a face of supreme good humour, down whose forehead the sweat began to trickle; he was patient for a while, then he tried to raise his hand.  He could not move without sending a ripple down the whole front line.  Heads were turned indignantly in his direction.  He submitted; then the sweat trickled into his eyes.  He made a superhuman effort and half raised his arm; the crowd pushed again and his arm fell.  His face wore an expression of ludicrous despair....

The hall got hotter and hotter.  Soldiers seemed to be still pressing in at the back.  The Italian gentleman screamed and waved his arms, but the faces turned up to his were blank and amiably expressionless.

“It is indeed terribly hot,” said Uncle Ivan.

Then came a sailor from the Black Sea Fleet who had made himself famous during these weeks by his impassioned oratory.  He was a thin dark-eyed fellow, and he obviously knew his business.  He threw himself at once into the thick of it all, paying no attention to the stout frock-coated gentlemen who sat on the platform, dealing out no compliments, whether to the audience or the speakers, wasting no time at all.  He told them all that they had debts to pay, that their honour was at stake, and that Europe was watching them.  I don’t know that that Face that stared at him cared very greatly for Europe, but it is certain that a breath of emotion passed across it, that there was a stir, a movement, a response....

He sat down, there was a roar of applause; he regarded them contemptuously.  At that moment I caught sight of Boris Grogoff.  I had been on the watch for him.  I had thought it very likely that he would be there.  Well, there he was, at the back of the crowd, listening with a contemptuous sneer on his face, and a long golden curl poking out from under his cap.

And then something else occurred—­something really strange.  I was conscious, as one sometimes is in a crowd, that I was being stared at by some one deliberately.  I looked about me, and then, led by the attraction of the other’s gaze, I saw quite close to me, on the edge of the crowd nearest to the platform, the Rat.

He was dressed rather jauntily in a dark suit with his cup set on one side, and his hair shining and curled.  His face glittered with soap, and he was smiling in his usual friendly way.  He gazed at me quite steadily.  My lips moved very slightly in recognition.  He smiled and, I fancy, winked.

Then, as though he had actually spoken to me, I seemed to hear him say: 

“Well, good-bye....  I’m never coming to you again.  Good-bye, good-bye.”

It was as definite a farewell as you can have from a man, more definite than you will have from most, as though, further, he said:  “I’m gone for good and all.  I have other company and more profitable plunder.  On the back of our glorious Revolution I rise from crime to crime....  Good-bye.”

I was, in sober truth, never to speak to him again.  I cannot but regret that on the last occasion when I should have a real opportunity of looking him full in the face, he was to offer me a countenance of friendly good-humour and amiable rascality.