As we know from the beginning of our story that tinsel music in which the Christus indulged was not over attractive towards nightfall, and people took to flight before it as if an enemy were in full pursuit behind them. But of those who came hither this evening none paid any attention to it; perhaps they did not even hear it, because in their inmost hearts resounded an unrest far more fierce, more discordant, harsh, so that they fled from it into this strange harbour of refuge.
And hereupon, old Loyka, as soon as they had set foot in the cemetery, embraced with one hand that ruddy wood of the cross, and raising the other on high and fixing his eyes upon the white iron figure of the Christus, began to lament his fate, to call aloud, to curse, to pray, and to prostrate himself at the same time. “Thou martyred head,” he cried, “thou hast suffered much, but thou had’st not a son to cut out thy heart piece by piece—I suffer more. Thou had’st no home, but because thou never had’st a home, thou knowest not what it is to be forced to leave a home, a home which I proffered to every one who needed it, and now I have not even so much as I proffered once to others—I suffer more. Thou wert young and vigorous when thou didst suffer, but thou had’st not hair streaked with grey and wrinkles on thy face, thou hast not suffered when the feet long to faint and flag, and must tramp on—I suffer more! But thou didst voluntarily undergo thy torments,
