She had a strange dream. She thought she was floating in a boat on the Tsaritsino lake with some unknown people. They did not speak, but sat motionless, no one was rowing; the boat was moving by itself. Elena was not afraid, but she felt dreary; she wanted to know who were these people, and why she was with them? She looked and the lake grew broader, the banks vanished--now it was not a lake but a stormy sea: immense blue silent waves rocked the boat majestically; something menacing, roaring was rising from the depths; her unknown companions jumped up, shrieking, wringing their hands... Elena recognised their faces; her father was among them. But a kind of white whirlwind came flying over the waves--everything was turning round, everything was confounded together. Elena looked about her; as before, all around was white; but it was snow, snow, boundless plains of snow. And she was not now in a boat, but travelling, as she had come from Moscow, in a sledge; she was not alone; by her side was sitting a little creature muffled in an old cloak; Elena looked closely; it was Katya, her poor little friend. Elena was seized with terror. ‘Why, isn’t she dead?’ she thought. ‘Katya, where are we going together?’ Katya did not answer, and nestled herself closer in her little cloak; she was freezing. Elena too was cold; she looked along the road into the distance; far away a town could be seen through the fine drifting snow. High white towers with silvery cupolas... ‘Katya, Katya, is it Moscow? No,’ thought Elena, ‘it is Solovetsky Monastery; it’s full of little narrow cells like a beehive; it’s stifling, cramping there--and Dmitri’s shut up there. I must rescue him.’... Suddenly a grey, yawning abyss opened before her. The sledge was falling, Katya was laughing. ‘Elena, Elena!’ came a voice from the abyss. ‘Elena!’ sounded distinctly in her ears. She raised her head quickly, turned round, and was stupefied: Insarov, white as snow, the snow of her dream, had half risen from the sofa, and was staring at her with large, bright, dreadful eyes. His hair hung in disorder on his forehead and his lips parted strangely. Horror, mingled with an anguish of tenderness, was expressed on his suddenly transfigured face. ‘Elena!’ he articulated, ‘I am dying.’ She fell with a scream on her knees, and clung to his breast. ‘It’s all over,’ repeated Insarov: ‘I’m dying... Good-bye, my poor girl! good-bye, my country!’ and he fell backwards on to the sofa. Elena rushed out of the room, began calling for help; a waiter ran for a doctor. Elena clung to Insarov. At that instant in the doorway appeared a broad-shouldered, sunburnt man, in a stout frieze coat and a low oil-skin hat. He stood still in bewilderment. ‘Renditch!’ cried Elena, ‘it’s you! Look, for God’s sake, he’s ill! What’s wrong? Good God! He went out yesterday, he was talking to me just now.’