tempt upon me! I am not the sort of woman to
be forced."

The next moment there arises a cry of pain and astonishment.

"What was that for? What was that for?" the woman wails.

With an answering exclamation I spring to my feet, for my feelings have
become those of a wild beast.

At once everything grows quiet again, save that someone, crawls over
the floor and, in leaving the hut, jars the latch of the crazy,
single-hinged portal.

"It was not my fault," grumbles the young fellow. "It all came of that
stinking woman offering herself to me. Besides, the place is full of
bugs, and I cannot sleep."

"Beast!" pants someone in the vicinity.

"Hold your tongue, bitch!" is the fellow's retort.

By now the rain has ceased, and such air as filters through the window
seems increasedly stifling. Momentarily the hush grows deeper, until
the breast feels filled with a sense of oppression, and the face and
eyes as though they were glued over with a web. Even when I step into
the yard I find the place to be like a cellar on a summer's day, when
the very ice has melted in the dark retreat, and the latter's black
cavity is charged with hot, viscous humidity.

Somewhere near me a woman is gulping out sobs. For a moment or two I
listen; then I approach her, and come upon her seated in a corner with
her head in her hands, and her body rocking to and fro as though she
were doing me obeisance.

Yet I feel angry, somehow, and remain standing before her without
speaking--until at length I ask:

"Are you mad?"

"Go away," is, after a pause, her only reply.

"I heard all that you said to that young fellow."

"Oh, did you? Then what business is it of yours? Are you my brother?"

Yet she speaks the words absent-mindedly rather than angrily. Around us
the dim, blurred walls are peering in our direction with sightless
eyes, while in the vicinity a bullock is drawing deep breaths.

I seat myself by her side.

"Should you remain much longer in that position," I remark, "you will
have a headache."

There follows no reply.

"Am I disturbing you?" I continue.

"Oh no; not at all." And, lowering her hands, she looks at me. "Whence
do you come?"

"From Nizhni Novgorod."

"Oh, from a long way off!"

"Do you care for that young fellow?"

Not for a moment or two does she answer; and when she does so she
answers as though the words have been rehearsed.

"Not particularly. It is that he is a strong young fellow who has lost
h