CHAPTER VIII

One dreary September morning the ambulance-van drew up in the courtyard of the Infirmary, and Pronim lifted from it another victim of the epidemic, a yellow-faced, emaciated, half-dead little lad in motley clothes, stained with many colours.

"Another case from Petounukoff's house!" said the driver of the van in answer to a question as to the quarter from which he had brought the new patient.

"Tschischik!" cried Orloff in a tone of pain. "Good heavens! it is Senka. Little imp, don't you recognize me?"

"Yes, I do," said Tschischik with an effort, as he lay on the stretcher, turning up his eyes to catch a glimpse of Orloff, who was standing behind him.

"Ah! you merry little bird! How did this happen?" asked Orloff. He was quite upset at the sight of the lad, who was completely exhausted with the painful disease.

"Why could it not spare this Innocent child?" he cried out, shaking his head slowly, and as if concentrating in this cry all his tense horror.

Tschischik was silent, and shivered from head to foot.

"I am so cold!" he said, as they laid him on the bed and took off his ragged, paint-stained clothes.

"We'll soon pop you into a nice hot bath!" Orloff promised him. "We'll make you well again in a hurry."

Tschischik shook his head.

"No, Uncle Grigori.... I shall never be well again," he whispered in a dead voice.... "Bend down towards me.... I stole the accordion ... it is hidden under some wood in the woodshed.... The day before yesterday ... I played on it for the first time.... Oh! what a beauty it is I ... Directly after I had these pains in my stomach.... They were a punishment for the sin.... Give it back, Uncle Grigori.... The accordion-player had a sister.... Ah!... A ... ah!"

His whole body shook and twisted with violent cramps. All they could do was done for the little lad, but the weakened body was unable to guard the spark of life. That same evening Orloff carried Tschischik's body to the mortuary. He felt as if he had himself received a blow or an injury. He tried to straighten out the little body, but could not succeed in doing so. He left the place with a stunned feeling, in a dark, melancholy mood, with the image of the once bright and cheerful, but now so frightfully disfigured boy, constantly before his eyes.

He had the oppressive consciousness of his own helplessness when face to face with death. How much trouble and care he had lavished on poor little Tschischik, and how anxious the doctors had been to cure the lad!... But in spite of it all he had to die!... It all seemed so unjust!... He himself also, Grigori Orloff, would have some day to pack up his traps in the same way, leaving nothing behind. Then all would be over. A shudder ran through him, and he immediately experienced a feeling of loneliness, of being forsaken. He felt the need of talking to some understanding person about it all. He had often tried to get a long talk with one of the students, but no one here had time to philosophize. So there was nothing for it but to talk to his wife. In a heavy, oppressed mood he sought out Matrona.

She was just off duty, and was washing herself in a corner of the room. The samovar stood ready, simmering and steaming on the table.

Grigori sat down in silence, and looked at Matrona's bared, round shoulders. The samovar boiled up, and spurted drops of hot steam around. Matrona also splashed the water about with her washing. In the corridor outside, the attendants' footsteps could be heard hurrying backwards and forwards, and Grigori tried to guess, from the sound of the steps, who was passing. Suddenly it seemed to him as if Matrona's shoulders were as cold and as damp with perspiration as was the body of the little Tschischik, as he tossed about on his bed in the agony of cholera cramps.

Grigori shuddered, and said in a low voice—

"Senka is dead...."

"Dead!... Senka dead? God rest his soul!" exclaimed Matrona piously, scarcely pausing in her noisy ablutions, and spluttering the soapsuds from mouth and nose.

"I feel sorry for the poor child," said Grigori in a sad voice.

"But he was a mischievous lad, though," Matrona interjected.

"Well, leave him in peace now he is dead and gone! It's not our business what he was when alive.... I am truly sorry he is dead! He was such a quick, bright boy! The accordion ... hm! He was indeed a sharp lad! Sometimes the thought used to cross my mind that I should like to have him to teach,—not exactly as an apprentice. He was an orphan, he might have got attached to us, and have taken the place of a son.... I fear we shall never have children!... I don't understand why. Such a strong, hearty woman as you are, and yet you bear no children.... You had one, and there was an end of it!... Ah! if we only had a couple of little squallers, I believe our life would not be so tedious.... As things are, I work and work, and what is the end of it all? Just to provide daily bread for you and me!... And why do we need daily bread? So that we may be able to work.... And so life goes round in a circle without sense or meaning. . If we only had children they would change our life entirely ... yes, entirely..."

