ked. It seemed as if some
one shouted. Perhaps no one shouted at all--perhaps it merely seemed so
in the silence.

The little casement window in the door opened noiselessly. A dark,
mustached face appeared in the black hole. For a long time it stared
at Musya in astonishment--and then disappeared as noiselessly as it had
appeared.

The bells rang and sang, for a long time, painfully. It seemed as if the
tired Hours were climbing up a high mountain toward midnight, and that
it was becoming ever harder and harder to ascend. They fall, they slip,
they slide down with a groan--and then again, they climb painfully toward
the black height.

Somewhere people were walking. Somewhere people were whispering. And
they were already harnessing the horses to the black carriages without
lanterns.

CHAPTER VIII THERE IS DEATH AS WELL AS LIFE

Sergey Golovin never thought of death, as though it were something not
to be considered, something that did not concern him in the least. He
was a strong, healthy, cheerful youth, endowed with that calm, clear joy
of living which causes every evil thought and feeling that might injure
life to disappear from the organism without leaving any trace. Just
as all cuts, wounds and stings on his body healed rapidly, so all that
weighed upon his soul and wounded it immediately rose to the surface and
disappeared. And he brought into every work, even into his enjoyments,
the same calm and optimistic seriousness,--it mattered not whether he
was occupied with photography, with bicycling or with preparations for
a terroristic act. Everything in life was joyous, everything in life was
important, everything should be done well.

And he did everything well: he was an excellent sailor, an expert shot
with the revolver. He was as faithful in friendship as in love, and a
fanatic believer in the "word of honor." His comrades laughed at him,
saying that if the most notorious spy told him upon his word of honor
that he was not a spy, Sergey would believe him and would shake hands
with him as with any comrade. He had one fault,--he was convinced that he
could sing well, whereas in fact he had no ear for music and even sang
the revolutionary songs out of tune, and felt offended when his friends
laughed at him.

"Either you are all asses, or I am an ass," he would declare seriously
and even angrily. And all his friends as seriously declared: "You are an
ass. We can tell by your voice."

But, as is someti