He passed the black dome of the church. The air was like crystal and nothing cast a shadow, not even the iron fence about the old cemetery of the church. And when the stars are so bright and hang so low that nothing throws a shadow, there are witches about. Ilya hurried on, getting more nervous with every step, till he was in the outer limits of the city. Then he crossed some old gardens to get in among the log houses which stood at the end of the street. In that way he avoided a group of sentries who were singing about their fire. He located Kirsakoff’s house. It stood on a corner of two streets, with a log wall enclosing the _dvor_, or courtyard—the garden, the well, the wagon-sheds. The windows let out no light, but stood out like tablets of ivory set into the dark house, their frosty panes glistening under the stars. Ilya went round to the great gate. Some old water casks were lying about it in disorder. One of them was close to the wall of the court. Ilya moved it a little, and mounting it, reached up to some old cords and dead vines running along the top of the logs. He took off his mittens and felt for a cord that had tied in it a certain number of knots. He pulled it thrice, and then climbed down from the cask, and stood in close to the wall, so that any person looking up the street would not see him, for his figure would be merged with the dark background of the wall. A sentry-fire burned redly out in the end of the street. A few dark figures were visible about it. Somewhere Ilya heard a Cossack challenge, and the rattle of a riflebolt in the crisp air. A pig began to squeal away in the direction of the Chinese quarter. Ilya missed the friendly barking of dogs, for the dogs of the city had somehow disappeared since the troubles came and many people were starving. The unnatural stillness of the night held a covert menace, as if all creatures, humans and wild beasts, were walking about on their toes in dread, or crouched to spring upon some lurking enemy. It was likely that hill tigers were about. The occasional howl of a wolf seemed to be tinged with a note of triumph, as if they were waiting for their old wilderness to be restored to them by men. The wolves were once more hunting close to the city and getting arrogant and fat. Men were too busy hunting each other to waste time or ammunition on the great packs of timber wolves. A small door in the wall, close to where Ilya stood, opened inward a few inches, slowly and cautiously, for the frost cracked the ancient hinges with sharp complaints. “It is Ilya—Ilya Andreitch,” he whispered into the aperture of the gate. “You are a fool to come here in the starlight,” growled Wassili. “Are you blind, that you cannot see the brightness of the stars, or have you a mole for an uncle?” “What does it matter?” whispered Ilya easily. He did not mind being insulted by Wassili, knowing in time that he would have the laugh on Kirsakoff’s _moujik_.