All this was said in a fretful, dissatisfied tone of voice, his head sunk on his breast Matrona stood listening to all he had to say; but growing gradually paler and paler.

"I am strong and healthy; so are you," continued Grigori; "and yet we have no children. What is the reason?... I think and think about it till I get quite melancholy, and take to drinking in sheer desperation!"

"What you are saying is not true!" said Matrona in a firm loud voice. "You are not speaking the truth! Never dare to repeat to me what you have just said!... If you take to drink, it is only your own dissipated habits that prevent your keeping away from it My not having children has nothing to do with it! That idea is false, Grigori!"

Grigori was stunned by her words. He rose and leaned against the back of his chair, watching his wife, and scarcely recognizing her. Never before had he seen her in such a rage; looking at him with so much pitiless anger in her eyes; never before had she spoke with such fierce strength.

"Go on!... Go on!.." said Grigori defiantly, whilst he clutched the back of the chair. "I should like to hear what else you have got to say!"

"You shall soon hear!... I should never have said what I have just said, if you had not reproached me so unfairly! You tell me I do not bear you children!... Very well!... Never will I bear you a child.... I have no wish to bear one to you, after the way you have treated me!"

Her voice broke with sobs, but she almost screamed the last words.

"Stop that noise!" said her husband in a severe voice.

"Would you like me to remind you why I have no children?... Just remember, Grischka, how you have always ill-treated me, and constantly kicked me about the body! Just reckon up the blows and knocks you have given me, the times you have tortured me! How often have you made the blood flow? My clothes were often soaked with blood. And it's your cruelty, my dear husband, that has prevented my having children! ... And now you reproach me with it?... Are you not ashamed to look into my eyes, you murderer—you?... Yes, you are a murderer, for you have killed your own children! And now you want to lay the blame upon me!... upon me, who bore everything, who forgave you everything! But these words I can never forget or forgive; to my dying hour I shall remember them! ... Did you imagine then that I did not, like other women, long for children? Did you think I did not wish to have any?... Many and many a night, when I lay sleepless, I have prayed the good God to save the child in my womb from you ... you murderer! When I see some other woman's child, I could cry with envy and bitterness, because such happiness is denied me.... Ah! Holy Virgin! How often have I wished that Senka were my child! How I would have cared for him!... And then, notwithstanding all this, for you to reproach me with not bearing you a child!..."

She had grown breathless, and the words poured incoherently from her lips. Her face was congested, and showed red patches under the skin; she trembled and clutched her throat, which was choked with sobs.

Grigori sat white and troubled, still holding on tightly to his chair; watching with wide-open eyes this woman, his wife, but who seemed now a stranger to him. He was afraid of her ... he was afraid she might seize him and throttle him. She seemed to threaten him with her flashing angry eyes. At this moment she was immeasurably his superior; he felt it and feared her accordingly. He could not jump up and strike her, as he would have done formerly, for he could not help being overawed by the moral and mental force, which seemed to make of her a new being.

"You have wounded my soul, Grischka!... Your sin and your guilt towards me are great.... I bore everything and kept silence.... Why was that? Because I loved you ... and I still love you, but I will not bear these reproaches from you ... it's beyond my strength to do so.... Though you are the husband whom Heaven has given me, I curse you for those words of yours!"

"Silence!" roared Grigori, showing his teeth.

"Halloa! What's all this row about? Have you forgotten where you are?... We can have no squabbles here!"

A mist seemed to rise before Grischka's eyes. He did not notice who was standing in the doorway, speaking in these full bass tones, but pushing the intruder aside, rushed past him into the open air. Matrona stood for a moment in the middle of the room, as if struck blind and dumb, then stumbled with outstretched hands towards her bed and threw herself down on it, sobbing aloud.

