She dropped her head, seemed lost in thought, raised a handkerchief to
her lips, and convulsive sobs, tearing her by their violence, were
suddenly wrung from her breast. She threw herself, face downwards, on
the sofa, trying to stifle them, but still her body heaved and
throbbed like a captured bird.

'Elena Nikolaevna--for God's sake,' Bersenyev was repeating over her.

'Ah! What is it?' suddenly sounded the voice of Insarov.

Elena started up, and Bersenyev felt rooted to the spot. After waiting
a little, he went up to the bed. Insarov's head lay on the pillow
helpless as before; his eyes were closed.

'Is he delirious?' whispered Elena.

'It seems so,' answered Bersenyev, 'but that's nothing; it's always
so, especially if----'

'When was he taken ill?' Elena broke in.

'The day before yesterday; I have been here since yesterday. Rely on
me, Elena Nikolaevna. I will not leave him; everything shall be
done. If necessary, we will have a consultation.'

'He will die without me,' she cried, wringing her hands.

'I give you my word I will let you hear every day how his illness goes
on, and if there should be immediate danger----'