They became silent again. It was terrible for them to utter even a word, as though each word in the language had lost its individual meaning and meant but one thing—Death. Sergey looked at his father’s coat, which smelt of benzine, and thought: “They have no servant now, consequently he must have cleaned it himself. How is it that I never before noticed when he cleaned his coat? I suppose he does it in the morning.” Suddenly he asked: “And how is sister? Is she well?” “Ninochka does not know anything,” the mother answered hastily. The colonel interrupted her sternly: “Why should you tell a falsehood? The child read it in the newspapers. Let Sergey know that everybody—that those who are dearest to him—were thinking of him—at this time—and—” He could not say any more and stopped. Suddenly the mother’s face contracted, then it spread out, became agitated, wet and wild-looking. Her discolored eyes stared blindly, and her breathing became more frequent, and briefer, louder. “Se—Se—Se—Ser—” she repeated without moving her lips. “Ser—” “Dear mother!” The colonel strode forward, and all quivering in every fold of his coat, in every wrinkle of his face, not understanding how terrible he himself looked in his death-like whiteness, in his heroic, desperate firmness. He said to his wife: “Be silent! Don’t torture him! Don’t torture him! He has to die! Don’t torture him!” Frightened, she had already become silent, but he still shook his clenched fists before him and repeated: “Don’t torture him!” Then he stepped back, placed his trembling hands behind his back, and loudly, with an expression of forced calm, asked with pale lips: “When?” “To-morrow morning,” answered Sergey, his lips also pale. The mother looked at the ground, chewing her lips, as if she did not hear anything. And continuing to chew, she uttered these simple words, strangely, as though they dropped like lead: “Ninochka told me to kiss you, Seryozhenka.” “Kiss her for me,” said Sergey. “Very well. The Khvostovs send you their regards.” “Which Khvostovs? Oh, yes!” The colonel interrupted: “Well, we must go. Get up, mother; we must go.” The two men lifted the weakened old woman. “Bid him good-by!” ordered the colonel. “Make the sign of the cross.” She did everything as she was told. But as she made the sign of the cross, and kissed her son a brief kiss, she shook her head and murmured weakly: “No, it isn’t the right way! It is not the right way! What will I say? How will I say it? No, it is not the right way!” “Good-by, Sergey!” said the father. They shook hands, and kissed each other quickly but heartily. “You—” began Sergey. “Well?” asked the father abruptly. “No, no! It is not the right way! How shall I say it?” repeated the mother weakly, nodding her head. She had sat down again and was rocking herself back and forth.