“There is no justice left in the world. Justice, who can find it? There is no justice left in the world; for all justice is bound by the laws of injustice.

“Today, Justice lies in chains, agonizing. And Injustice laughs over her, we have seen it, and sits with the pans on golden seats and sits in the golden hall with the pans.

“Justice lies at the threshold and begs; the guest within, in the house of the pans, is Injustice, the evil one. They invite her with laughter into their palace, and for Injustice they pour the full flagon of mead.

“O Justice, little mother, little mother mine, on your pinions, like those of an eagle, another may come, a just man, one who will be just. Then God help him, who alone can, to lighten the days of the just.”

And heads were lifted, only with effort, and on all countenances could be read a reluctance to speak, which was seen also by those who wanted to speak. And after a short, grave silence, the music of the bandura resumed, this time better understood by the steadily growing crowd. Three times Ostap sang his song of justice. And each time it was a different song. If the first time it had been a lament, when it was repeated it seemed to be an accusation; and finally, when the kobzar shouted it out for the third time like a series of short commands with his head raised high, a savage wrath broke forth from the quivering words and took hold of all present and set them off into a vast, but at the same time anxious, frenzy.

“Where are the men gathering?” asked a young peasant as the singer was rising from his place. The old man, who was well informed about all the movements of the Cossacks, named a nearby place. The men scattered quickly. Brief outcries could be heard, weapons were taken up, and in front of their doorways, the women cried. An hour later, a company of armed peasants set forth from the town in the direction of Chernigov.

Peter had offered the kobzar a glass of cider in the hope of finding out more from him. The old man sat there, drank, but provided only curt answers to the shoemaker’s many questions. Then he said his thanks and departed. Alyosha led the blind man over the threshold. When they were outside in the night and alone, Alyosha asked him, “Can anyone join in the war?”

“Anyone,” said the old man, and disappeared at a quick pace, as though he could see in the dark.

When everyone was asleep, Alyosha got up off the stove, where he had been lying with his clothes on, took his rifle, and went out. Outside, all at once he felt himself being embraced and kissed gently on his hair. Immediately, then, in the moonlight he recognized Akulina, who was dashing toward the house.

“Mother?” he called out, surprised, and he began to feel very odd. He hesitated for a time. A door closed somewhere and a dog howled nearby. Then Alyosha hung his rifle over his shoulder and set off vigorously, for he intended to catch up with the men before morning. But in the house, everyone behaved as though they did not notice Alyosha’s absence. Only when they resumed their places at the table and Peter noticed the empty place did he get up, go to the corner, and light a candle before the Znamenskaya. A very thin candle. The ugly daughter shrugged her shoulders.