It was already growing dark. The silvery rays of the moon, piercing the torn edges of the clouds, fell across the floor, throwing the rest of the room into blue shadow. By and by a thick drizzling rain began to beat against the window-panes, and run down the walls of the Infirmary—sounding like a herald of the approaching autumn with its damp, reeking, darkening days. The pendulum of the clock, with its monotonous tick-tick, marked the passing of the minutes. The drops of rain pattered ceaselessly against the window-panes. Hour after hour passed, and still the rain continued to fall On her bed the woman lay motionless, staring with wide-open feverish eyes at the ceiling. Her face was dark and careworn, her teeth were firmly clenched, and her cheek-bones seemed to stand out prominently; in her eyes there was an expression of sadness and of painful expectation. Still the rain continued to beat against the walls and the windows. It sounded like some one whispering in a monotonous but persuasive voice, trying to bring conviction; without possessing the power to do this rapidly and with telling arguments; and who was therefore attempting to obtain his object by this painful, tedious droning, entirely wanting in the enthusiasm of real belief.

The grey twilight of a rainy dawn tinged the sky with the colour of steel which has lost its polish. Sleep had not yet visited Matrona's eyes. Ever through the monotonous drip, drip of the rain she seemed to hear the ominously repeated question—

"What will happen next? What will happen next?"

This question seemed to press in on her soul with irresistible force, and resounded like a dull pain through her brain.

"What will happen next?"

She feared to answer the question, though now and then the answer would suggest itself in spite of herself, in the image of her drunken, brutally cruel husband. It was so hard for her to relinquish the dream of a peaceful life, filled with love—this dream which she had cherished for the last few weeks—and she strove with all her might to repel her ominous forebodings. At the same time it became clearer to her that if Grigori were to return to his former evil ways, their life together would be utterly impossible. She had seen him as a different being; she herself had become different, and she could only look back upon her past life with abhorrence and with fear. New sensations, unknown to her before, had awoke within her. But after all she was but a woman, and after a time she began to reproach herself with her share in the quarrel that had just taken place.

"How did it all come about?"

"Good Lord! I seem to have quite lost my senses!..."

Another whole sad hour went by in these painful contradictory thoughts. It had become broad daylight; a thick mist lay over the fields, whilst the sky was hidden by grey, heavy clouds.

"Matrona, it is time to go to your work!" Mechanically obeying the summons, she rose slowly, washed herself, and went with listless, heavy steps into the ward. Here, her languid appearance, her sad face and swollen eyes, immediately attracted the attention of those on duty.

"What is the matter with you then, Matrona? Are you ill?" asked the lady doctor.

"No, I am all right."

"You can speak openly; don't fear to give trouble. You know if there is anything the matter I can find a substitute for you."

Matrona was troubled at the thought of this kind-hearted but strange person perceiving the anguish that was in her soul; so, summoning up her last remnant of courage, she replied smilingly, but with an aching heart—

"There is really nothing the matter!... I have had a bit of a quarrel with my husband.... It's all over now.... And it's really nothing new."

"Poor soul!" sighed the lady doctor, who knew all about Matrona's former life.

Matrona felt as if she should like to fall down at the feet of this woman and break into loud sobs. But she controlled herself and pressed her lips firmly together, to keep back the tears which it required all her self-control to restrain.

As soon as she was off duty she returned at once to her room. Casting a look out of window she saw the ambulance-van coming along through the fields, evidently bringing another patient to the Infirmary. Still the same thick fine rain fell ceaselessly from the clouds—the fields were empty and deserted. Matrona turned away from the window, and with a heavy sigh sat down at the table.

"What was going to happen next?" Still this question sounded through her brain, and her heart beat time in unison with the words. For a long time she sat there alone in a sort of heavy stupor, though each footstep in the corridor made her start and glance anxiously at the door....

When at last it opened, and Grigori himself appeared, she neither started nor moved, for she felt at that moment as if the heavy rain-clouds outside had suddenly fallen on her, crushing her with their weight.

Grigori remained standing near the door, then, throwing on the floor his wet cap, he approached Matrona with heavy creaking footsteps. He was wet through, the water was pouring from him. His face was flushed, his eyes looked dim, on his lips was a broad, foolish smile. As he came nearer Matrona could hear the water oozing out of his boots. He looked a pitiful object, and Matrona even in her worst dreams had never imagined him thus.

"What a sight you are," she said quietly.

"Shall I fall down at your feet and beg your forgiveness?" Grischka asked with a weak, sheepish movement of his head.

She was silent

"No?... Well, just as you like!... I have been walking about the whole night thinking it out as to whether I am guilty towards you or not. At last I made up my mind; yes, I am guilty.... And now I come to ask your pardon; will you grant it?"

