Razumov looked at her white hair:  and this mark of so many uneasy years seemed nothing but a testimony to the invincible vigour of revolt.  It threw out into an astonishing relief the unwrinkled face, the brilliant black glance, the upright compact figure, the simple, brisk self-possession of the mature personality—­as though in her revolutionary pilgrimage she had discovered the secret, not of everlasting youth, but of everlasting endurance.

How un-Russian she looked, thought Razumov.  Her mother might have been a Jewess or an Armenian or devil knew what.  He reflected that a revolutionist is seldom true to the settled type.  All revolt is the expression of strong individualism—­ran his thought vaguely.  One can tell them a mile off in any society, in any surroundings.  It was astonishing that the police....

“We shall not meet again very soon, I think,” she was saying.  “I am leaving to-morrow.”

“For Zurich?” Razumov asked casually, but feeling relieved, not from any distinct apprehension, but from a feeling of stress as if after a wrestling match.

“Yes, Zurich—­and farther on, perhaps, much farther.  Another journey.  When I think of all my journeys!  The last must come some day.  Never mind, Razumov.  We had to have a good long talk.  I would have certainly tried to see you if we had not met.  Peter Ivanovitch knows where you live?  Yes.  I meant to have asked him—­but it’s better like this.  You see, we expect two more men; and I had much rather wait here talking with you than up there at the house with....”

Having cast a glance beyond the gate, she interrupted herself.  “Here they are,” she said rapidly.  “Well, Kirylo Sidorovitch, we shall have to say good-bye, presently.”

IV

In his incertitude of the ground on which he stood Razumov felt perturbed.  Turning his head quickly, he saw two men on the opposite side of the road.  Seeing themselves noticed by Sophia Antonovna, they crossed over at once, and passed one after another through the little gate by the side of the empty lodge.  They looked hard at the stranger, but without mistrust, the crimson blouse being a flaring safety signal.  The first, great white hairless face, double chin, prominent stomach, which he seemed to carry forward consciously within a strongly distended overcoat, only nodded and averted his eyes peevishly; his companion—­lean, flushed cheekbones, a military red moustache below a sharp, salient nose—­approached at once Sophia Antonovna, greeting her warmly.  His voice was very strong but inarticulate.  It sounded like a deep buzzing.  The woman revolutionist was quietly cordial.

“This is Razumov,” she announced in a clear voice.