re, holy light! 'O God,' thought Elena,
'why must there be death, why is there separation, and disease and
tears? or else, why this beauty, this sweet feeling of hope, this
soothing sense of an abiding refuge, an unchanging support, an
everlasting protection? What is the meaning of this smiling, blessing
sky; this happy, sleeping earth? Can it be that all that is only in us,
and that outside us is eternal cold and silence? Can it be that we are
alone... alone... and there, on all sides, in all those unattainable
depths and abysses--nothing is akin to us; all, all is strange and apart
from us? Why, then, have we this desire for, this delight in prayer?'
(_Morir si giovane_ was echoing in her heart.)... 'Is it impossible,
then, to propitiate, to avert, to save... O God! is it impossible to
believe in miracle?' She dropped her head on to her clasped hands.
'Enough,' she whispered. 'Indeed enough! I have been happy not for
moments only, not for hours, not for whole days even, but for whole
weeks together. And what right had I to happiness?' She felt terror at
the thought of her happiness. 'What, if that cannot be?' she thought.
'What, if it is not granted for nothing? Why, it has been heaven... and
we are mortals, poor sinful mortals.... _Morir si giovane_. Oh, dark
omen, away! It's not only for me his life is needed!

'But what, if it is a punishment,' she thought again; 'what, if we must
now pay the penalty of our guilt in full? My conscience was silent, it
is silent now, but is that a proof of innocence? O God, can we be so
guilty! Canst Thou who hast created this night, this sky, wish to punish
us for having loved each other? If it be so, if he has sinned, if I have
sinned,' she added with involuntary force, 'grant that he, O God, grant
that we both, may die at least a noble, glorious death--there, on the
plains of his country, not here in this dark room.

'And the grief of my poor, lonely mother?' she asked herself, and was
bewildered, and could find no answer to her question. Elena did not know
that every man's happiness is built on the unhappiness of another, that
even his advantage, his comfort, like a statue needs a pedestal, the
disadvantage, the discomfort of others.

'Renditch!' muttered Insarov in his sleep.

Elena went up to him on tiptoe, bent over him, and wiped the
perspiration from his face. He tossed a little on his pillow, and was
still again.

She went back again to the window, and again her though