tirely unfamiliar but a very loud and
spirited holiday march. Evidently there was some sort of celebration in
the fortress.

Now the band came up alongside of her window and the cell was filled
with merry, rhythmic, harmoniously blended sounds. One large brass
trumpet brayed harshly out of tune, now too late, now comically running
ahead--Musya could almost see the little soldier playing it, a great
expression of earnestness on his face--and she laughed.

Then everything moved away. The footsteps died out--One--two! One--two!
At a distance the music sounded still more beautiful and cheerful. The
trumpet resounded now and then with its merry, loud brass voice, out of
tune,--and then everything died away. And the clock on the tower struck
again, slowly, mournfully, hardly stirring the silence.

"They are gone!" thought Musya, with a feeling of slight sadness. She
felt sorry for the departing sounds, which had been so cheerful and so
comical. She was even sorry for the departed little soldiers, because
those busy soldiers, with their brass trumpets and their creaking boots,
were of an entirely different sort, not at all like those at whom she
had felt like firing a revolver.

"Come again!" she begged tenderly. And more came. The figures bent over
her, they surrounded her in a transparent cloud and lifted her up, where
the migrating birds were soaring and screaming, like heralds. On the
right of her, on the left, above and below her--they screamed like
heralds. They called, they announced from afar their flight. They
flapped their wide wings and the darkness supported them, even as the
light had supported them. And on their convex breasts, cleaving the air
asunder, the city far below reflected a blue light. Musya's heart beat
ever more evenly, her breathing grew ever more calm and quiet. She was
falling asleep. Her face looked fatigued and pale. Beneath her eyes were
dark circles, her girlish, emaciated hands seemed so thin,--but upon her
lips was a smile. To-morrow, with the rise of the sun, this human face
would be distorted with an inhuman grimace, her brain would be covered
with thick blood, and her eyes would bulge from their sockets and look
glassy,--but now she slept quietly and smiled in her great immortality.

Musya fell asleep.

And the life of the prison went on, deaf and sensitive, blind and
sharp-sighted, like eternal alarm itself. Somewhere people were walking.
Somewhere people were whispering. A gun clan