“One doesn’t forget such things,” Yakiv said, frowning. “But Hryhor Savych, each of your works contains the spirit of the Holy Scripture, the history of the holy faith. And only here and there...”
“Sapienti sat,2 as they say!”
“That is true… However, is such cunning deserving of a man?”
“‘Be wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.’3 From the gospel. Christ’s own words.”
“All the same, I despise cunning!”
“Me too, Yakiv. But we still write, live, and struggle through the prayers of our Jesus. Does the end justify the means?”
“I don’t know. Maybe...”
Yakiv’s coachman appeared.
“Father, the lords are inviting you and him,” he nodded at Skovoroda, “to come and eat.”
“And have you eaten yet?”
“They offered me food.”
“Well then, let’s go.” Hryhoriy got up. “Andriy Ivanovych is a hosp
