eyes fell on the table covered with heaps of papers. . . 'Will he
carry out his dreams?' thought Bersenyev. 'Can it be that all will
come to nothing?' And he was filled with pity for the young life
struck down, and he vowed to himself to save it.

The night was an uneasy one. The sick man was very delirious. Several
times Bersenyev got up from his little sofa, approached the bed on
tip-toe, and listened with a heavy heart to his disconnected
muttering. Only once Insarov spoke with sudden distinctness: 'I
won't, I won't, she mustn't. . . .' Bersenyev started and looked at
Insarov; his face, suffering and death-like at the same time, was
immovable, and his hands lay powerless. 'I won't,' he repeated,
scarcely audibly.

The doctor came in the morning, shook his head and wrote fresh
prescriptions. 'The crisis is a long way off still,' he said, putting
on his hat.

'And after the crisis?' asked Bersenyev.

'The crisis may end in two ways, _aut Caesar aut nihil_.

The doctor went away. Bersenyev walked a few times up and down the
street; he felt in need of fresh air. He went back and took up a book
again. Raumer he had finished long ago; he was now making a study of
Grote.

Suddenly the door softly creaked, and the head of the landlord's
daughter, covered as usual with a heavy kerchief, was cautiously
thrust into the room.