"Good evening, Father Kiriak," I answered.
"Have you had a good wash?"
"Yes, I've had a good wash."
"Have you washed away the Zyryan?"
I grew angry.
"What is this nonsense?" I said.
But he again began to talk about the Zyryan.
"He is pitiless," he said. "He is now baptizing here as he baptized in the Transbaikal. Those he baptizes are only tormented by it and they complain of Christ. It is a sin for all, and for you more than for any, Vladyko."
I considered Kiriak rude, but nevertheless his words entered my soul. What could it be? He was a sagacious old man—he would not chatter to the empty air. What was the secret of all this? How did this adroit Zyryan taken by me "au proka" really baptize. I knew something about the religiosity of the Zyryans. They are especially known as temple builders—their churches, wherever they are found, are fine and even rich, but of all the sects in this world that call themselves Christians, one must confess they are the most superficial. To none, so well as to them can the definition be applied: "God is only in their icons, but not in their souls." But surely this Zyryan did not burn the savages to make them become Christians. That could not be.
