indistinct, but from the first instant it could be seen that it was
not standing still, but moving with fearful rapidity, moving straight
towards Kovrin, and the nearer it came the smaller and the more
distinct it was. Kovrin moved aside into the rye to make way for
it, and only just had time to do so.

A monk, dressed in black, with a grey head and black eyebrows, his
arms crossed over his breast, floated by him. . . . His bare feet
did not touch the earth. After he had floated twenty feet beyond
him, he looked round at Kovrin, and nodded to him with a friendly
but sly smile. But what a pale, fearfully pale, thin face! Beginning
to grow larger again, he flew across the river, collided noiselessly
with the clay bank and pines, and passing through them, vanished
like smoke.

"Why, you see," muttered Kovrin, "there must be truth in the legend."

Without trying to explain to himself the strange apparition, glad
that he had succeeded in seeing so near and so distinctly, not only
the monk's black garments, but even his face and eyes, agreeably
excited, he went back to the house.

In the park and in the garden people were moving about quietly, in
the house they were playing--so he alone had seen the monk. He
had an intense desire to tell Tanya and Yegor Semyonitch, but he
reflected that they would certainly think his words the ravings of
delirium, and that would frighten them; he had better say nothing.

He laughed aloud, sang, and danced the mazurka; he was in high
spirits, and all of them, the visitors and Tanya, thought he had a