Once more Romashov was on his way home, and once more he felt himself lonely, abandoned, and helpless in this gloomy and hostile place. Once more the sun flamed in the west, amidst heavy, dark blue thunder-clouds, and once more before Romashov's eyes, in the distance, behind houses and fields, at the verge of the horizon, there loomed a fantastic fairy city beckoning to him with promises of marvellous beauty and happiness. The darkness fell suddenly between the rows of houses. A few little Jewish children ran, squealing, along the path. Here and there in doorways, in the embrasures of windows, and in the dusk of gardens there were sounds of women's laughter, provocative and unintermittent, and with a quiver of warm animalistic gladness which is heard only when spring is near. With the deep yet calm melancholy that now lay heavy on Romashov's heart there were mingled strange, dim memories of a bliss miraged but never enjoyed in youth's still lovelier spring, and there arose in his heart a delicious presentiment of a strong, invincible love that at last gained its object. When Romashov reached his abode he found Hainán in his dark and dirty cupboard in front of Pushkin's bust. The great bard was smeared all over with grease, and before him burning candles cast bright blurs on the statue's nose, its thick lips and muscular neck. Hainán sat, in the Turkish style, cross-legged on the three boards that constituted his bed, rocked his body to and fro, and mumbled out in a sing-song tone something weird, melancholy, and monotonous. "Hainán," shouted Romashov. The servant started, jumped up, and stood at attention. Fear and embarrassment were displayed on his countenance. "Allah?" asked Romashov in the most friendly way. The Circassian's shaven boyish mouth expanded in a broad grin which showed his beautiful white teeth in the candle-light. "Allah, your Honour." "It is all the same, Hainán. Allah is in you. Allah is in me. There is one Allah for us all." "My excellent Hainán," thought Romashov to himself as he went into his room. "And I dare not shake hands with him. Dare not! Damn it all! from to-day I will dress and undress myself. It's a disgrace that some one else should do it for me." That evening he did not go to the mess-room, but stayed at home and brought out of a drawer a thick, ruled book, nearly entirely filled with elegant, irregular handwriting. He wrote far into the night. It was the third in order of Romashov's novels, and its title ran: _A Fatal Beginning_. But our lieutenant blushed furiously at his literary efforts, and he would not have been induced for anything in the world to acknowledge his authorship. VIII