It was now quite dark, yet, though the sky was clear, to them it seemed suddenly to have grown gloomy and sad. “Death is a horrible thing!” said Yourii, turning pale. Dubova sighed, and gazed into vacancy. Sina’s chin trembled, and she smiled helplessly. She could not feel so shocked as the others; young as she was, and full of life, she could not fix her thoughts on death. To her it was incredible, inconceivable that on a beautiful summer evening, radiantly pleasant such as this, some one should have to suffer and to die. It was natural, of course, but, for some reason or other, to her it seemed wrong. She was ashamed to have such a feeling, and strove to suppress it, endeavouring to appear sympathetic, an effort which made her distress seem greater than that of her companions. “Oh! poor fellow! … is he really…?” Sina wanted to ask: “Is he really going to die very soon?” but the words stuck in her throat, and she plied Dubova with fatuous and incoherent questions. “Anatole Pavlovitch says that he will die to-night or to-morrow morning,” replied Dubova, in a dull voice. “Shall we go to him?” whispered Sina. “Or do you think that we had better not? I don’t know.” This was the question uppermost in the minds of them all. Should they go and see Semenoff die? Was it a right or wrong thing to do? They all wanted to go, and yet were fearful of what they should see. Yourii shrugged his shoulders. “Let us go,” he said. “Very likely they won’t admit us, and perhaps, too—” “Perhaps he might wish to see some one,” added Dubova, as if relieved. “Come on! We’ll go!” said Sina with decision. “Schafroff and Novikoff are there,” added Dubova, as if to justify herself. Sina ran indoors to fetch her hat and coat, and then they went sadly through the town to the large, grey, three-storied building, the hospital where Semenoff lay dying. The long, vaulted passages were dark, and smelt strongly of iodoform and carbolic. As they passed the section for the insane, they heard a strident, angry voice, but no one was visible. They felt scared, and anxiously hastened towards a dark little window. An old, grey-haired peasant, with a long white beard and wearing a large apron came clattering along the passage in his heavy top-boots to meet them. “Who is it that you wish to see?” he asked, stopping short. “A student has been brought here—Semenoff—to-day!” stammered Dubova. “No. 6, please, upstairs,” said the attendant, and passed on. They could hear him spit noisily on the flooring and then wipe it with his foot. Upstairs it was brighter and cleaner; and the ceiling was not vaulted. A door with “Doctors’ Room” inscribed on it stood ajar. A lamp was burning in this room where a jingling of bottles and glasses could be heard. Yourii looked inside, and called out. The jingling ceased, and Riasantzeff appeared, looking fresh and hearty, as usual.