seen you out of St. Petersburg,"
declared Kostia unexpectedly, with calm determination. "You can't refuse
me that now. For God's sake, Kirylo, my soul, the police may be here
any moment, and when they get you they'll immure you somewhere for
ages--till your hair turns grey. I have down there the best trotter of
dad's stables and a light sledge. We shall do thirty miles before the
moon sets, and find some roadside station...."

Razumov looked up amazed. The journey was decided--unavoidable. He
had fixed the next day for his departure on the mission. And now he
discovered suddenly that he had not believed in it. He had gone about
listening, speaking, thinking, planning his simulated flight, with the
growing conviction that all this was preposterous. As if anybody ever
did such things! It was like a game of make-believe. And now he was
amazed! Here was somebody who believed in it with desperate earnestness.
"If I don't go now, at once," thought Razumov, with a start of fear, "I
shall never go." He rose without a word, and the anxious Kostia thrust
his cap on him, helped him into his cloak, or else he would have left
the room bareheaded as he stood. He was walking out silently when a
sharp cry arrested him.

"Kirylo!"

"What?" He turned reluctantly in the doorway. Upright, with a stiffly
extended arm, Kostia, his face set and white, was pointing an eloquent
forefinger at the brown little packet lying forgotten in the circle of
bright light on the table. Razumov hesitated, came back for it under the
severe eyes of his companion, at whom he tried to smile. But the boyish,
mad youth was frowning. "It's a dream," thought Razumov, putting the
little parcel into his pocket and descending the stairs; "nobody does
such things." The other held him under the arm, whispering of
dangers ahead, and of what he meant to do in certain contingencies.
"Preposterous," murmured Razumov, as he was being tucked up in the
sledge. He gave himself up to watching the development of the dream
with extreme attention. It continued on foreseen lines, inexorably
logical--the long drive, the wait at the small station sitting by a
stove. They did not exchange half a dozen words altogether. Kostia,
gloomy himself, did not care to break the silence. At parting they
embraced twice--it had to be done; and then Kostia vanished out of the
dream.

When dawn broke, Razumov, very still in a hot, stuffy railway-car full
of bedding and of sleeping people in all