The moon was just rising over the line of the horizon.  All around them the steppe lay in grim and lifeless silence.  In such a scene, where life seemed rare and precious, death gained in its power of inspiring fear.  It is different in crowded cities, where an excess of human life seems to vouch for the continuity of the race, where, in a teeming population, one life more or less seems of little value.  The rosy hue of sunset was fading to a clear green, and in the midst of a cloudless sky, Jupiter—­very near the earth at that time—­shone intense, and brilliant like a lamp.  It was an evening such as only Russia and the great North lands ever see, where the sunset is almost in the north and the sunrise holds it by the hand.  Over the whole scene there hung a clear, transparent night, green and shimmering, which would never be darker than an English twilight.

The two living men carried the nameless, unrecognizable dead to a resting-place beneath a stunted pine a few paces removed from the road.  They laid him decently at full length, crossing his soil-begrimed hands over his breast, tying the handkerchief down over his face.

Then they turned and left him, alone in that luminous night.  A waif that had fallen by the great highway without a word, without a sign.  A half-run race—­a story cut off in the middle; for he was a young man still; his hair, all dusty, draggled, and bloodstained, had no streak of gray; his hands were smooth and youthful.  There was a vague suspicion of sensual softness about his body, as if this might have been a man who loved comfort and ease, who had always chosen the primrose path, had never learned the salutary lesson of self-denial.  The incipient stoutness of limb contrasted strangely with the drawn meagreness of his body, which was contracted by want of food.  Paul Alexis was right.  This man had died of starvation, within ten miles of the great Volga, within nine miles of the outskirts of Tver, a city second to Moscow, and once her rival.  Therefore it could only be that he had purposely avoided the dwellings of men; that he was a fugitive of some sort or another.  Paul’s theory that this was an Englishman had not been received with enthusiasm by Steinmetz; but that philosopher had stooped to inspect the narrow, tell-tale fingers.  Steinmetz, be it noted, had an infinite capacity for holding his tongue.

They mounted their horses and rode away without looking back.  But they did not speak, as if each were deep in his own thoughts.  Material had indeed been afforded them, for who could tell who this featureless man might be?  They were left in a state of hopeless curiosity, as who, having picked up a page with “Finis” written upon it, falls to wondering what the story may have been.

Steinmetz had thrown the bridle of the straying horse over his arm, and the animal trotted obediently by the side of the fidgety little Cossacks.

“That was bad luck,” exclaimed the elder man at length, “d—­d bad luck!  In this country the less you find, the less you see, the less you understand, the simpler is your existence.  Those Nihilists, with their mysterious ways and their reprehensible love of explosives, have made honest men’s lives a burden to them.”