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He understood it, but that the elder Zossima was this saint and custodian of God’s truth—of that he had no more doubt than the weeping peasants and the sick women who held out their children to the elder.
What can I tell about such things?” he repeated to himself for the hundredth time, flushing crimson. “Oh, being ashamed would be nothing; shame is only the punishment I deserve. The trouble is I shall certainly have caused more unhappiness.... And Father Zossima sent me to reconcile and bring them together.
“The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!” But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk of medium height, wearing a monk’s cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch and Miüsov stopped.
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