Still she remained dumb; her heart was tom with bitter recollections, for as he stood before her he reeked of vodka.

"Just listen!... Don't make too many grimaces about it! Take advantage of my being sober and friendly," said Grigori, in a louder and more threatening voice. "Will you forgive me?"

"You are drunk," said Matrona, sighing. "Go and have your sleep out."

"It's a lie! I am not drunk, but only tired.... I have been walking about and thinking ... I have thought of many things, my dear. So take care what you are about!"

He shook his finger at her menacingly, and a constrained smile played round his mouth.

"Why won't you speak?"

"I can't speak to you now."

"And why not pray?"

His face flushed suddenly, and he raised his voice. "It was you who made the row yesterday; you who shouted and scolded ... and I come now, and beg your forgiveness. Do you quite realize that?"

His manner whilst he spoke was excited, his lips quivered, and his nostrils dilated. Matrona knew only too well what these signs foreboded; the cellar, the Saturday night rows, all the dreariness of their empty life.

"I realize it only too plainly," she replied in a firm, decided voice. "You have become once more a wild beast! Ah! that it should be so!" "Whether I am a wild beast or not, that has nothing to do with the matter!... I ask you if you will forgive me? What do you imagine then?... Do you think I can't live without your forgiveness? Oh, I can get along very well without it ... but all the same I come and ask you to forgive.... Do you understand?..."

"Leave me alone, Grigori! do!" exclaimed Matrona wearily, turning away from him.

"Leave you alone? So that is what you want?" laughed Grigori in a malicious voice. "I am to go away, and you are to remain here, alone, free and untroubled?... No, that shall never be! Just see how you like this!"

He seized her by the shoulders, and holding her tightly against him, flourished a clasp-knife in front of her face. The knife had a short, thick, rusty blade.

"Well?... How do you like that?"

"Oh! I wish you would stab me and make an end of it," said Matrona, with a heavy sigh. She freed herself from his grasp, and turned away.

Grischka took a step backwards; the tone of her words had filled him with astonishment He had often heard similar words from her lips, but they had never before been uttered in such a desperate tone of voice. He was completely taken aback at her not showing more fear at sight of the knife. For a moment or two he had been ready to strike her—but now he could not, and would not Half dazed by the indifference she manifested towards his threats, he threw the knife on the table, and asked her with suppressed anger in his voice—

"What is it you want then, you devil?"

"I want nothing, nothing," cried Matrona, sobbing hysterically. "But you, what do you want?... You came here with the intention of killing me!... Well then, kill me, and have done with it!"

Grigori looked at her, and was silent He did not know what to be at next; his sensations had become so mixed and complicated. He had come with the express intention of triumphing over his wife. Last night, when they were quarrelling, she had proved herself the stronger of the two—that had been quite clear to him, and the thought of it lowered him in his own estimation. It was absolutely necessary that she should now submit to him. He did not try to explain to himself why, but he felt it was absolutely necessary. Being a man of a passionate, complex nature, he had suffered keenly, and had reflected on many things during the last few hours, but his ignorance prevented him from explaining to himself the chaos of emotions, which his wife's just and outspoken accusations had awoke in him. He perceived that she was in revolt against him, and he had brought the knife in order to frighten and subdue her. He might possibly have killed her, if she had not met his desire to subdue her with such passive resistance. But there she stood, defenceless before him, broken down with trouble—yet stronger than he. This gave him a shock, and produced on him a sobering effect.

"Listen!" he said; "leave off this nonsense; you know that I could very soon finish you off with this.... One blow under the ribs, and all would be over! That would put an end to all worry and trouble.... It's very simple!"

He felt whilst he was speaking that he was not expressing what was in his heart, and he was again silent. Matrona still remained with her back to him, and motionless. Once more she was feverishly and rapidly passing in review the period of their life together; whilst at the same time there pressed in again upon her consciousness the question—

"What is going to happen next?"

"Motrja!" Grigori suddenly began in a soft voice, placing his hand on the table and bending over his wife. "Is it altogether my fault that everything has gone wrong—that things are not as they should be ... between us?... I know I have an unfortunate disposition...."

He sighed, and shook his head slowly and bitterly.

