the expression of terror in its face. It seemed to Gilbert that
its two burning eyeballs penetrated even through the door, though
they saw nothing which surrounded them; their vision seemed turned
within, and the invisible object which fastened their gaze, a heart
haunted by specters.

Suddenly the lips of this nocturnal wanderer opened, and another
groan more fearful than the first issued from them. It seemed as
if his burdened breast wished to shake off by a violent effort a
mountain of weariness, the weight of which was crushing it, or
rather as though the soul sought to expel itself in this despairing
cry. Gilbert was seized with inexpressible agitation, his hair
stood on end. He started to fly; but a curiosity stronger than his
terror prevented him from leaving the spot and kept him riveted to
the door. By the eyebrows and cheekbones, in spite of the
distortion of the face, he had recognized Count Kostia.

At length this sinister somnambulist stirred from his motionless
position and advanced at a slow pace; he walked like an automaton.
After taking a dozen steps he stopped, looked around him, and
slightly bent forward. His strained features resumed their natural
proportions, life re-animated his brow, the deathlike inertia of
his face gave place to an expression of sadness and prostration.
For a few seconds his lips moved, without saying a word, as if to
become flexible, and fashioned anew to the use of speech:--then, in
a soft voice which Gilbert did not recognize, and with the
plaintive accents of a suffering child, he murmured:

"How heavy this portrait is! I can carry it no longer; take it out
of my hands, it burns them. In mercy, extinguish this fire. I