sad, felt profoundly guilty, and inwardly begged _her_
forgiveness. . . . In hours of leisure or on sleepless nights, when
he felt moved to recall his childhood, his father and mother--
everything near and dear, in fact, he invariably thought of
Myestetchki, the strange horse, Von Rabbek, his wife who was like
the Empress Eugenie, the dark room, the crack of light at the
door. . . .

On the thirty-first of August he went back from the camp, not with
the whole brigade, but with only two batteries of it. He was dreaming
and excited all the way, as though he were going back to his native
place. He had an intense longing to see again the strange horse,
the church, the insincere family of the Von Rabbeks, the dark room.
The "inner voice," which so often deceives lovers, whispered to him
for some reason that he would be sure to see her . . . and he was
tortured by the questions, How he should meet her? What he would
talk to her about? Whether she had forgotten the kiss? If the worst
came to the worst, he thought, even if he did not meet her, it would
be a pleasure to him merely to go through the dark room and recall
the past. . . .

Towards evening there appeared on the horizon the familiar church
and white granaries. Ryabovitch's heart beat. . . . He did not hear
the officer who was riding beside him and saying something to him,
he forgot everything, and looked eagerly at the river shining in
the distance, at the roof of the house, at the dovecote round which
the pigeons were circling in the light of the setting sun.

When they reached the church and were listening to the billeting
orders, he expected every second that a man on horseback would come
round the church enclosure and invite the officers to tea, but . . .
the billeting orders were read, the officers were in haste to go
on to the village, and the man on horseback did not appear.

"Von Rabbek will hear at once from the peasants that we have come
and will send for us," thought Ryabovitch, as he went into the hut,
unable to understand why a comrade was lighting a candle and why
the orderlies were hurriedly setting samovars. . . .

A painful uneasiness took possession of him. He lay down, then got
up and looked out of the window to see whether the messenger were
coming. But there was no sign of him.

He lay down again, but half an hour later he got up, and, unable
to restrain his uneasiness, went into the street and strode towards
the church. It was dark and d