what might, he would ever try to be worthy of her great spirit and
teaching. Dmitry's pistol still lay in his pocket; he took it out and
examined it--all six chambers were loaded. A deadly small thing, with a
finely engraved stock made in Paris. There was a date scratched. It was
about a year old.

What danger could they possibly have dreaded for him?--he almost laughed.
He stayed up on the highest point until after the sun had set; somehow he
dreaded going back to the rooms where they had been so happy--going back
alone! But this was weakness, and he must get over the feeling. After
dinner he would spend the evening writing his letters home. But when this
solitary meal was over, the moon tempted him out on to the terrace, and
there he stayed obsessed with passionate thoughts until he crept in to his
lonely couch.

He could not sleep. It had no memories there to comfort him. He got up,
and went across the sitting-room to the room his lady had left so lately.
Alas! it was all dismantled of her beautiful things. The bed unmade and
piled with uncovered hotel pillows, and a large German eiderdown, on top
of folded blankets, it all looked ghastly and sad and cold. And more
depressed than ever he crept back to his own bed.

Next morning was grey--not raining, but dull grey clouds all over the sky.
Not a tempting prospect to spend it in a launch on the lake. A wind, too,
swept the water into small rough wavelets. Would she come? The uncertainty
was almost agony. He was waiting long before the time appointed, and
walked up and down anxiously scanning the direction towards Lucerne.

Yes, that was the launch making its way along, not a moment late. Oh! what
joy thrilled his being! He glowed all over--in ten minutes or less he