y more than a few words to each other. Shubin returned to Moscow with
Anna Vassilyevna; Bersenyev, a few days later.

Insarov was sitting in his room, and for the third time looking through
the letters brought him from Bulgaria by hand; they were afraid to send
them by post. He was much disturbed by them. Events were developing
rapidly in the East; the occupation of the Principalities by Russian
troops had thrown all men's minds into a ferment; the storm was
growing--already could be felt the breath of approaching inevitable war.
The fire was kindling all round, and no one could foresee how far it
would go--where it would stop. Old wrongs, long cherished hopes--all
were astir again. Insarov's heart throbbed eagerly; his hopes too were
being realised. 'But is it not too soon, will it not be in vain?' he
thought, tightly clasping his hands. 'We are not ready, but so be it! I
must go.'

Something rustled lightly at the door, it flew quickly open, and into
the room ran Elena.

Insarov, all in a tremor, rushed to her, fell on his knees before her,
clasped her waist and pressed it close against his head.

'You didn't expect me?' she said, hardly able to draw her breath, she
had run quickly up the stairs. 'Dear one! dear one!--so this is
where you live? I've quickly found you. The daughter of your landlord
conducted me. We arrived the day before yesterday. I meant to write to
you, but I thought I had better come myself. I have come for a quarter
of an hour. Get up, shut the door.'

He got up, quickly shut the door, returned to her and took her by the
hands. He could not speak; he was choking with delight. She looked with
a smile into his eyes... there was such rapture in them... she felt shy.

'Stay,' she said, fondly taking her hand away from him, 'let me take off
my hat.'

She untied the strings of her hat, flung it down, slipped the cape off
her shoulders, tidied her hair, and sat down on the little old sofa.
Insarov gazed at her, without stirring, like one enchanted.

'Sit down,' she said, not lifting her eyes to him and motioning him to a
place beside her.

Insarov sat down, not on the sofa, but on the floor at her feet.

'Come, take off my gloves,' she said in an uncertain voice. She felt
afraid.

He began first to unbutton and then to draw off one glove; he drew it
half off and greedily pressed his lips to the slender, soft wrist, which
was white under it.

Elena shuddered, and would have pushed him back