Hainán comes rushing out of Romashov's room. His countenance is distorted with terror. Pale and trembling all over, he hurries on to the officers' _salle-à-manger_, which is full of people. At the sight of Hainán all spontaneously get up from their places. "Your Excellencies--the lieutenant has--shot himself," Hainán at last stammers out. General uproar; dismay is to be read in the faces of all. "Who has shot himself? Where? What lieutenant?" Finally somebody recognizes Hainán. "Gentlemen, this is Hainán, you know--Lieutenant Romashov's servant. It's the Circassian, you know." All hurry to Romashov's house; some do not even give themselves time to put on their caps. Romashov is discovered lying on his bed; on the floor beside him is a large pool of blood, in which is found a revolver of the Smith and Wesson celebrated make. Through a crowd of officers, who occupy every corner of the little room, Znoiko, the regimental surgeon, pushes his way with some difficulty. "Shot in the temple," he says amidst a general hush. "All is over, nothing can be done." Some one among the bystanders says in a lowered voice, "Gentlemen, uncover your heads before the majesty of Death!" Many make the sign of the Cross. Viätkin finds on the table a note on which the deceased has written in a firm hand a few lines in pencil. Viätkin reads them out-- I forgive all. I die of my own free will. My life is intolerable. Break the news gently to my mother. GEORGI ROMASHOV. All gaze at one another, and each reads on his neighbour's countenance the unuttered thought: "We are his murderers." Softly rocks the coffin covered with gold brocade and carried by eight comrades. The entire corps of officers takes part in the procession. After the officers comes the 6th Company. Captain Sliva frowns gloomily. Viätkin's kind face is disfigured by tears, but now in the street he makes an effort to compose himself. Lbov--oh, heart of gold!--weeps incessantly without blushing for his emotion. Like deep, heavy sighs sound the hollow strains of the Dead March. There stand all the ladies of the regiment, including Shurochka. "I kissed him," she thinks with despair in her heart. "I loved him--I might have saved him." "Too late!" thinks Romashov, with a bitter smile. The officers accompanying their dead comrade to the grave softly converse with each other. "Ah," thinks each of them to himself, "how sorry I am for him, poor fellow. What an excellent comrade, what a handsome and capable officer!--Yes, yes, that is true, but we did not appreciate him." Loud and more touching sound the strains of the Dead March. It is Beethoven's immortal music, "By a Hero's Bier." But Romashov is lying in his coffin, cold and still, with an everlasting smile on his lips. On his chest rests a modest bouquet of violets, but no one knows from where they came. He has forgiven all--Shurochka, Sliva, Federovski, Shulgovich--all. But they waste no tears. He is