western mountains; the gorge grew dark and
damp. The Podkumok, forcing its way over the
rocks, roared with a hollow and monotonous
sound. I galloped on, choking with impatience.
The idea of not finding Vera in Pyatigorsk struck
my heart like a hammer. For one minute, again
to see her for one minute, to say farewell, to
press her hand. . . I prayed, cursed, wept,
laughed. . . No, nothing could express my
anxiety, my despair! . . . Now that it seemed
possible that I might be about to lose her for ever,
Vera became dearer to me than aught in the
world -- dearer than life, honour, happiness! God
knows what strange, what mad plans swarmed in
my head. . . Meanwhile I still galloped, urging
on my horse without pity. And, now, I began to
notice that he was breathing more heavily; he
had already stumbled once or twice on level
ground. . . I was five versts from Essentuki --
a Cossack village where I could change horses.

All would have been saved had my horse been
able to hold out for another ten minutes. But
suddenly, in lifting himself out of a little gulley
where the road emerges from the mountains at a
sharp turn, he fell to the ground. I jumped down
promptly, I tried to lift him up, I tugged at his
bridle -- in vain. A scarcely audible moan burst
through his clenched teeth; in a few moments
he expired. I was left on the steppe, alone; I