"If you only knew what an ache I have in my heart! My life seems to me so cramped and narrow!... After all, what sort of a life is this? These sick people, for instance, can they be any comfort to me? Some of them die ... others recover and go on living ... and I have to continue to drag out my existence!... but how?... Is the life we are leading any better than the pains of cholera?... It is a constant struggle, and how frightful it is!... Ah! I can't express all that is in my soul.... But I know that I can't go on living like this.... But how to alter it I don't know.... Look at those, for instance, who are suffering in the Infirmary; what care is taken of them because they are ill; and I also am ill ... I have pains and cramps in my soul; but no one takes care of me; so I am worse off than they are. And you tell me that I am no better than a brute.... Nothing but a drunken sot!... Ah! you don't understand me ... you are a heartless...."

He was speaking in a clear, quiet tone of voice, but she paid but little attention to his words, for she was occupied with her own thoughts.

"You do not answer," he continued, feeling something new and great unfolding within him. "Why do you not speak? What is it you want?"

"I want nothing from you!" exclaimed Matrona. "Why do you worry me so? What do you want me to do?"

"What do I want you to do?... Well ... you are to ... I want...."

Orloff felt that he was not in a state to define exactly what he wanted. He was unable to put it clearly into words, so that he could himself express, and make her understand, what he wanted to say. But he realized that some barrier had arisen between them, which no words, however eloquent, could break down. This thought awoke a feverish rage in his heart He struck Matrona with his clenched fist on the back of her head, and roared out—

"You damned sorceress! You are trying to provoke me.... I'll kill you, you witch!"

The blow was so violent that she fell face forwards on the table. But she quickly recovered herself, and facing her husband with a look of hatred and defiance in her eyes, she cried out in a loud voice—Go on beating me!"

"Hush! Be quiet!"

"Why don't you go on beating me, I say!"

"Oh, you devil!"

"No, Grigori, I won't stand this sort of thing any longer!"

"Hush! I say!"

"I won't be ill-treated by you any more!"

He ground his teeth, and took a step backwards, perhaps with the intention of striking her with greater force.... But at this moment the door opened suddenly, and Doctor Wasschtschenko appeared on the scene.

"What's going on here? Do you forget where you are? What sort of business is this?"

His face wore a severe and surprised expression. Orloff did not seem in the least taken aback, but, nodding his head at the doctor, he remarked—

"It's nothing! nothing but a little clearing up of the atmosphere between man and wife."

And he laughed with a half-nervous, half-sneering smile in the doctor's face.

"Why were you absent from duty to-day?" said the doctor angrily, for he was vexed by Orloff's sneering, impertinent manner.

Grigori shrugged his shoulders, and replied coolly—

"I was otherwise engaged.... I had business of my own to attend to...."

"Oh!... Was that so? And who was making all that row last night?"

"We were," Grigori replied.

"Oh! it was you ... was it?... Very good, very good!... You make yourselves quite at home here, it seems.... Go out without permission...."

"We are not slaves...."

"Silence!... You would like to turn this place into a vodka-shop, you scum!... I'll let you know where you are!"

A wild rush of defiance, a passionate desire to rush out and get free from all these confused feelings that oppressed him, suddenly took possession of Grischka. It seemed to him all at once, that by doing something out of the common, something extraordinary, he could tear himself free from the bonds that were fettering his soul. He shuddered, as a pleasant cool feeling seemed to creep round his heart, and going up to the doctor with quiet cat-like tread he said—

"Don't strain your throat, shouting like that! I know very well where I am ... a place where you kill people!"

"What are you talking about?... What was that you said?" exclaimed the doctor in an astonished voice.

Grigori realized that he had made use of a meaningless and insulting expression; but he would not retract it; he grew more excited, and continued—

"Oh! it doesn't matter! You'll soon see what I meant!... Matrona, pack up your traps; we are off!"

"Not so fast, my friend! You must repeat first what you have just said," insisted the doctor in a quiet voice that boded no good. "Come now, speak!... You shall catch it for this, you scoundrel!"

Grischka stared him full in the face—he had a feeling as if he were being carried away by a puff of wind, and as if each breath that he took made him feel lighter.

"Don't shout or swear, Nadrei Stepanovitch!... You think perhaps that because it is cholera time you have a right to order me about.... But you are wrong.... All your cures here are of no use to mankind, they are not worth a brass farthing! No one wants you and your science and your cures!.. Well, if I did call your place a deathtrap it was nonsense perhaps I was talking, ... that I acknowledge ... because I was in a rage. But to shout at me here like that ... you have no right to behave so!"

