verdict was that the patient would die with the morning.

That night the elder Pokrovski spent in the corridor, at the door
of his son's room. Though given a mattress to lie upon, he spent
his time in running in and out of the apartment. So broken with
grief was he that he presented a dreadful spectacle, and appeared
to have lost both perception and feeling. His head trembled with
agony, and his body quivered from head to foot as at times he
murmured to himself something which he appeared to be debating.
Every moment I expected to see him go out of his mind. Just
before dawn he succumbed to the stress of mental agony, and fell
asleep on his mattress like a man who has been beaten; but by
eight o'clock the son was at the point of death, and I ran to
wake the father. The dying man was quite conscious, and bid us
all farewell. Somehow I could not weep, though my heart seemed to
be breaking.

The last moments were the most harassing and heartbreaking of
all. For some time past Pokrovski had been asking for something
with his failing tongue, but I had been unable to distinguish his
words. Yet my heart had been bursting with grief. Then for an
hour he had lain quieter, except that he had looked sadly in my
direction, and striven to make some sign with his death-cold
hands. At last he again essayed his piteous request in a hoarse,
deep voice, but the words issued in so many inarticulate sounds,
and once more I failed to divine his meaning. By turns I brought
each member of the household to his bedside, and gave him
something to drink, but he only shook his head sorrowfully.
Finally, I understood what it was he wanted. He was asking me to
draw aside the curtain from the window, and to open the