of the old man who was asleep. Pashka listened, peeped at the dark
windows, and jumped out of bed in terror.

"Ma-a-mka!" he moaned in a deep bass.

And without waiting for an answer, he rushed into the next ward.
There the darkness was dimly lighted up by a night-light and the
ikon lamp; the patients, upset by the death of Mihailo, were sitting
on their bedsteads: their dishevelled figures, mixed up with the
shadows, looked broader, taller, and seemed to be growing bigger
and bigger; on the furthest bedstead in the corner, where it was
darkest, there sat the peasant moving his head and his hand.

Pashka, without noticing the doors, rushed into the smallpox ward,
from there into the corridor, from the corridor he flew into a big
room where monsters, with long hair and the faces of old women,
were lying and sitting on the beds. Running through the women's
wing he found himself again in the corridor, saw the banisters of
the staircase he knew already, and ran downstairs. There he recognised
the waiting-room in which he had sat that morning, and began looking
for the door into the open air.

The latch creaked, there was a whiff of cold wind, and Pashka,
stumbling, ran out into the yard. He had only one thought--to
run, to run! He did not know the way, but felt convinced that if
he ran he would be sure to find himself at home with his mother.
The sky was overcast, but there was a moon behind the clouds. Pashka
ran from the steps straight forward, went round the barn and stumbled
into some thick bushes; after stopping for a minute and thinking,
he dashed back again to the hospital, ran round it, and stopped