in the
buildings that were wrapped in a light veil of unbroken shadow.
The gondolas, with their little red lamps, seemed to flit past
more noiselessly and swiftly than ever; their steel beaks flashed
mysteriously, mysteriously their oars rose and fell over the ripples
stirred by little silvery fish; here and there was heard the brief,
subdued call of a gondolier (they never sing now); scarcely another
sound was to be heard. The hotel where Insarov and Elena were staying
was on the _Riva dei Schiavoni_; before they reached it they left the
gondola, and walked several times round the Square of St. Mark, under
the arches, where numbers of holiday makers were gathered before the
tiny cafes. There is a special sweetness in wandering alone with one you
love, in a strange city among strangers; everything seems beautiful and
full of meaning, you feel peace and goodwill to all men, you wish all
the same happiness that fills your heart. But Elena could not now give
herself up without a care to the sense of her happiness; her heart could
not regain its calm after the emotions that had so lately shaken it;
and Insarov, as he walked by the palace of the Doges, pointed without
speaking to the mouths of the Austrian cannons, peeping out from the
lower arches, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. By now he felt
tired, and, with a last glance at the church of St. Mark, at its cupola,
where on the bluish lead bright patches of phosphorescent light shone in
the rays of the moon, they turned slowly homewards.

Their little room looked out on to the lagoon, which stretches from the
_Riva del Schiavoni_ to the Giudecca. Almost facing their hotel rose the
slender tower of S. George; high against the sky on the right shone the
golden ball of the Customs House; and, decked like a bride, stood the
loveliest of the churches, the _Redentore_ of Palladio; on the left
were the black masts and rigging of ships, the funnels of steamers;
a half-furled sail hung in one place like a great wing, and the flags
scarcely stirred. Insarov sat down at the window, but Elena did not
let him admire the view for long; he seemed suddenly feverish, he was
overcome by consuming weakness. She put him to bed, and, waiting till he
had fallen asleep, she returned to the window. Oh, how still and kindly
was the night, what dovelike softness breathed in the deep-blue air!
Every suffering, every sorrow surely must be soothed to slumber under
that clear sky, under that pu