Helena soon found Potkanski's grave. It was a large mound surrounded by an iron railing; at the foot of the mound was a small grass-covered hillock. Under these lay Potkanski with Helena's child. A number of pots with flowers adorned the graves, at the sides grew reseda; in general, the grave kept neatly and even with ornament indicated a careful hand. Yosef called the guard to open the railing. Helena knelt there with prayer on her lips and tears in her eyes. "Who keeps this grave?" asked Yosef of the guard. "This lady came; a gentleman with long hair came also, but now he comes no longer. He always paid for the flowers, and he also gave command to erect the iron grating." "That gentleman is here now--last year they buried him," answered Yosef. The guard nodded as if to say, "And thou too wilt dwell here." "But this I beg to tell the gentlemen. In the city out there are trouble and suffering, but when any one comes here he lies peacefully. I think often to myself: 'Will the Lord God torture souls in that other world also? Is it little that man suffers here?'" After a time Helena finished praying. Yosef gave her his arm again. Yosef was silent; evidently something was weighing on his heart. By design or by chance he led Helena along a path different from the first one. All at once, when near the gate, he pointed to one of the graves, and said in a kind of cold voice,-- "See, Helena, that man there loved thee during his life more than Potkanski, and still thou hast not mentioned him." The day was inclining. Helena cast her eye on the object which Yosef had indicated. At the grave stood a black wooden cross, and on it were written in white the words: "Gustav--died year--day." The evening rays painted the inscription as it were in letters of blood. "Let us go from here; it is getting dark," whispered Helena, nestling her head up to Yosef's shoulder. When they entered the city, darkness was beginning in earnest, but a clear night was coming. A great ruddy moon was rolling up from beyond the Dnieper. In the dense alleys of the police garden steps were heard here and there, from an open window in an adjoining pavilion came the tones of a piano; a youthful, feeble voice was singing a song of Schubert, the tones quivered in the warm air; far, far out on the steppe some one was sounding the horn of a post-wagon. "A beautiful night," said Helena, in a low voice. "Why art thou gloomy, Yosef?" "Let us sit a little," said he. "I am tired." They sat there, and leaning shoulder to shoulder were both somewhat pensive. They were roused on a sudden from meditation by a youthful, resonant voice, which said,-- "True, Karol! The greatest happiness is the genuine love of a woman, if it is an echo to the voice of a real manly soul." Two young people arm in arm passed slowly near the bench on which Yosef and Helena were sitting. "Good evening!" said both, removing their hats. They were Vasilkevich and Karol Karvovski.