the earth again and will
appear to men. And it seems that the thousand years is almost up
. . . . According to the legend, we may look out for the black monk
to-day or to-morrow."

"A queer mirage," said Tanya, who did not like the legend.

"But the most wonderful part of it all," laughed Kovrin, "is that
I simply cannot recall where I got this legend from. Have I read
it somewhere? Have I heard it? Or perhaps I dreamed of the black
monk. I swear I don't remember. But the legend interests me. I have
been thinking about it all day."

Letting Tanya go back to her visitors, he went out of the house,
and, lost in meditation, walked by the flower-beds. The sun was
already setting. The flowers, having just been watered, gave forth
a damp, irritating fragrance. Indoors they began singing again, and
in the distance the violin had the effect of a human voice. Kovrin,
racking his brains to remember where he had read or heard the legend,
turned slowly towards the park, and unconsciously went as far as
the river. By a little path that ran along the steep bank, between
the bare roots, he went down to the water, disturbed the peewits
there and frightened two ducks. The last rays of the setting sun
still threw light here and there on the gloomy pines, but it was
quite dark on the surface of the river. Kovrin crossed to the other
side by the narrow bridge. Before him lay a wide field covered with
young rye not yet in blossom. There was no living habitation, no
living soul in the distance, and it seemed as though the little
path, if one went along it, would take one to the unknown, mysterious
place where the sun had just gone down, and where the evening glow
was flaming in immensity and splendour.

"How open, how free, how still it is here!" thought Kovrin, walking
along the path. "And it feels as though all the world were watching
me, hiding and waiting for me to understand it. . . ."

But then waves began running across the rye, and a light evening
breeze softly touched his uncovered head. A minute later there was
another gust of wind, but stronger--the rye began rustling, and
he heard behind him the hollow murmur of the pines. Kovrin stood
still in amazement. From the horizon there rose up to the sky, like
a whirlwind or a waterspout, a tall black column. Its outline was
indistinct, but from the first instant it could be seen that it was
not standing still, but moving with fearful rapidity, moving straight
towards Kovrin, and