"Leave us alone! I am just about to spoil your wife. I am advising her how to keep you under her thumb. You are not to listen." "All very fine. The first hour we are together she will tell me all about it." The choristers in the chamber of death now began their solemn chant. It was a long ceremony, but it, too, came to an end. The priest, taking the two candlesticks, held them over the cross while he spake the blessing, walked three times round the coffin waving incense, then placed the parchment containing the list of sins, at the end of which was inscribed the absolution, into the dead child's hands as her passport into eternity; after which the candles on the catafalque were extinguished. The two doves upon the crucifix continued their billing and cooing. They carried out the coffin to the barge draped with funereal hangings. Many blossoms from the garden accompanied it; it was covered with wreaths. The blue, green, and red lights glared in the twilight. The choristers continued their chant, the gentle plash of the oars marking time to it. Long those left behind gazed after the departing boat, until the next wooded island hid it from their view. "She has gone on her journey!" said Zeneida; there were no tears in her eyes. "Now it is your turn. Quick! No leave-takings; they are so wearisome. Be off with you! I have my guests to see to, a right merry company. I must hurry back. One kiss is enough, Bethsaba; you may give the others to your Aleko. Take quickly with you what is yours." "Alas! that is impossible," sighed Pushkin, who had the bad habit of being unable to keep back what was in his mind. "One part she who is gliding away in that gondola has taken with her; a second part you take; to this poor child belongs only the remainder." "That is not true," returned Zeneida, with proud, radiant face. "She who has gone back to heaven has bequeathed her part in you to your wife; she who is here has, even now, given up to her that which she might have possessed. Bethsaba knows all about it. You are hers, wholly, entirely. And now, God be with you!" And she held out her hand to him. The allies of the new epoch did not kiss in greeting. And as Pushkin pressed the hand she held out to him, a ray of joy passed over Zeneida's countenance. Freemasons have a sign by which they recognize each other in hand pressure. _Pushkin had not given the sign this time._ Already he had forgotten his former love. To the new one, to whom he had plighted his marital troth, he belonged wholly, entirely. It was as "she" had desired; and smilingly Zeneida waved her white handkerchief to the vanishing gondola, which a troika awaited on the opposite bank. Only when she could see it no longer did she hide her face in the said white handkerchief, and whether it was bedewed with tears or not that handkerchief alone can tell. She did not remove it from her eyes until her gondolier addressed her. "If you please, madame, the rockets on Kreskowsky Island have begun."