“The count himself assured me, on his word of honour, that he meant marriage.” “Perfidious betrayer! Death to you!” cried the stranger, throwing her hands wildly about. I had no time to step back. A bullet whizzed by me. I was blinded by the smoke. I caught the mad woman by the wrist. She began struggling with all her might, her face distorted with passion, and once more fired at me, luckily with no more success than at the first time. Wresting the pistol from her hands, I threw it in the garden. The noise had attracted the servants. I heard knocks at the door. I flew to open it, and trying to appear as calm as possible, I assured them that having unloaded my pistol at the window, it had gone off, but that nothing had happened. They all left me and went away, throwing side-glances at me. Having shut the hall door, I returned to the stranger. I was in a state of mind impossible to describe. “Ah! ah! what have you done? How could you? And for what? Why?” My visitor put her head on the table and sobbed wildly. I began to pace the room up and down, and, happening to glance at the mirror, I saw a face which I could with difficulty recognise as my own. “Look here,” at last said I to my visitor, “dry your tears. You must know that I myself was the victim of the most abominable deceit.” I began relating to her everything that had passed. “You see,” said I, finishing, “God is merciful, and I am still alive. Now in your turn; explain.” The stranger could not for a long time utter one word. Having given her some water, I invited her to follow me into the garden. Here, finally, she recovered her power of speech. Two or three times she looked at me humbly, as though asking for pardon, then at length she began. “My tale is sadder than yours is,” she said, sobbing, after we had taken a few turns in the garden, and had sat down; “but I have been so guilty towards you,” covering her face with her hands, “that you will never forgive me.” “Forget all about that,” said I, recovering my composure. “I am ready to forgive everything.… All comes from God.… Everything is in His hands.…” The stranger turned towards me her pale, sorrowful countenance, and taking me by the hand again began sobbing. “You are so generous,” she whispered. “Did you ever hear of the fate of Merovitch?” “Oh, yes! of course!” “Well! I am--the guilty cause of his tentative.… I was his affianced bride, Polixena Pchelkina.” I was speechless.… All the details of the attempt of Merovitch, which I had heard ten years ago from my old grandmother, memory brought back vividly. Bending towards her, I took her hand, the one that had just fired at me, and pressed it with emotion. “Speak! speak!” whispered I.