off their heads or something... but Semyonov was worse than that.  It was a strong man crying, with all his wits about him....  Then I heard some words.  He kept repeating again and again.  ’Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear!...  Wait for me!...  Wait for me!  Wait for me!...’ over and over again—­awful!  I crept back to my room frightened out of my life.  I’ve never known anything so awful.  And Semyonov of all people!

“It was like that man in Wuthering Heights.  What’s his name?  Heathcliffe!  I always thought that was a bit of an exaggeration when he dashed his head against a tree and all that.  But, by Jove, you never know!...  Now, Durward, you’ve got to tell me.  You’ve known Semyonov for years.  You can explain.  What’s it all about, and what’s he trying to do to Markovitch?”

“I can scarcely think what to tell you,” I said at last.  “I don’t really know much about Semyonov, and my guesses will probably strike you as insane.”

“No, they won’t,” said Bohun.  “I’ve learnt a bit lately.”

“Semyonov,” I said, “is a deep-dyed sensualist.  All his life he’s thought about nothing but gratifying his appetites.  That’s simple enough—­there are plenty of that type everywhere.  But unfortunately for him he’s a very clever man, and like every Russian both a cynic and an idealist—­a cynic in facts because he’s an idealist.  He got everything so easily all through his life that his cynicism grew and grew.  He had wealth and women and position.  He was as strong as a horse.  Every ’one gave way to him and he despised everybody.  He went to the Front, and one day came across a woman different from any other whom he had ever known.”

“How different?” asked Bohun, because I paused.

“Different in that she was simpler and naiver and honester and better and more beautiful—­”

“Better than Vera?” Bohun asked.

“Different,” I said.  “She was younger, less strong-willed, less clever, less passionate perhaps.  But alone—­alone, in all the world.  Every one must love her—­No one could help it....”

I broke off again.  Bohun waited.

I went on.  “Semyonov saw her and snatched her from the Englishman to whom she was engaged.  I don’t think she ever really loved the Englishman, but she loved Semyonov.”

“Well?” said Bohun.

“She was killed.  A stray shot, when she was giving tea to the men in the trenches....  It meant a lot... to all of us.  The Englishman was killed too, so he was all right.  I think Semyonov would have liked that same end; but he didn’t get it, so he’s remained desolate.  Really desolate, in a way that only your thorough sensualist can be.  A beautiful fruit just within his grasp, something at last that can tempt his jaded appetite.  He’s just going to taste it, when whisk! it’s gone, and gone, perhaps, into some one else’s hands.  How does he know?  How does he know anything?  There may be another life—­who