ll that evening was Markovitch. He sat huddled over
his food and never said a word. If he looked up at all he glowered, and
so soon as he had finished eating he returned to his workshop, closing
the door behind him. I caught Semyonov looking at him with a pleasant,
speculative smile....

At last Vera, Nina, Lawrence, and I started for the theatre. I can't say
that I was expecting a very pleasant evening, but the deathlike
stillness, both of ourselves and the town did, I confess, startle me.
Scarcely a word was exchanged by us between the English Prospect and
Saint Isaac's Square. The square looked lovely in the bright moonlight,
and I said something about it. It was indeed very fine, the cathedral
like a hovering purple cloud, the old sentry in his high peaked hat, the
black statue, and the blue shadows over the snow. It was then that
Lawrence, with an air of determined strength, detached Vera from us and
walked ahead with her. I saw that he was talking eagerly to her.

Nina said, with a little shudder, "Isn't it quiet, Durdles? As though
there were ghosts round every corner."

"Hope you enjoyed your walk this afternoon," I said.

"No, it was quiet then. But not like it is now. Let's walk faster and
catch the others up. Do you believe in ghosts, Durdles?"

"Yes, I think I do."

"So do I. Was it true, do you think, about the people being shot at the
Nicholas Station to-day?"

"I daresay."

"Perhaps all the dead people are crowding round here now. Why isn't any
one out walking?"

"I suppose they are all frightened by what they've heard, and think it
better to stay at home."

We were walking down the Morskaia, and our feet gave out a ringing echo.

"Let's keep up with them," Nina said. When we had joined the others I
found that they were both silent--Lawrence very red, Vera pale. We were
all feeling rather weary. A woman met us. "You aren't allowed to cross
the Nevski," she said; "the Cossacks are stopping everybody." I can see
her now, a stout, red-faced woman, a shawl over her head, and carrying a
basket. Another woman, a prostitute I should think, came up and joined
us.

"What is it?" she asked us.

The stout woman repeated in a trembling, agitated voice, "You aren't
allowed to cross the Nevski. The Cossacks are stopping everybody."

The prostitute shook her head in her alarm, and little flakes of powder
detached themselves from her nose. "_Bozhe moi_--_bozhe moi_!" she
said, "and I promised not to be