ial, do
you hear?--everything: only one thing matters, that you and I may be
united. I see only you, and you must see only me, and what comes of it
must not affect us, only you and I, you and I." He was still speaking
softly, but his voice resumed its passionately singing tone. He
intoxicated himself again with his own words, his own Self. "If you
cannot do that, then say so at once, for then it is better for me to go
away, no matter what becomes of me. I can die, but to be deceived, that
goes beyond my strength. Can you do it? Speak, speak!" And he pressed
her hand and shook it.

"Yes, I can," replied Billy obediently.

"Then," continued Boris, "we are going toward each other on the same
road: on both sides there are high walls and we can see nothing but
this road, and you see me and I see you and we are going toward each
other, that is all. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Billy, and she actually saw this yellow road between the
gray walls under a pale-gray sky, and two solitary figures going toward
each other.

"It is immaterial," said Boris, "whether our love is tragic, the only
point is the love itself. We Poles cannot help it if we are born
adventurers, history is to blame for that; but adventurers need
absolutely reliable companions. Are you one? Speak."

Now he drew her firmly to him and kissed her. The great words, her
great compassion, these lips that kissed her, these hands that
feverishly caught at her--all this hurt her. O dear, she thought, if
only this were over. "Please," she whispered, "go now."

Boris at once released her, stood up, and said politely, "If you wish
it. But Billy, I am afraid you are still holding quite aloof from me."

"But I won't be aloof," cried Billy tearfully, and now her tears did
actually come. Boris stood there a moment in silence, then he softly
said "Good night," and left her. Billy remained sitting on the box,
clapped her hands to her face, and wept. The night-dew was dripping
among the barberry bushes. Somewhere out yonder a bat was whirring
through the darkness, uttering its timid and infinitely lonely cry.
Billy was cold, and she was frightened too. She felt as if something
were advancing in the gloom that would take her and carry her away. But
what could she do?--and anyway everything was immaterial now. She
belonged to Boris with his beautiful, incomprehensible pain.

She heard steps; some one stood beside her.

"Billy, are you here?" It was Marion.

"Yes, M