"You have wounded my soul, Grischka!... Your sin and your guilt towards me are great.... I bore everything and kept silence.... Why was that? Because I loved you ... and I still love you, but I will not bear these reproaches from you ... it's beyond my strength to do so.... Though you are the husband whom Heaven has given me, I curse you for those words of yours!" "Silence!" roared Grigori, showing his teeth. "Halloa! What's all this row about? Have you forgotten where you are?... We can have no squabbles here!" A mist seemed to rise before Grischka's eyes. He did not notice who was standing in the doorway, speaking in these full bass tones, but pushing the intruder aside, rushed past him into the open air. Matrona stood for a moment in the middle of the room, as if struck blind and dumb, then stumbled with outstretched hands towards her bed and threw herself down on it, sobbing aloud. It was already growing dark. The silvery rays of the moon, piercing the torn edges of the clouds, fell across the floor, throwing the rest of the room into blue shadow. By and by a thick drizzling rain began to beat against the window-panes, and run down the walls of the Infirmary--sounding like a herald of the approaching autumn with its damp, reeking, darkening days. The pendulum of the clock, with its monotonous tick-tick, marked the passing of the minutes. The drops of rain pattered ceaselessly against the window-panes. Hour after hour passed, and still the rain continued to fall On her bed the woman lay motionless, staring with wide-open feverish eyes at the ceiling. Her face was dark and careworn, her teeth were firmly clenched, and her cheek-bones seemed to stand out prominently; in her eyes there was an expression of sadness and of painful expectation. Still the rain continued to beat against the walls and the windows. It sounded like some one whispering in a monotonous but persuasive voice, trying to bring conviction; without possessing the power to do this rapidly and with telling arguments; and who was therefore attempting to obtain his object by this painful, tedious droning, entirely wanting in the enthusiasm of real belief. The grey twilight of a rainy dawn tinged the sky with the colour of steel which has lost its polish. Sleep had not yet visited Matrona's eyes. Ever through the monotonous drip, drip of the rain she seemed to hear the ominously repeated question-- "What will happen next? What will happen next?" This question seemed to press in on her soul with irresistible force, and resounded like a dull pain through her brain. "What will happen next?"