figure had grown finer and more mature, and the hair seemed to lie in
greater thickness and luxuriance along her white brow and her fresh
cheeks. Only about her lips, when she was not smiling, a scarcely
perceptible line showed the presence of a hidden constant anxiety. In
Insarov's face, on the contrary, the expression had remained the same,
but his features had undergone a cruel change. He had grown thin, old,
pale and bent; he was constantly coughing a short dry cough, and his
sunken eyes shone with a strange brilliance. On the way from Russia,
Insarov had lain ill for almost two months at Vienna, and only at the
end of March had he been able to come with his wife to Venice; from
there he was hoping to make his way through Zara to Servia, to
Bulgaria; the other roads were closed. The war was now at its height
about the Danube; England and France had declared war on Russia, all
the Slavonic countries were roused and were preparing for an uprising.

The gondola put in to the inner shore of the Lido. Elena and Insarov
walked along the narrow sandy road planted with sickly trees (every
year they plant them and every year they die) to the outer shore of
the Lido, to the sea.

They walked along the beach. The Adriatic rolled its muddy-blue waves
before them; they raced into the shore, foaming and hissing, and drew
back again, leaving fine shells and fragments of seaweed on the beach.

'What a desolate place!' observed Elena 'I'm afraid it's too cold
for you here, but I guess why you wanted to come here.'

'Cold!' rejoined Insarov with a rapid and bitter smile, 'I shall be a
fine soldier, if I'm to be afraid of the cold. I came here ... I will
tell you why. I look across that sea, and I feel as though here, I am