in the city in which she
had been born, in which she lived to her old age. She strolled into a
deserted little garden with a few old, gnarled trees, and she seated
herself upon a wet bench, from which the snow had melted.

And suddenly she understood. He was to be hanged upon the morrow!

The old woman jumped up, about to run, but suddenly her head began
to swim terribly and she fell to the ground. The icy path was wet and
slippery, and she could not rise. She turned about, lifted herself on
her elbows and knelt, then fell back on her side. The black kerchief
had slipped down, baring upon the back of her head a bald spot amid her
muddy-gray hair; and then somehow it seemed to her that she was feasting
at a wedding, that her son was getting married, and she had been
drinking wine and had become intoxicated.

"I can't! My God! I can't!" she cried, as though declining something.
Swaying her head, she crawled over the wet, frozen crust, and all the
time it seemed to her that they were pouring out more wine for her, more
wine!

And her heart had already begun to pain her from her intoxicated
laughter, from the rejoicing, from the wild dancing--and they kept on
pouring more wine for her--pouring more wine!

CHAPTER VI THE HOURS ARE RUSHING

On the fortress where the condemned terrorists were imprisoned there was
a steeple with an old-fashioned clock upon it. At every hour, at every
half-hour, and at every quarter-hour the clock rang out in long-drawn,
mournful chimes, slowly melting high in the air, like the distant and
plaintive call of migrating birds. In the daytime, this strange and sad
music was lost in the noise of the city, of the wide and crowded street
which passed near the fortress. The cars buzzed along, the hoofs of the
horses beat upon the pavements, the rocking automobiles honked in the
distance, peasant izvozchiks had come especially from the outskirts of
the city for the Shrovetide season and the tinkling of the bells
upon the necks of their little horses filled the air. The prattle
of voices--an intoxicated, merry Shrovetide prattle of voices arose
everywhere. And in the midst of these various noises there was the young
thawing spring, the muddy pools on the meadows, the trees of the squares
which had suddenly become black. From the sea a warm breeze was blowing
in broad, moist gusts. It was almost as if one could have seen the
tiny fresh particles of air carried away, merged into the free, endle