Michael Petroff, on the contrary, had gone to bed with complete unconcern. He lay, with his arms under his head, and pondered over a suitable title for his next paper. For this time he would take the Doctor by surprise, he would catch him--just wait and see! What was the sense of a title like the _Non-Partisan_, if you please? Could one overcome this case-hardened Doctor with that? What? Oh, no, no. Surely not. The title must smell of fire and brimstone. It must be like the stroke of a sword, like the muzzle of a gun aimed at the Doctor--for Dr. Maerz must be startled when he reads the title! And after much reflection, Michael Petroff decided that this time he would call his paper _The Sword of the Archangel_. He could plainly see this Archangel sweeping obliquely forward, with terrible fluttering garments and an appalling and angry mien, holding his sword with both hands somewhat backward above his head. And this sword, that was as sharp as a razor and very broad at the back, slit the firmament open and a steaming bloodred stream appeared. This steaming red stream gave Michael Petroff a feeling of luxurious delight. He sat up and said: "Just wait! Ha, ha!" But suddenly he covered his eyes with his hand. A dim, longing pain had come over him, and he could not tell why. "Michael Petroff--?" said he softly, "Michael Petroff--?" and the tears sprung to his eyes. And so, with his hand over his wet eyes and a confused sorrow in his heart, he fell asleep. He was sleeping soundly when he was awakened by a knock at his door: "It is I, the attendant, don't be startled." "What is it!" The attendant stepped in and said in an undertone: "Dr. Maerz told me to ask you to come. The teacher wants to speak to you." "The teacher?" "The 'Rajah,' you know." "You do not know what he wants of me?" "No, Dr. Maerz has sent for you." "Very well, I will come." Michael Petroff rose and made his toilet slowly and scrupulously. The attendant came back and begged him to hurry. Michael Petroff was tying his cravat carefully. "I am coming at once," said he impatiently, "but I can't make a call half dressed." Finally he was ready; he looked in the glass a moment, stroked his moustache and stepped out. "Oh Captain!" whispered the little lawyer through the crack of the door, for the knocking and talking in Petroff's room had made him still more anxious. "I beg you--!" "I am in a hurry," answered Michael Petroff, and hastened along the corridor. As he passed Engelhardt's door he heard him declaiming: "We pray thee, do not destroy the dome of the world. Praised be thy name!" And with an altered, gasping voice Engelhardt went on: "I am struggling, I am struggling--!" In the room overhead a step went restlessly up and down, back and forth, like the distant throbbing of a machine. Then the attendant opened the door of the "Rajah's" room and Michael Petroff stepped in.