Letting Tanya go back to her visitors, he went out of the house, and, lost in meditation, walked by the flower-beds.  The sun was already setting.  The flowers, having just been watered, gave forth a damp, irritating fragrance.  Indoors they began singing again, and in the distance the violin had the effect of a human voice.  Kovrin, racking his brains to remember where he had read or heard the legend, turned slowly towards the park, and unconsciously went as far as the river.  By a little path that ran along the steep bank, between the bare roots, he went down to the water, disturbed the peewits there and frightened two ducks.  The last rays of the setting sun still threw light here and there on the gloomy pines, but it was quite dark on the surface of the river.  Kovrin crossed to the other side by the narrow bridge.  Before him lay a wide field covered with young rye not yet in blossom.  There was no living habitation, no living soul in the distance, and it seemed as though the little path, if one went along it, would take one to the unknown, mysterious place where the sun had just gone down, and where the evening glow was flaming in immensity and splendour.

“How open, how free, how still it is here!” thought Kovrin, walking along the path.  “And it feels as though all the world were watching me, hiding and waiting for me to understand it. . . .”

But then waves began running across the rye, and a light evening breeze softly touched his uncovered head.  A minute later there was another gust of wind, but stronger—­the rye began rustling, and he heard behind him the hollow murmur of the pines.  Kovrin stood still in amazement.  From the horizon there rose up to the sky, like a whirlwind or a waterspout, a tall black column.  Its outline was indistinct, but from the first instant it could be seen that it was not standing still, but moving with fearful rapidity, moving straight towards Kovrin, and the nearer it came the smaller and the more distinct it was.  Kovrin moved aside into the rye to make way for it, and only just had time to do so.

A monk, dressed in black, with a grey head and black eyebrows, his arms crossed over his breast, floated by him. . . .  His bare feet did not touch the earth.  After he had floated twenty feet beyond him, he looked round at Kovrin, and nodded to him with a friendly but sly smile.  But what a pale, fearfully pale, thin face!  Beginning to grow larger again, he flew across the river, collided noiselessly with the clay bank and pines, and passing through them, vanished like smoke.

“Why, you see,” muttered Kovrin, “there must be truth in the legend.”

Without trying to explain to himself the strange apparition, glad that he had succeeded in seeing so near and so distinctly, not only the monk’s black garments, but even his face and eyes, agreeably excited, he went back to the house.

In the park and in the garden people were moving about quietly, in the house they were playing—­so he alone had seen the monk.  He had an intense desire to tell Tanya and Yegor Semyonitch, but he reflected that they would certainly think his words the ravings of delirium, and that would frighten them; he had better say nothing.