old man grew wide and thick and tall, he was no longer a man, he was a
tree. . . . Insarov had to climb along its gnarled branches. He
clung, and fell with his breast on a sharp stone, and Karolina
Vogelmeier was sitting on her heels, looking like a pedlar-woman, and
lisping: 'Pies, pies, pies for sale'; and there were streams of blood
and swords flashing incessantly. . . . Elena! And everything vanished
is a crimson chaos,





XXV

'There's some one here looks like a locksmith or something of the
sort,' Bersenyev was informed the following evening by his servant, who
was distinguished by a severe deportment and sceptical turn of mind
towards his master; 'he wants to see you.'

'Ask him in,' said Bersenyev.

The 'locksmith' entered. Bersenyev recognised in him the tailor, the
landlord of Insarov's lodgings.

'What do you want?' he asked him.

'I came to your honour,' began the tailor, shifting from one foot to
the other, and at times waving his right hand with his cuff clutched
in his three last fingers. 'Our lodger, seemingly, is very ill.'