And again ignoring what she said, Piotr asserted passionately:

"Elisaveta, dearest, love me! You surely do not love any one else!
Isn't that so? You do not love any one? You have had no time to fall
in love, to fetter your soul to any one else's. You are as free as
man's first bride, you are as superb as his last wife. You have grown
ripe for love--for my love--you too are thirsty for kisses and
embraces, even as I. O Elisaveta, love me, love me!"

"How can I?" said Elisaveta.

"Elisaveta, if you'd only will it!" exclaimed Piotr. "One must wish to
love. If you only understood how I love you, you would love me also.
My love should fire in you a responsive love."

"My friend, you do not love anything that is mine," answered
Elisaveta. "You do not love me. I don't believe you--forgive me--I
don't understand your love."

Piotr frowned gloomily and said gruffly:

"You have been fascinated by that false, empty word freedom. You have
never thought over its true meaning."

"I've had little time to think over anything," observed Elisaveta
calmly, "but the feeling of freedom is the thing nearest to me. I
cannot express it in words--I only know that we are fettered on this
earth by iron bonds of necessity and of circumstance, but the nature
of my soul is freedom; its fire is consuming the chains of my material