and again after dinner, could see nothing through the field-glass but grey waves and rain covering the horizon.

Towards the end of the day the rain ceased and the wind began to drop perceptibly. Von Koren had already made up his mind that he would not be able to get off that day, and had settled down to play chess with Samoylenko; but after dark the orderly announced that there were lights on the sea and that a rocket had been seen.

Von Koren made haste. He put his satchel over his shoulder, and kissed Samoylenko and the deacon. Though there was not the slightest necessity, he went through the rooms again, said good-bye to the orderly and the cook, and went out into the street, feeling that he had left something behind, either at the doctor’s or his lodging. In the street he walked beside Samoylenko, behind them came the deacon with a box, and last of all the orderly with two portmanteaus. Only Samoylenko and the orderly could distinguish the dim lights on the sea. The others gazed into the darkness and saw nothing. The steamer had stopped a long way from the coast.

“Make haste, make haste,” Von Koren hurried them. “I am afraid it will set off.”

As they passed the little house with three windows, into which Laevsky had moved soon after the duel, Von Koren could not resist peeping in at the window. Laevsky was sitting, writing, bent over the table, with his back to the window.

“I wonder at him!” said the zoologist softly. “What a screw he has put on himself!”

“Yes, one may well wonder,” said Samoylenko. “He sits from morning till night, he’s always at work. He works to pay off his debts. And he lives, brother, worse than a beggar!”

Half a minute of silence followed. The zoologist, the doctor, and the deacon stood at the window and went on looking at Laevsky.

“So he didn’t get away from here, poor fellow,” said Samoylenko. “Do you remember how hard he tried?”

“Yes, he has put a screw on himself,” Von Koren repeated. “His marriage, the way he works all day long for his daily bread, a new expression in his face, and even in his walk—it’s all so extraordinary that I don’t know what to call it.”

The zoologist took Samoylenko’s sleeve and went on with emotion in his voice:

“You tell him and his wife that when I went away I was full of admiration for them and wished them all happiness … and I beg him, if he can, not to remember evil against me. He knows me. He knows that if I could have foreseen this change, then I might have become his best friend.”

“Go in and say good-bye to him.”

“No, that wouldn’t do.”

“Why? God knows, perhaps you’ll never see him again.”

The zoologist reflected, and said:

“That’s true.”

Samoylenko tapped softly at the window. Laevsky started and looked round.

“Vanya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say good-bye to you,” said Samoylenko. “He is just going away.”