When Klimka has freed him
He sits on a log,
And says, wiping his face
With a broadly-checked muffler, 320
"No wonder he conquered:
He ploughs not, he reaps not,
Does nothing but doctor
The pigs and the horses;
Of course he gets strong!"

The peasants are laughing,
And Klimka says, mocking,
"Here, try a bit more!"

"Come on, then! I'm ready,"
The trader says stoutly, 330
And rolling his sleeves up,
He spits on his palms.

"The hour has now sounded
For me, though a sinner,
To speak and unite you,"
Iona pronounces.
The whole of the evening
That diffident pilgrim
Has sat without speaking,
And crossed himself, sighing. 340
The trader's delighted,
And Klimka replies not.
The rest, without speaking,