“It’s a swoon, not a fit,” he said, turning to Pantaleone. “Have you got any brushes?” The old man raised his little face. “Eh?” “Brushes, brushes,” repeated Sanin in German and in French. “Brushes,” he added, making as though he would brush his clothes. The little old man understood him at last. “Ah, brushes! _Spazzette_! to be sure we have!” “Bring them here; we will take off his coat and try rubbing him.” “Good … _Benone_! And ought we not to sprinkle water on his head?” “No … later on; get the brushes now as quick as you can.” Pantaleone put the bottle on the floor, ran out and returned at once with two brushes, one a hair-brush, and one a clothes-brush. A curly poodle followed him in, and vigorously wagging its tail, it looked up inquisitively at the old man, the girl, and even Sanin, as though it wanted to know what was the meaning of all this fuss. Sanin quickly took the boy’s coat off, unbuttoned his collar, and pushed up his shirt-sleeves, and arming himself with a brush, he began brushing his chest and arms with all his might. Pantaleone as zealously brushed away with the other—the hair-brush—at his boots and trousers. The girl flung herself on her knees by the sofa, and, clutching her head in both hands, fastened her eyes, not an eyelash quivering, on her brother. Sanin rubbed on, and kept stealing glances at her. Mercy! what a beautiful creature she was! III Her nose was rather large, but handsome, aquiline-shaped; her upper lip was shaded by a light down; but then the colour of her face, smooth, uniform, like ivory or very pale milky amber, the wavering shimmer of her hair, like that of the Judith of Allorio in the Palazzo-Pitti; and above all, her eyes, dark-grey, with a black ring round the pupils, splendid, triumphant eyes, even now, when terror and distress dimmed their lustre…. Sanin could not help recalling the marvellous country he had just come from…. But even in Italy he had never met anything like her! The girl drew slow, uneven breaths; she seemed between each breath to be waiting to see whether her brother would not begin to breathe. Sanin went on rubbing him, but he did not only watch the girl. The original figure of Pantaleone drew his attention too. The old man was quite exhausted and panting; at every movement of the brush he hopped up and down and groaned noisily, while his immense tufts of hair, soaked with perspiration, flapped heavily from side to side, like the roots of some strong plant, torn up by the water. “You’d better, at least, take off his boots,” Sanin was just saying to him. The poodle, probably excited by the unusualness of all the proceedings, suddenly sank on to its front paws and began barking. “_Tartaglia—canaglia_!” the old man hissed at it. But at that instant the girl’s face was transformed. Her eyebrows rose, her eyes grew wider, and shone with joy.