dark, he had no light, but sat
on. He could never afterwards recollect his thoughts at the time. At
last he felt cold, and a shiver ran through him. He recognized with
delight that he was sitting on his couch and could lie down, and soon
he fell into a deep, heavy sleep. He slept much longer than usual, and
his slumbers were undisturbed by dreams. Nastasia, who came to his
room the next morning at ten o'clock, had great difficulty in
awakening him. The servant brought him some bread and, the same as the
day before, what was left of her tea.

"Not up yet!" exclaimed she indignantly. "How can you sleep so long?"

Raskolnikoff raised himself with an effort; his head ached; he got
upon his feet, took a few steps, and then dropped down again upon the
couch.

"What, again!" cried Nastasia, "but you must be ill then?" He did not
answer. "Would you like some tea?"

"By and by," he muttered painfully, after which he closed his eyes and
turned his face to the wall. Nastasia, standing over him, remained
watching him for a while.

"After all, he's perhaps ill," said she, before withdrawing.

At two o'clock she returned with some soup. Raskolnikoff was still
lying on the couch. He had not touched the tea. The servant became
angry and shook the lodger violently. "Whatever makes you sleep thus?"
scolded she, eying him contemptuously.

He sat up, but answered not a word, and remained with his eyes fixed
on the floor.

"Are you ill, or are you not?" asked Nastasia. This second question
met with no more answer than the first. "You should go out," continued
she, after a pause, "the fresh air would do you good. You'll eat
something, will you not?"

"By and by," answered he feebly. "Go away!" and he motioned her off.
She remained a moment longer, watching him with an air of pity, and
then left the room.

After a few minutes he raised his eyes, gave a long look at the tea
and soup, and then began to eat. He swallowed three or four spoonfuls
without the least appetite--almost mechanically. His head felt better.
When he had finished his light repast, he again lay down on the couch,
but he could not sleep and remained motionless, flat on his stomach,
his face buried in the pillow. His reverie kept conjuring up strange
scenes. At one time he was in Africa, in Egypt, on some oasis, where
palms were dotted about. The caravans were at rest, the camels lay
quietly, and the travelers were eating their evening meal. They drank
water dir