, recognised Bersenyev,
asked: 'Am I ill, then?' looked about him with the vague, listless
bewilderment of a man dangerously ill, and again relapsed into
unconsciousness. Bersenyev went home, changed his clothes, and, taking a
few books along with him, he returned to Insarov's lodgings. He made up
his mind to stay there, at least for a time. He shut in Insarov's bed
with screens, and arranged a little place for himself by the sofa. The
day passed slowly and drearily. Bersenyev did not leave the room except
to get his dinner. The evening came. He lighted a candle with a shade,
and settled down to a book. Everything was still around. Through the
partition wall could be heard suppressed whispering in the landlord's
room, then a yawn, and a sigh. Some one sneezed, and was scolded in
a whisper; behind the screen was heard the patient's heavy, uneven
breathing, sometimes broken by a short groan, and the uneasy tossing of
his head on the pillow.... Strange fancies came over Bersenyev. He found
himself in the room of a man whose life was hanging on a thread, the man
whom, as he knew, Elena loved.... He remembered that night when Shubin
had overtaken him and declared that she loved him, him, Bersenyev! And
now.... 'What am I to do now?' he asked himself. 'Let Elena know of his
illness? Wait a little? This would be worse news for her than what I
told her once before; strange how fate makes me the go-between between
them!' He made up his mind that it was better to wait a little. His eyes
fell on the table covered with heaps of papers... 'Will he carry out his
dreams?' thought Bersenyev. 'Can it be that all will come to nothing?'
And he was filled with pity for the young life struck down, and he vowed
to himself to save it.

The night was an uneasy one. The sick man was very delirious. Several
times Bersenyev got up from his little sofa, approached the bed on
tip-toe, and listened with a heavy heart to his disconnected muttering.
Only once Insarov spoke with sudden distinctness: 'I won't, I won't,
she mustn't....' Bersenyev started and looked at Insarov; his face,
suffering and death-like at the same time, was immovable, and his hands
lay powerless. 'I won't,' he repeated, scarcely audibly.

The doctor came in the morning, shook his head and wrote fresh
prescriptions. 'The crisis is a long way off still,' he said, putting on
his hat.

'And after the crisis?' asked Bersenyev.

'The crisis may end in two ways, _aut Caesar aut nih