Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her
husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and
gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something
strange in his laugh.

"Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand
he stretched out to the monk. "Andryusha! Whom?"

"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him. . . . He is
sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk.

"There is no one here . . . no one! Andryusha, you are ill!"

Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though
protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes.

"You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my
precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your
mind is clouded in some way. . . . You are mentally ill, Andryusha
. . . ."

Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced once more at the
arm-chair, which was now empty, felt a sudden weakness in his arms
and legs, was frightened, and began dressing.

"It's nothing, Tanya; it's nothing," he muttered, shivering. "I
really am not quite well . . . it's time to admit that."

"I have noticed it for a long time . . . and father has noticed
it," she said, trying to suppress her sobs. "You talk to yourself,
smile somehow strangely . . . and can't sleep. Oh, my God, my God,
save us!" she said in terror. "But don't be frightened, Andryusha;
for God's sake don't be frightened. . . ."

She began dressing, too. Only now, looking at her, Kovrin realised
the danger of his position--realised the meaning of the black
monk and his conversations with him. It was clear to him now that
he was mad.

Neither of them knew why they dressed and went into the dining-room:
she in front and he following her. There they found Yegor Semyonitch
standing in his dressing-gown and with a candle in his hand. He was
staying with them, and had been awakened by Tanya's sobs.

"Don't be frightened, Andryusha," Tanya was saying, shivering as
though in a fever; "don't be frightened. . . . Father, it will all
pass over . . . it will all pass over. . . ."

Kovrin was too much agitated to speak. He wanted to say to his
father-in-law in a playful tone: "Congratulate me; it appears I
have gone out of my mind"; but he could only move his lips and smile
bitterly.

At nine o'clock in the morning they put on his jacket and fur coat,
wrapped him up in a shawl, and took him in a carria