Is it strange that, as the blank months drew drearily past, her heart turned towards him? And did so with no more sense of unfaithfulness to her husband than a widowed heart may have, which aches for living love while yet not wholly forgetful of the dead. By slow degrees hope sickened and died, and she came at last to believe in her heart that Mikhail Barenin's story must be true and that Serge was dead. Pavlof, however, though he hungered body and soul for that still closer companionship with her which Circumstance, first handmaid of Providence, seemed to be doing her utmost to bring about, found strength and relief in the fierce fight in which he was engaged. Hope, and his hopes concerning her, were never out of his thoughts, but the typhus kept him busy. Death no longer crept insidiously, but stalked boldly, and snatched his victims where he would, and Pavlof, beaten here and beaten there and losing everywhere, still faced him valiantly and would not leave the field. It was about midsummer--when the fever was at its worst, and the kameras were like pest-houses, and his very soul was sick of the losing fight, though no sign of it showed in his face or body--that further news reached him concerning Serge Palma, and left him little room to doubt that his friend was dead. Among the new arrivals one day was a man suffering from a gunshot wound in the thigh. It was not of recent date, but had broken out afresh through forced marching before the first healing was thoroughly accomplished. Paul had him placed in hospital, and patched him up again, and gave instructions that he was not to move till the wound was perfectly healed. The man had bumped from Irkutsk in a springless teléga, and the hospital bed, poor as it was, was heaven to his bruised bones and torn flesh. His name was Felix Ostrog. He was of the people, a bright, intelligent fellow who had imbibed evolutionary doctrines and done his small best to spread them. Hence--Kara. It was in questioning him about his wound that Pavlof lighted on the news that cleared his path. "It was thus, barin," said Ostrog. "There was in my artel in the convoy a man named Pavlof----" "Ah!" said Paul, with a sudden accession of interest. "What was his first name?" "Paul, barin, Paul Pavlof." "I knew a Paul Pavlof. What was he like?" "A bold fellow, with yellow hair and beard and blue eyes, a brave man and fearless as the devil." "Yes, yes, get on!"