The tired stars, as by a community of interest and common understanding, slowly faded altogether.  The woman bent her glance bow-ward.  The day—­what would it reveal?  She understood a good deal, yet much still puzzled her.  As through a dream, she had seemed to hear the name, “Francois”—­to listen to a crystalline voice, fresh as the tinkling bells in some temple at the dawn.  The darkness of the sky fused into a murky gray, and as that somber tone began, in turn, to be replaced by a lighter neutral tint, she made out dimly the figure of the girl.  As by a species of fascination, she continued to look at her while the morn unfolded slowly.  From behind a dark promontory of vapor, Aurora’s warm hand now tossed out a few careless ribbons.  They lightened the chilly-looking sea; they touched a golden tress—­just one, that stole out from under the gray blanket.  The girl’s face could not be seen; the heavy covering concealed the lines of the lithe young form.

As she continued to sleep—­undisturbed by the first manifestations of the dawn—­the woman’s glance swept backward to him at the helm.  The shafts of light showed now his face, worn and set, yet strangely transfigured.  He did not seem to notice her; beneath heavy lids his quick glances shot this way and that to where wisps of mist on the surface of the sea partly obscured the outlook.  Sonia Turgeinov divined his purpose; he was looking for the Nevski.  But although he continued to search in the direction of the yacht, he did not catch sight of her.  Only the winding and twining diaphanous veils played where he feared she might have been visible.  An expression of great satisfaction passed over his features.

Then he swayed from sheer weariness; he could have dropped gladly to the bottom of the boat.  Brain as well as sinew has its limitations and the night had been long and trying.  He had done work that called for tenseness and mental concentration every moment.  He had outlasted divers and many periods when catastrophe might have overwhelmed them, and now that the blackness which had shrouded a thousand unseen risks and perils had been swept aside, an almost overpowering reaction claimed him.  This natural lassitude became the more marked after he had scanned the horizon in vain for the prince’s pleasure-yacht.

His task, however, was far from over, and he straightened.  To Sonia Turgeinov, his gaze and his expression were almost somnambulistic.  He continued steering, guiding their destinies as by force of habit.  Luckily the breeze had waned and the boat danced more gaily than dangerously.  It threw little rainbows of spray in the air; he blinked at them, his eyes half closed.  In the bow the old dun-colored blanket stirred but he did not see it.  A glorious sun swept up, and began to lap thirstily the wavering mists from the surface of the sea.

Sonia Turgeinov spoke now softly to the steersman.  What she said he did not know; his lack-luster gaze met hers.  All dislike and disapproval seemed to have vanished from it; he saw her only as one sees a face in a daguerreotype of long ago, or looks at features limned by a soulless etcher.