But no,
if he is one of us, why does he come clothed like a common man? He has
only himself to blame."
The old man, feeling somewhat ashamed, offered to show me the way. He
came out and pointed out the short cut to the tavern.
"It is quite clear. I shall find the way," I said. "Thank you."
The old man halted as if he wished to say something more.
"What now?" I asked myself. I said good-bye, and as I moved away he
asked:
"You are going far, belike!"
"To Jerusalem," I answered laconically. In Russia there is only one
thing to say when a man tells you he is going to Jerusalem. It is,
"Pray for me there!" But somehow that request stuck in the old man's
throat.
When I got outside the park gates I pulled down my pack and took
out of it the only thing that had stood between me and a night's
lodging--a grey tweed sportsman's jacket--and I put it on, and with it
a collar and tie, and I walked along the road in real sadness. For I
felt wounded.
I could forgive the man for doing so unto me, but it was hard to
forgive him for doing so unto himself, unto us all. He had made life
ugly for a moment, and made the world less beautiful. To-morrow the
sun and the earth would be less glorious because of him.
But I had only walked a few steps down the road from the rich man's
house when I came to a poor peasant's hut where there burned one
little light at a little square window.
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