She bent over Trirodov and almost fell into his arms. The kisses seemed tranquil and innocent; it might have been a sister kissing a brother. How gentle and elastic her skin was under his hands! Alkina pressed against him with a submissive, yielding movement. Trirodov carried her to the wide, soft couch. She lay in his arms timidly and quietly and looked straight into his eyes with a simple, innocent look. When the sweet and deep minutes passed, followed by fatigue and shame, Alkina lay there motionlessly with half-closed eyes--and then said suddenly: “I’ve been wanting to ask you, and somehow couldn’t decide to. Do you detest me? Perhaps you think me very shameless?” She turned her face towards him and looked at him with frightened, ashamed eyes. And he answered her with his usual resolution: “No, Katya. Shame is often needed, in order that we may gain control over it.” Alkina once more lay back calmly, basking naked under his glances, as under the rays of the high Dragon. Trirodov was silent. Alkina laughed quietly and said: “My husband used to be so respectable, mean and polite. He never beat me--he was not a cultured man for nothing--and he never even used coarse words. If he had but called me a fool! I sometimes think that I wouldn’t have left him if our quarrels hadn’t passed so quietly, if he had but beat me, pulled me by my hair, lashed me with something.” “Sweet?” asked Trirodov. “Life is so dull,” continued Alkina. “One struggles in the nets of petty annoyances. If one could but cry out, but give wail to one’s yearning, one’s woe, one’s unendurable pain!” She said this with a passion unusual to her and grew silent. CHAPTER XIII It was drawing towards evening, and once more Trirodov was alone, tormented by his unceasing sadness. His mind was in a whirl. He was in a half-somnolent state, which was like the foreboding of a nightmare. His half-dreams and half-illusions were full of the day’s impressions, full of burning, cruel reveries. It had just grown dark. A fire was visible on a height near the town. The town boys were making merry. They had lit a bonfire, and were throwing the brands into the air; as they rose swiftly, the burning brands appeared like skyrockets against the blue sky. And these beautiful flights of fire in the darkness gave joy and sadness. Kirsha, silent as always, came to his father. He placed himself at the window and looked out with his dark, sad eyes upon the distant fires of St. John’s Eve. Trirodov went up to him. Kirsha turned quietly towards his father: “This will be a terrible night.” Trirodov answered as quietly: “There will be nothing terrible. Don’t be afraid, Kirsha. You had better go to sleep, my boy, it is time.” As if he had not heard his father, Kirsha went on: “The dead will soon rise from their graves.” “The dead are already rising from their graves,” replied Trirodov.