“ ‘Because a thought has just struck me.’

“Presently he changed his mind, and entered the house.

“ ‘Why did you tell me just now that your father was not at home when I asked whether your mother was?’

“I made no reply. My mother approached him nervously, but he scarcely noticed her. That I saw clearly, as well as that he was wet through and shivering, for the storm had followed him over twenty versts of road. Whence had he come, and where did he live? Neither I nor my mother knew. It was nine weeks since we had last seen him. Throwing down his cap, and pulling off his gloves, he offered no prayer before the ikon, nor yet saluted us as he took a seat before the fire.”

At this point Katerina drew her hand across her eyes, as though to shut out some painful vision. Then she raised her head again, and resumed her story.

“He began to talk to my mother in the Tartar dialect—a dialect which I did not understand. As a rule I was sent out of the room whenever he came, but to-night my poor mother dared not utter a word, not even to her own child. And I—I whose soul was already in the toils of the unclean spirit—derived a kind of horrible pleasure from the spectacle of my mother’s embarrassment. I could see that they were looking at me, and talking about me, and that she was weeping. Suddenly I saw him draw his knife (it was not the first time he had so threatened my mother). The moment he did so I rose, clung to his belt, and tried to seize the weapon. Indeed, though he ground his teeth, and struggled to repulse me and strike me on the breast, he could not rid himself of my weight. I thought that my last hour had come, for my eyes were closing, and I was gradually sinking to the floor; yet never once did I cry out. At last I saw him take off his belt and open his tunic. Then, tendering me the knife, and pointing to his bare breast, he said: ‘Strike, for I have offended you. Take your revenge, my proud beauty. I will make no further resistance.’ But I took the knife, and threw it away—doing so with my eyes lowered, yet also with a smile playing on my lips. Nay, on catching sight of my mother’s sad face, I even looked at her with an insolent stare, and with the bold smile still curling my lips. She turned as pale as death.”

To this rather incoherent narrative Ordynov listened absorbedly. Gradually the very vividness of her reminiscences was calming the poor girl. Like a wave of the sea, her present pain was disappearing before the troubles of the past.