vitch," she suddenly
dropped her voice timidly, "I kept a bold face there all the time, but
now I am afraid of death. I shall die soon, very soon, but I am afraid,
I am afraid to die...." she whispered, pressing his hand tight.

"Oh, if there were some one," he looked round in despair. "Some
passer-by! You will get your feet wet, you... will lose your reason!"

"It's all right; it's all right," she tried to reassure him. "That's
right. I am not so frightened with you. Hold my hand, lead me.... Where
are we going now? Home? No! I want first to see the people who have been
murdered. His wife has been murdered they say, and he says he killed
her himself. But that's not true, is it? I want to see for myself those
three who've been killed... on my account... it's because of them his
love for me has grown cold since last night.... I shall see and find out
everything. Make haste, make haste, I know the house... there's a fire
there.... Mavriky Nikolaevitch, my dear one, don't forgive me in my
shame! Why forgive me? Why are you crying? Give me a blow and kill me
here in the field, like a dog!"

"No one is your judge now," Mavriky Nikolaevitch pronounced firmly. "God
forgive you. I least of all can be your judge."

But it would be strange to describe their conversation. And meanwhile
they walked hand in hand quickly, hurrying as though they were crazy.
They were going straight towards the fire. Mavriky Nikolaevitch still
had hopes of meeting a cart at least, but no one came that way. A mist
of fine, drizzling rain enveloped the whole country, swallowing up every
ray of light, every gleam of colour, and transforming everything into
one smoky, leaden, indistinguishable mass. It had long been daylight,
yet it seemed as though it were still night. And suddenly in this cold
foggy mist there appeared coming towards them a strange and absurd
figure. Picturing it now I think I should not have believed my eyes if
I had been in Lizaveta Nikolaevna's place, yet she uttered a cry of
joy, and recognised the approaching figure at once. It was Stepan
Trofimovitch. How he had gone off, how the insane, impracticable idea
of his flight came to be carried out, of that later. I will only mention
that he was in a fever that morning, yet even illness did not prevent
his starting. He was walking resolutely on the damp ground. It was
evident that he had planned the enterprise to the best of his ability,
alone with his inexperience and lack of practi