the house in which the brother and sister lodged, he went up the rickety
stairs unheeding any of the customary sights and sounds, till, arriving
at Sergius' door, he started a little to find it wide open. Five minutes
later he returned to that door in a state of yet greater bewilderment;
for both rooms were empty of occupants.

Sergius and Irina were gone; but, as their belongings were scattered
about in the usual untidiness, Ivan argued return. Throwing off his hat,
then, he filled and lighted a pipe, seated himself at the battered
piano--sole remaining relic of old Petrov Lihnoff, and now too
dilapidated for sale--and yielded himself for an hour to that most
dangerous luxury of the serious composer: improvisation.

Interested in the little theme he had developed, Ivan lost count of
time, and nearly two hours passed before he was interrupted. There was a
sound of feet running rapidly up-stairs, and then there burst into the
room Burevsky: bare-headed, leaden-hued, eyes aflame, his left hand
hanging, crushed and bloody, at his side, in his right a pistol, its
barrel glinting in the light.

Ivan was on his feet, facing the other, who stared at him as he gasped,
between his quick breaths:

"_You_, Gregoriev!--_You!_--Go, instantly!--_Leave_ the house at the
back;--there may be time!--You--"

"But for God's sake, Burevsky, what's the matter?--Where are Sergius and
Irina?"

"Irina got away, thank God!--We managed that, last night.--See here,
Ivan, she's at--"

The next word was drowned in the sharp report of a pistol-shot, which
was instantly followed by another. Afterwards came a wild rush on the
stairs, a low, hoarse cry, the screams of some women in the lower rooms,
and then the room was invaded by Tronsky and Stassov, who were followed
by Sergius and Feodor Lemsky dragging between them Lemsky's brother,
Boris. Him they laid at once upon a sofa, dripping as he was with the
blood which still gushed from a wound under his heart. He was murmuring,
incoherently. Perhaps he was conscious of receiving his brother's kiss.
But it was his last mortal impression. Immediately afterwards his jaw
fell, his eyes stared wide. One of them, at least, would not see
Siberia.

And now, without a word, the five--Lemsky, stunned and silent, with
them, began hurriedly to pile furniture before the closed and bolted
door. Ivan, still standing motionless by the window, transfixed with
horror, watched, as piano, table, chairs, finally a