They began to look about, avoiding the direction of the gallows, where the lanterns continued to move about silently with terrible suggestiveness. On the left, the bare forest seemed to be growing thinner, and something large and white and flat was visible. A damp wind issued from it. “The sea,” said Sergey Golovin, inhaling the air with nose and mouth. “The sea is there!” Musya answered sonorously: “My love which is as broad as the sea!” “What is that, Musya?” “The banks of life cannot hold my love, which is as broad as the sea.” “My love which is as broad as the sea,” echoed Sergey, thoughtfully, carried away by the sound of her voice and by her words. “My love which is as broad as the sea,” repeated Werner, and suddenly he spoke wonderingly, cheerfully: “Musya, how young you are!” Suddenly Tsiganok whispered warmly, out of breath, right into Werner’s ear: “Master! master! There’s the forest! My God! what’s that? There—where the lanterns are—are those the gallows? What does it mean?” Werner looked at him. Tsiganok was writhing in agony before his death. “We must bid each other good-by,” said Tanya Kovalchuk. “Wait, they have yet to read the sentence,” answered Werner. “Where is Yanson?” Yanson was lying on the snow, and about him people were busying themselves. There was a smell of ammonia in the air. “Well, what is it, doctor? Will you be through soon?” some one asked impatiently. “It’s nothing. He has simply fainted. Rub his ears with snow! He is coming to himself already! You may read the sentence!” The light of the dark lantern flashed upon the paper and on the white, gloveless hands holding it. Both the paper and the hands quivered slightly, and the voice also quivered: “Gentlemen, perhaps it is not necessary to read the sentence to you. You know it already. What do you say?” “Don’t read it,” Werner answered for them all, and the little lantern was soon extinguished. The services of the priest were also declined by them all. Tsiganok said: “Stop your fooling, father—you will forgive me, but they will hang me. Go to—where you came from.” And the dark, broad silhouette of the priest moved back silently and quickly and disappeared. Day was breaking: the snow turned whiter, the figures of the people became more distinct, and the forest—thinner, more melancholy. “Gentlemen, you must go in pairs. Take your places in pairs as you wish, but I ask you to hurry up.” Werner pointed to Yanson, who was now standing, supported by two gendarmes. “I will go with him. And you, Seryozha, take Vasily. Go ahead.” “Very well.” “You and I go together, Musechka, shall we not?” asked Tanya Kovalchuk. “Come, let us kiss each other good-by.” They kissed one another quickly. Tsiganok kissed firmly, so that they felt his teeth; Yanson softly, drowsily, with his mouth half open—and it seemed that he did not understand what he was doing.