Romashov raised his head. Once more he was the fairy-tale prince in the wonderful wood. In scattered groups along the whole extensive slope in the dark grass stood the ancient, solemn oaks, motionless, but attentive to every sound that disturbed Nature's holy, dream-steeped slumbers. High up, above the horizon and through the dense mass of tree trunks and crests, one could still discern a slender streak of twilight glow, not, as usual, light red or changing into blue, but of dark purple hue, reminiscent of the last expiring embers in the hearth, or the dull flames of deep red wine drawn out by the sun's rays. And as it were, framed in all this silent magnificence, lay a young, lovely, white-clad woman--a dryad lazily reclining. Romashov came closer to her. To him it seemed as if from Shurochka's countenance there streamed a pale, faint radiance. He could not distinguish her eyes; he only saw two large black spots, but he felt that she was gazing at him steadily. "This is a poem, a fairy-tale--a fairy-tale," he whispered, scarcely moving his lips. "Yes, my friend, it is a fairy-tale." He began to kiss her dress; he hid his face in her slender, warm, sweet-smelling hand, and, at the same time, stammered in a hollow voice-- "Sascha--I love you--love you." When she now raised herself somewhat up, he clearly saw her eyes, black, piercing, now unnaturally dilated, at another moment closed altogether, by which the whole of her face was so strangely altered that it became unrecognizable. His eager, thirsty lips sought her mouth, but she turned away, shook her head sadly, and at last whispered again and again-- "No, no, no, my dear, my darling--not that." "Oh, my adored one, what bliss--I love you," Romashov again interrupted her, intoxicated with love. "See, this night--this silence, and no one here, save ourselves. Oh, my happiness, how I love you!" But again she replied, "No, no," and sank back into her former attitude on the grass. She breathed heavily. At last she said in a scarcely audible voice, and it was plain that every word cost her a great effort: "Romochka, it's a pity that you are so weak. I will not deny that I feel myself drawn to you, and that you are dear to me, in spite of your awkwardness, your simple inexperience of life, your childish and sentimental tenderness. I do not say I love you, but you are always in my thoughts, in my dreams, and your presence, your caresses set my senses, my thoughts, working. But why are you always so pitiable? Remember that pity is the sister of contempt. You see it is unfortunate I cannot look up to you. Oh, if you were a strong, purposeful man----" She took off Romashov's cap and put her fingers softly and caressingly through his soft hair. "If you could only win fame--a high position----" "I promise to do so; I will do so," exclaimed Romashov, in a strained voice. "Only be mine, come to me ... all my life shall...."