That night, as they looked from the loggia on the Grand Canal after
dinner, the moonlight making things almost light as day, Dmitry begged
admittance from the doorway of the great salon. The lady turned
imperiously, and flashed upon him. How dared he interrupt their happy hour
with things of earth? Then she saw he was loth to speak before Paul, and
that his face was grey with fear.

Paul realised the situation, and moved aside, pretending to lean from the
wide windows and watch the passing gondolas, his wandering attention,
however, fixing itself upon one which was moored not far from the palazzo,
and occupied by a solitary figure reclining motionless in the seats. It
had no coloured lights, this gondola, or merry musicians; it was just a
black object of silence, tenanted by one man.

Dmitry whispered, and the lady listened, a quiver of rage going through
her lithe body. Then she turned and surveyed the moored gondola, the same
storm of passion and hate in her eyes as once before had come there, at
the Rigi Kaltbad Belvedere.

"Shall I kill the miserable spy? Vasili would do it this night," she
hissed between her clenched teeth. "But to what end? A day's respite,
perhaps, and then another, and another to face."

Dmitry raised an imploring hand to draw her from the wide arched opening,
where she must be in full view of those watching below. She motioned him
furiously aside, and took Paul's hand. "Come, my lover," she said, "we
will look no more on this treacherous stream! It is full of the ghosts of
past murders and fears. Let us return to our shrine and shut out all jars;
we will sit on our tiger and forget even the moon. Beloved one--come!"