"Probably not; for _I_ intend to marry the Czar's daughter!" "Is Princess Ghedimin informed of it?" "I have announced it to her." "Then nothing will come of it." "It has nothing in the world to do with her." "I prophesy it. Else why am I the pythoness? Does Prince Ghedimin know of it?" "Prince Ghedimin! _Mille tonnerres!_ Am I to go to the Prince, too, to ask for Sophie's hand? He, at any rate, is out of it." "Not on account of your wooing, my friend, but that the Prince may erase your name from 'the green book.' You will doubtless see that the name of the son-in-law of the Czar can hardly adorn--I will not say blacken--its pages." "By Jove! you are right. I had not thought of that." With heavier heart than he had come, Pushkin left her. Zeneida's villa was on the Kreskowsky Island, thus some distance from Sophie's home, which lay embowered in orange groves. From afar the light-green roof was visible, standing out from amidst the pines. Every evening a white flag was to be seen floating from the flagstaff, hoisted by Sophie herself, as a signal that she was expecting him. Sometimes she would come down to the shore to meet him, her white-clad figure greeting him when he was yet a long way off. Now neither white flag nor white-clad maiden was visible. He hastened on impatiently. Usually, as his boat approached the landing-stage, another, in which sat Bethsaba, would row away. The Circassian Princess never awaited Pushkin; they only exchanged greetings from a distance. Now he perceived a gondola, painted in the Ghedimin family colors, still chained to the landing-stage, the boatmen stretched on benches fast asleep. Without waiting for his boat to reach the land, Pushkin sprang ashore and ran towards the house. On either side of the path Sophie's beloved roses were blooming; the ground was covered with their fallen leaves. "What can have happened," thought Pushkin, "that your guardian angel has not been gathering up your leaves this evening?" "Go in-doors; you will soon know the reason," answered the roses. He found no one upon the veranda. He opened the familiar tapestried door leading into Sophie's private apartments. There he learned why the rose leaves had not been gathered in that day. Sophie lay upon her bed, white as death. Yesterday's soft bloom had all fled from her cheeks; they were almost transparent. The anguish she had undergone had left a transfigured expression upon her face. She was clasping Bethsaba's hand, who sat by her bedside, their fingers interlaced, in prayer. Pushkin advanced cautiously, concealing his alarm. It is not well to let invalids see that their appearance inspires anxiety. "What is this? Are you not well?" "No, Aleko; I am dying. Do not be startled; it is past now. I have wrestled through it. You, too, will live through it."