ering, falling, and fluttering again. The pendulum of the
old-fashioned clock ticked drearily, with a kind of melancholy whirr.
Elena shut her eyes. She had slept badly all night; gradually she, too,
fell asleep.

She had a strange dream. She thought sha was floating in a boat on the
Tsaritsino lake with some unknown people. They did not speak, but sat
motionless, no one was rowing; the boat was moving by itself. Elena
was not afraid, but she felt dreary; she wanted to know who were these
people, and why she was with them? She looked and the lake grew broader,
the banks vanished--now it was not a lake but a stormy sea: immense blue
silent waves rocked the boat majestically; something menacing, roaring
was rising from the depths; her unknown companions jumped up, shrieking,
wringing their hands... Elena recognised their faces; her father
was among them. But a kind of white whirlwind came flying over the
waves--everything was turning round, everything was confounded together.

Elena looked about her; as before, all around was white; but it was
snow, snow, boundless plains of snow. And she was not now in a boat, but
travelling, as she had come from Moscow, in a sledge; she was not alone;
by her side was sitting a little creature muffled in an old cloak; Elena
looked closely; it was Katya, her poor little friend. Elena was seized
with terror. 'Why, isn't she dead?' she thought.

'Katya, where are we going together?' Katya did not answer, and nestled
herself closer in her little cloak; she was freezing. Elena too was
cold; she looked along the road into the distance; far away a town could
be seen through the fine drifting snow. High white towers with silvery
cupolas... 'Katya, Katya, is it Moscow? No,' thought Elena, 'it is
Solovetsky Monastery; it's full of little narrow cells like a beehive;
it's stifling, cramping there--and Dmitri's shut up there. I must rescue
him.'... Suddenly a grey, yawning abyss opened before her. The sledge
was falling, Katya was laughing. 'Elena, Elena!' came a voice from the
abyss.

'Elena!' sounded distinctly in her ears. She raised her head quickly,
turned round, and was stupefied: Insarov, white as snow, the snow of her
dream, had half risen from the sofa, and was staring at her with large,
bright, dreadful eyes. His hair hung in disorder on his forehead and his
lips parted strangely. Horror, mingled with an anguish of tenderness,
was expressed on his suddenly transfigured face.

'Elena!'