Suddenly there rose up in front of him something in the nature of a delicate cloud. He looked intently at it; the little cloud turned into a woman in a white gown, with a bright girdle about her waist. She was hurrying away from him. He did not see either her face or her hair ... a long piece of tissue concealed them. But he felt bound to overtake her and look into her eyes. Only, no matter how much haste he made, she still walked more quickly than he. On the path lay a broad, flat stone, resembling a tomb-stone. It barred her way. The woman came to a halt. Aratoff ran up to her. She turned toward him--but still he could not see her eyes ... they were closed. Her face was white,--white as snow; her arms hung motionless. She resembled a statue. Slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned backward and sank down on that stone.... And now Aratoff was lying beside her, outstretched like a mortuary statue,--and his hands were folded like those of a corpse. But at this point the woman suddenly rose to her feet and went away. Aratoff tried to rise also ... but he could not stir, he could not unclasp his hands, and could only gaze after her in despair. Then the woman suddenly turned round, and he beheld bright, vivacious eyes in a living face, which was strange to him, however. She was laughing, beckoning to him with her hand ... and still he was unable to move. She laughed yet once again, and swiftly retreated, merrily nodding her head, on which a garland of tiny roses gleamed crimson. Aratoff strove to shout, strove to break that frightful nightmare.... Suddenly everything grew dark round about ... and the woman returned to him. But she was no longer a statue whom he knew not ... she was Clara. She halted in front of him, folded her arms, and gazed sternly and attentively at him. Her lips were tightly compressed, but it seemed to Aratoff that he heard the words: "If thou wishest to know who I am, go thither!" "Whither?" he asked. "Thither!"--the moaning answer made itself audible.--"Thither!" Aratoff awoke. He sat up in bed, lighted a candle which stood on his night-stand, but did not rise, and sat there for a long time slowly gazing about him. It seemed to him that something had taken place within him since he went to bed; that something had taken root within him ... something had taken possession of him. "But can that be possible?" he whispered unconsciously. "Can it be that such a power exists?" He could not remain in bed. He softly dressed himself and paced his chamber until daylight. And strange to say! He did not think about Clara for a single minute,--and he did not think about her because he had made up his mind to set off for Kazan that very day! He thought only of that journey, of how it was to be made, and what he ought to take with him,--and how he would there ferret out and find out everything,--and regain his composure.