Lunev began to limp, and dropped back a pace or two. "Get on--get on!" the policeman said harshly. An unspeakable grief as hot as glowing iron and as sharp as a dagger darted through Ilya's heart. He made a spring forward, and ran with all his might down hill. The wind whistled in his ears, his breath gave out, but he hurled his body forward into the darkness, urging himself on with his arms. Behind him the policeman ran heavily, a sharp shrill whistle pierced the air, and a deep bass voice roared, "Stop him!" Everything round him, houses, pavement, sky--quivered and danced, and moved on him like a heavy black mass. He rushed forward, feeling no weariness, lashed by the hot desire to avoid Petrusha. Something grey and regular rose up before him out of the darkness, breathing despair into his heart. Memory flashed sharply into his brain; he knew that this street turned almost at a right angle away to the main street of the town--men would be there, he would be caught! "Ah--fly away, my soul!" he screamed with all his might, and bending his head down began to run faster than ever. The cold grey stone wall rose before him. A dull crash, like waves meeting, sounded through the night and died away at once. Two dark figures rushed up to the wall. They threw themselves on another dark form that lay in a heap, and at once stood up again. People hurried down from the hill, with noise of footsteps and cries, and a piercing whistling. "Smashed?" asked one of the policemen breathlessly. The other struck a match, and bent down. At his feet lay a quivering hand, and the clenched fingers straightened slowly out. "The skull's smashed to pieces." "Ah--yes--see--the brains." Black figures started up out of the darkness round about. "Ah--the madman!" said one policeman. His comrade straightened himself up, crossed himself, and still breathless, said in a dull voice: "Let him--rest in peace--O Lord!" THE END.