"You won't get off so easily," said the doctor quietly; "I'll have to teach you a lesson!... Hi there! Come in, you that are outside!"

A group of listeners had already assembled in the corridor. Grischka's eyes flashed, and he set his teeth.

"I don't call out, and I am not afraid.... But if you are so very anxious to give me a lesson ... then I shall have something to say about it."

"Well, say it then quickly!"

"I shall go into town, and tell every one, 'My good people, listen! and I will tell you how they cure the cholera!'"

"W-what?" said the doctor; opening still wider his eyes.

"Yes, and we'll all come up here together; and we'll help you to disinfect with a vengeance ... we'll make a bonfire!"

The doctor's anger had turned to intense astonishment, as he listened to this man, whom he had known as a decent hard-working fellow, but who was now carried away with these mad rebellious fancies.

"What are you saying, you fool?... How can you be so stupid!"

The word "stupid" jarred on Grischka's sensibilities. He realized that he had fully deserved the title, but the consciousness of this increased his rage.

"I know very well what I am saying!" he added with glowing eyes. "It's all the same to me.... To such as I am, it's all the same, at any time; it's useless for us to try and restrain our impulses. Come, Matrona, pack up your traps!"

"I'm not going to leave," said Matrona in a quiet restrained voice.

The doctor watched them both with astonished eyes, not knowing what to make of it all.

"You are either drunk, or mad!" he said to Grischka. "Do you understand yet what you are doing?"

Grischka either could not or would not give in; he felt he had gone too far. So he retorted in a tone of would-be irony—

"You ask if I know what I am doing?... But do you know yourself what you are doing? Disinfecting? Ha! ha!... and curing the sick people; whilst those who are well are dying from the stress and misery of life!... Matrona, I'll knock your head off if you don't come with me!"

"I shall not go with you!"

She stood there, white and motionless; but the expression in her eyes was cold and resolute, as she looked her husband in the face. This look had the effect of damping his heroics, his head sunk on his breast, and he turned silently away.

"Devil take him!" said the doctor. "There's no making head or tail of what he means!... Just listen, my good fellow. Be off with you as quickly as you can, and thank your lucky stars that I let you off so easily! I might have given you over to the police, you fool! Now, be off!"

Grischka cast a lowering look at the doctor. He would rather have been beaten, or given into custody; but the doctor was a kind-hearted man, and could see that Orloff was not at the present moment responsible for his actions.

"For the last time; are you coming with me?" Grischka asked his wife, in a hoarse voice.

"No, I am not going," she answered, throwing back her head, as if she expected a blow.

"Well—go to the devil, all of you!" he cried, with a hopeless gesture. "What the deuce do I want with any of you?"

"You poor fool!" exclaimed the doctor almost compassionately.

"Don't swear!" shouted Grigori; then turning to his wife, "Well, you damned hussy, you see I am off!... Perhaps we shall never meet again in this life ... perhaps we shall ... that will be just as I choose. But if we do meet—it won't go well with you.... That I can promise you!"

Then he turned towards the door.

"Farewell, you tragic hero!" cried the doctor in a sarcastic voice, as Grigori passed him. Orloff stopped, and turning his sad glowing eyes on the doctor, said in a restrained voice—

"You had better leave me alone ... don't wind up the spring any more ... it was lucky it unwound without hurting any one ... don't try it on again!".

He picked up his wet cap from the floor, put it on his head, lingered for a moment, and then went out without once glancing at Matrona.

The doctor looked at Orloff's wife with a searching glance, as she stood in front of him with a pale death-like look on her face.

Then nodding in the direction of Grigori, he asked her, "What is the matter with him?"

"I don't know...."

"H'm—and where is he going now?"

"He will go and get drunk," Matrona replied in a convinced tone of voice.

The doctor frowned and left her.

Matrona looked out of the window. Through the darkness of the night, and through the rain and wind, she could discern the figure of a man leaving the Infirmary, and walking towards the town. He was the only living thing to be seen in the dreary wet expanse of fields.

Matrona's face grew still whiter; she went towards a corner of the room, dropped on her knees, and began to pray fervently, her head bowed almost to the floor. Deep sighs and ardent words of passionate prayer escaped from her lips, whilst in her excitement and anguish her hands clutched feverishly at her throat and breast.