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"Ieron im!" we heard a hollow prolonged shout. "They are shouting from the other bank," said the peasant, "so there is no ferry there either. Our Ieronim has gone to sleep."
He has one gift most dangerous to a speculator, a vast command of a kind of language, grave and majestic, but of vague and uncertain import; of a kind of language which affects us much in the same way in which the lofty diction of the Chorus of Clouds affected the simple-hearted Athenian: O ge ton phthegmatos os ieron, kai semnon, kai teratodes.
"No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five kopecks put up a candle for me over there in the monastery. . . . That will be more interesting, and I will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, as though it had sunk in the water!" The peasant went up to the water's edge, took the rope in his hands, and shouted; "Ieronim! Ieron im!"
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