He took him by the feet and pulled him nearer to himself.

“Are you dozing, Philip? Well, then sleep…Good night.…Tomorrow I shall explain everything to you, and you will see that there is no real need to deny oneself anything.…But go on sleeping now…if you are not dead.”

He went out to his friends, followed by the deep silence, and informed them:

“He is asleep or dead, I do not know.…I am a little drunk.”

Tyapa bent further forward than usual and crossed himself. Martyanoff shivered, dropped to the ground and lay there in silence. Bag of Bones began to fidget about and said in a low and fierce tone:

“May you all go to the Devil! Dead? What of that? Why should I care? Why should I hear about it? My time will come too.…I am no worse than the rest.”

“That is true,” said the Captain loudly, sinking down to the ground. “The time will come when we shall all die like the others. Ha! Ha! How we live? That is nothing…But we shall die like everyone else, and this is the whole aim of life, take my word for it. A man lives only to die, and he dies…and if this be so, what does it matter how he lived? Am I right, Martyanoff? Let us therefore drink…whilst we are still alive!”

The rain began to fall. Thick, close darkness covered the figures that lay scattered over the ground, paralyzed by drink and sleep. The light in the windows of the doss-house flickered, paled, and suddenly vanished. Maybe the wind blew it out or the oil was exhausted. The drops of rain rapped timidly and falteringly on the iron roof of the doss-house. From the mountain over the town a slow, mournful ringing of bells was heard, the night guard was keeping watch. The metallic sound coming from the belfry softly swam through the darkness and slowly died away, but before its last tremulously sighing note was drowned in the shadows, another stroke was born and the silence of the night was again broken by the melancholy sigh of metal.

The next morning Tyapa was the first to wake up. Lying on his back, he looked up into the sky. Only in such a position did his deformed neck allow him to see the clouds above his head.

This morning the sky was of a uniform gray. The damp cold mist of dawn had gathered up there, extinguishing the sun, concealing the blue infinity behind and pouring despondency over the earth. Tyapa crossed himself, and, leaning on his elbow, looked round to see whether there was any vodka left. The bottle was empty. Crawling over his companions, he looked into their glasses, found one of them almost full, emptied it, wiped his lips with his sleeve, and began to shake the Captain.

The Captain raised his head and looked at him with lusterless eyes.

“We must inform the police.…Get up!”

“About what?” asked the Captain, sleepily and angrily.

“Why, that he is dead.…”

“Who?”

“The learned one…”

“Philip? Ah, yes!”

“Did you forget so soon?…Good Lord!…” croaked Tyapa, in a tone of reproach. The Captain rose to his feet, yawned loudly and stretched himself till all his bones cracked.

“Well, then! Go and make the declaration.…”