.”

He yawned and put out the lamp.  Now there was no light in the room but the little lamp before the ikon.

“They say he can’t receive visitors,” Father Christopher went on, undressing.  “So I shall go away without seeing him.”

He took off his full coat, and Yegorushka saw Robinson Crusoe reappear.  Robinson stirred something in a saucer, went up to Yegorushka and whispered: 

“Lomonosov, are you asleep?  Sit up; I’m going to rub you with oil and vinegar.  It’s a good thing, only you must say a prayer.”

Yegorushka roused himself quickly and sat up.  Father Christopher pulled down the boy’s shirt, and shrinking and breathing jerkily, as though he were being tickled himself, began rubbing Yegorushka’s chest.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he whispered, “lie with your back upwards—­that’s it. . . .  You’ll be all right to-morrow, but don’t do it again. . . .  You are as hot as fire.  I suppose you were on the road in the storm.”

“Yes.”

“You might well fall ill!  In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, . . . you might well fall ill!”

After rubbing Yegorushka, Father Christopher put on his shirt again, covered him, made the sign of the cross over him, and walked away.  Then Yegorushka saw him saying his prayers.  Probably the old man knew a great many prayers by heart, for he stood a long time before the ikon murmuring.  After saying his prayers he made the sign of the cross over the window, the door, Yegorushka, and Ivan Ivanitch, lay down on the little sofa without a pillow, and covered himself with his full coat.  A clock in the corridor struck ten.  Yegorushka thought how long a time it would be before morning; feeling miserable, he pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and left off trying to get rid of the oppressive misty dreams.  But morning came much sooner than he expected.

It seemed to him that he had not been lying long with his head pressed to the back of the sofa, but when he opened his eyes slanting rays of sunlight were already shining on the floor through the two windows of the little hotel room.  Father Christopher and Ivan Ivanitch were not in the room.  The room had been tidied; it was bright, snug, and smelt of Father Christopher, who always smelt of cypress and dried cornflowers (at home he used to make the holy-water sprinklers and decorations for the ikonstands out of cornflowers, and so he was saturated with the smell of them).  Yegorushka looked at the pillow, at the slanting sunbeams, at his boots, which had been cleaned and were standing side by side near the sofa, and laughed.  It seemed strange to him that he was not on the bales of wool, that everything was dry around him, and that there was no thunder and lightning on the ceiling.