"Fœdor," he said, "bring me lights." The valet brought four candles; but it grew light again before the emperor had done writing, and the valet immediately entered to put them out. "Sire," he asked, "shall I take away the lights?" "Why so?" asked the emperor. "Because we look on it as an ill omen to write by artificial light when it is daylight." "What conclusion do you draw from that?" "I, sire?... I do not infer anything from it." "But I do. I understand. You think that people passing by, seeing the light inside, will imagine there has been a death in in the house." "Exactly so, sire." "Ah, well, take away the candles." The emperor did not seem to take any notice of his valet's observations, but the incident remained in his mind. As we have already noted, he left the city of St. Petersburg at four in the morning of 13 September, just as the sun began to rise. He stopped his carriage, and stood looking back at the city of the Czar Peter, plunged in deep sadness, as though warned by some inward voice that he was looking upon it for the last time. The emperor had spent the previous night in prayer, both in the convent of Saint-Alexandre Nevsky and in the cathedral of Kasan. In the monastery he had an interview, lasting nearly an hour, with the monks and the metropolitan Seraphin. The latter related a story to the emperor of a monk of his convent who had voluntarily submitted himself to a life of the most scrupulous austerity by shutting himself up in a hollow place, scooped out of the thick walls of the convent, where he meant to pass all his remaining days. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the emperor asked to be taken to this monk's cell, and talked with him for nearly twenty minutes. Before leaving St. Petersburg, Alexander wished to see his beloved Czarkosjelo once more. He mounted on horseback at the palace door and rode over all his favourite haunts, as though to bid them farewell. When Fœdor asked Alexander when he expected to return to the imperial palace, he pointed with his finger to an image of Christ and said-- "He alone knows!" The emperor reached Taganrog towards the close of September. On 5 October the empress, who could only journey by short stages on account of her state of health, also arrived there. The emperor advanced a little ahead of the empress, and together they made a solemn entry into the town. Why had the emperor taken a liking for Taganrog? It seemed inexplicable except on the grounds of that fatal destiny which compels men towards the place in which it is foreordained they are to die.